Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “What now, historian?” he asked.

  Novan took a step forward, closing the book he had been looking through. The mahne, Alriyn noted. He no longer felt the same need to protect it as he had. There was much they didn't understand, and keeping that ancient knowledge from the rest of the Magi, even from the rest of the scholars throughout the city, seemed foolish. How much had they mistaken because they thought they needed to protect it? All that had done was cut them off from the rest of the world. The remaining Elders had already begun preparing, knowing they would need to search for the one who would establish peace. Alriyn prayed they weren’t too late.

  “Now we must restore the balance. The Deshmahne here were stopped, but there are others. The Magi have been withdrawn for far too long. It's time that changes, I believe,” Novan said.

  Alriyn turned to him. “I don't understand you. You’ve wandered the world, studying, meddling, and now you remain here, as if you belong. Why have you stayed so long?” Alriyn asked. “This wasn't your fight. You could have left this to the Denraen, to Endric, and to the Magi, returning to your studies. Don't you even worry about your apprentice?”

  “I worry about him every day,” Novan said. His face clouded slightly, and the hint of a struggle played along his lips. “And yet I know that he is safe. I have seen to his protection.”

  “How? You came with Endric to the city? How is it that you saw to his safety?”

  “There are others in the world more capable than I. He is with one. If everything went as I had hoped, he has delivered something of great importance to a place that thought to separate itself from the world.”

  “Now you speak in riddles, historian.”

  Novan smiled at him. “There are riddles, and there are things we are meant to know. You, Alriyn, need to rejoin the world, even if you plan to choose the one your mahne prophesies.” He tapped the book. “It is time for the Magi to return their influence, to restore what had been. You are touched by a greater power, and it is time that you no longer sit apart from the rest of the world.”

  Alriyn studied Novan for a moment before turning away. The historian spoke the truth. Alriyn had sought knowledge, but he had not used that knowledge. The Magi had kept what they knew away from the world, and that separation had allowed another power to emerge, one that was dangerous and had nearly destroyed everything they were. “I will do what I can to have the Magi return to positions they once held.”

  “It's more than simply serving as advisors, Alriyn. This must be about restoring a balance. Balance cannot be maintained by hiding from the world. Power must be used by those who have it, for others will seek to claim it from them. You've seen that with the Deshmahne, and we've seen that with the creatures in the north.”

  “What of the north?” He had heard nothing from Roelle. Was she safe? Did she still even live? “Do you think Roelle found the Antrilii?”

  Novan closed his eyes, gripping the teralin rail. He made no sign that it bothered him. “I can only hope that she did.”

  “Endric sent her away. Why?”

  “Because there is something only the Magi—and the Antrilii—can do.”

  Alriyn shot him an angry stare. “Would you stop being so obtuse? What is it? Why did Endric see that my niece would be sent north? Why is it that she abandoned her people when she could have been such an asset with the Deshmahne?”

  “Because she could be even more important in the north.” Novan released the railing, grabbing his staff, and stepped away.

  As he did, Alriyn became aware of energy swirling around him, the same energy that he had seen when they fought the Deshmahne. He was no longer certain it was the manehlin he saw, though Alriyn didn't know what else it could be. Why did it surround Novan so strongly? And Endric. What did it mean about those two men?

  “Novan!” Alriyn called after him.

  The historian turned, a hint of a smile on his face. “What is it, Eldest?”

  Alriyn blinked. Now that Jostephon was deposed, he supposed that did make him the Eldest. He had never wanted to lead the Council of Elders, but if he did not, who would?

  “How is it that you have such power?” Alriyn asked.

  Novan leaned on his staff, and the lines of teralin seemed to glow even more. The hint of a smile spread. “That, Eldest, is something for another time.” With that, Novan tapped his staff, the teralin flaring for a moment, energy swirling around it that was practically visible.

  Alriyn chuckled to himself, wishing that Novan would be more forthcoming, but perhaps it was good there were still some secrets. Was there really any harm in him keeping that from him?

  Alriyn watched as Novan returned to the palace. His posture was erect, though Alriyn saw him appear stooped on occasion. On this day, as he was standing more upright, Alriyn noted that he was tall compared to most men, though not tall for a Mage…

  No, Alriyn shook his head. That couldn't be.

  But as he watched Novan slip away, he wondered if it were possible. He did have power that surrounded him, and now that Alriyn could see it, he recognized it as power that resembled that of the Magi.

  Perhaps Novan was right, perhaps that was a story for another time.

  For now, Alriyn had to make plans. He had to come up with a way to coax the Magi from of the city. They had to be those he trusted, and they had to be those who could not be swayed by the Deshmahne. And they would have to go with the Denraen. The Deshmahne needed to be stopped. The north must be understood. A Uniter must be chosen—even if he—or she—failed yet again.

  As much as it pained him, Novan might be right in this. It might be time for the Magi to have a greater presence in the world. It meant conflict—and possibly fighting—but hiding in Vasha, keeping themselves withdrawn from the rest of the world, had not prevented that either.

  Alriyn turned back to the railing, gripping it tightly. So much had changed, so much that he didn't understand, in spite of years spent studying and trying to learn their histories. It seemed almost as though he had wasted that time, that he didn't know nearly what he needed to help keep his people safe. But he would do what was required. He would find a way to restore the peace—the balance—that was necessary. And he would learn what happened to his niece.

  Alriyn released the railing and turned back to the palace. Before he did anything else, he would return to a space beneath the palace, to the mines that they had closed so long ago. There, he would question Jostephon.

  This time, his old friend would answer.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Locken stood slowly from the ground. He didn’t know what had come over him, could not explain what had happened. He’d suddenly gotten sick. He could still taste the acid flavor in his mouth, could still feel the nausea that had riled his stomach. He spat on the ground next to him, trying to rid himself of the taste.

  Last he remembered, he had been staring at his pikemen as they marched across the plains, marching toward Richard’s troops. He remembered seeing the hole open in Richard’s line, an opening to the east, and remembered directing his troops there.

  Then suddenly, something had happened. His men had been all but decimated, almost all of his troops slaughtered before his eyes. And he had not even known what had happened.

  When he had seen Richard’s men fall, he had thought perhaps divine intervention. But then his own men had fallen, torn apart before his eyes.

  After standing, he helped Lonn up. The man thanked him with a wry smile. Looking around, he saw Robden and the prince get to their feet as shakily as he had gotten to his.

  “What happened?” Robden asked, wiping a bit of vomit from the corner of his mouth. There was a different smell to the air now, but it churned his stomach just the same.

  Locken didn’t know. Looking around, he saw those of his men who’d survived begin to stand. To the east was where something had torn through his men like it had torn through Richard’s. A huge hole in his line mirrored what he had seen in Richard’s.

  He l
ooked across the plains, staring toward the opposing army. Richard’s men still looked to be recovering from whatever it was that had happened, looked to be pulling themselves up from the ground, cleaning the sickness from themselves. What could have caused this?

  “I don’t know what has happened here,” he began, “but I fear we may not have much time before Richard attacks again…”

  A man came running toward him through the line of troops. “Sire!” the man called, breathless. He was short, brown hair thinning, and his eyes almost too closely set. He was clad in the tan leather of his forward scouts, leather now streaked with green to camouflage them on the plains.

  He nodded. “What is it?”

  The man breathed heavily; he had obviously run far or fast. “Richard is…” he began, panting. The man’s eyes seemed to catch on the prince a moment and widened before going on. “Richard is dead!”

  “Dead? How?” Locken asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “It was said that he watched the battle—” The man glanced quickly to the prince again before continuing. “He watched from there.”

  Locken followed the direction of the man’s pointed finger. It was directed toward the huge opening in the line of the other army.

  The scout nodded. “He was there,” he answered, “as were kings Jeslen and Paylig.”

  It was too much. “Jeslen and Paylig are gone too? How?”

  He looked over the plains and saw how the men he had lost had been torn apart, almost dismembered. He knew then that it was not the gods. They were not that cruel, even at their meanest. This was something else, something far more frightening.

  He turned to Allay and saw the prince staring toward Richard’s troops. His now, he knew. Allay was prince no longer.

  “What will you do, King Allay?” he asked, his voice careful.

  Allay turned to Locken. It seemed impossible that his father was gone, impossible that he was now High King. Mendi watched him, her eyes neutral, but he suspected hope filled her; hope that came from the death of the kings who ruled in Salvat for far longer than they should have.

  Locken’s eyes were fierce. A strong man. A good man too. He would need him. His mind raced with what to say, the right words, those that would ease Locken and Robden’s doubts. He needed to bring all the kingdoms back together. He knew it essential but knew too that the path toward that peace must make it a lasting one.

  This was what the Magi had wanted. They needed peace.

  Gom Aaldia and Thealon would unite against the Deshmahne.

  He turned and looked out over the grassy plains, his eyes catching first at the magnificence of the huge expanse of the rolling plains. He saw then the men, lying bleeding and dead on the ground. Further, he could see the men of his father’s army.

  No, he said to himself. It is mine now.

  “This ends,” he answered, hoping his voice was strong.

  He turned back to Locken. His position was the question, Allay knew. Robden was easy, he knew the man to be his. Locken had made a choice, had declared his independence.

  Locken pauseed a long moment before answering. “It ends.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The wall of the city loomed before them, pale white and stretching some twenty or more feet over their heads. Stretching higher, impossibly higher at this proximity, was the Tower. Dark stone climbed up and up, obscuring even the sun from view, piercing the clouds. The nearer he came to it, the more impossible it became.

  The Tower was the seat of the gods, the visible reminder of their power, their earthly home abandoned and awaiting their return. It was one thing to read about it, to hear it described. It was quite another to finally see it. There was no way to describe the enormity of it, no way he would ever have been able to imagine what now rose before him. Every temple that had been constructed in its image had been but the palest reflection of the Tower.

  “How can something like this exist?” he asked.

  “The damahne were powerful,” Anda said to him.

  They might not have been gods, but to build something like this, they were near enough.

  The ahmaean pulling on his senses had grown stronger.

  It was almost a humming now, a vibration that his body tingled with, and he stared as sudden understanding washed through him. Jakob saw his ahmaean, and it stretched away from him, toward the Tower. Could Anda see it as well?

  “It is a summons,” Anda whispered, reaching over to rest her hand on his arm. “You’re unharmed by it. She summons all of us.”

  Jakob realized that it wasn’t only his ahmaean that stretched away from him, but that of Anda, Brohmin, and even Salindra. They were all summoned.

  The huge gates of the city were swinging closed as they approached.

  “We should hurry,” Brohmin said. “If we don’t get inside before they close the gate, there won’t be any way to save her.”

  They rode quickly and squeezed through just before the massive doors were shut.

  Within, hundreds of soldiers lined the road leading from the gate into the city. Those nearest glanced at them strangely as they entered, eyeing the weapons they held. Several reached for their own swords.

  “Halt!” The nearest Ur shouted the command, raising his hand as those around him unsheathed.

  Salindra drew herself upright in the saddle, sitting tall and proud. Suspicion upon the commander’s face turned to something else—worry.

  “You would delay one of the Magi on her duty?” Authority had returned to her voice since leaving the Cala maah, and her voice boomed.

  It was the same tone Jakob had heard from Haerlin. There was something else he noticed about her since leaving the Cala maah, something he was certain he had not seen before. The ahmaean surrounding her, though it pulsed with uncertainty at the moment as she faced the Ur, looked different from what he’d seen from Roelle and the other Magi. He was not sure what it meant.

  “My lady,” the Ur said, bowing his head slightly. “I mean no disrespect. We were not told to expect any of the Magi, not with Gom Aaldia bringing war to Thealon’s doorstep.” There was a note of challenge in his tone.

  “No,” Salindra agreed. “I expect you didn’t. Yet I am here.” She paused, meeting the man’s eye and his unstated challenge. The pale energy around her solidified. “I will see the High Priest of the Urmahne,” she demanded.

  The Ur commander tilted his head. “As you wish,” he said, raising his fist and motioning toward the Ur nearest him. “Take your men and escort the Mage to the High Priest.”

  The man nodded before turning and making a small hand gesture to the soldiers near him. Four Ur separated from those lining the road and moved to surround them. Each kept a ready hand upon his hilt and moved with a fluid grace.

  These men would be swordmasters. Jakob flicked his eyes to Brohmin in question, and the man shook his head once. The answer was clear: They would follow for now.

  Salindra narrowed her eyes, but the Ur commander only tipped his head in a nod. They had little choice but to follow. They were led along the cobbled street lined with Ur toward the palace in the center of the city. The road ran straight, taking them a direct route toward the palace.

  After they had moved a little distance from the gate, Salindra cleared her throat. “Such an escort is unnecessary. I have been to the palace and can find my way.”

  The soldier looked back briefly before turning away. “Perhaps once it was unnecessary.”

  Salindra glanced over at Brohmin and arched an eyebrow. “What does this mean?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.” He stared at the Ur lining the streets. “This is unusual in many regards. The city has never been closed.”

  “Never?” Jakob asked.

  “I’ve known Thealon for many years,” he started, ignoring the intense stare from Salindra, “and I’ve never seen the gates closed. They’re meant to be open, symbolizing the Urmahne openness. The Ur have not left the city to defend it, instead staying behind. I do
n’t know what this means.”

  Jakob glanced over to Anda and saw her frowning at the soldiers. Her pale, golden hair hung motionless around her, and her cloak was pulled tight around her neck.

  He reached over to her and rested a hand on her arm, hoping to return the favor of peace she had often offered him but unsure how much he would be able to reassure her.

  She turned to him and tilted her head before smiling.

  As he withdrew his hand, he glanced around the street. The city was enormous, yet they moved through it unobstructed. It was cleaner than Chrysia, with the storefronts looking freshly painted, and the streets cleared of refuse. A city fitting of the gods. Yet the shops that lined the street had no customers. Most shops had windows shuttered. There were no merchants. Only the Ur. Above everything hung a sense of anxiety.

  “Something’s wrong,” he murmured.

  “You feel it?” Anda asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper of wind, but it rang clearly in his ears.

  “I feel it too,” Lendra said.

  Jakob glanced to her before turning back to Anda. “There’s the pulling upon my ahmaean,” he whispered. “That hasn’t left. I feel something else, an unease.”

  Brohmin glanced back at him and frowned but said nothing.

  Jakob looked over at Anda. “What does it mean?”

  The daneamiin shook her head. “I cannot answer with certainty,” she said. “Though I think it is something Alyta does. I do not know why.”

  “Protection,” Brohmin said quietly without looking back at them. “She allows the Ur to sense the groeliin. They are foul creatures, and he sends them toward the Tower,” he spat. “If not for the Magi warriors and the Antrilii, this would be much worse. Ten thousand groeliin would decimate Thealon.”

  Salindra shot him a harsh look, an admonishment coming to her lips. The Ur seemed not to notice, leading them forward.

  The shops lining the streets slowly turned to larger and larger buildings, most of a pale white stone that served to make the city nearly glow, and as they neared the heart of the city, still no one other than the Ur moved along the streets. It was an eerie sight for such a magnificent city.