“He is that voice…”
“Only you can reveal that truth, and by the look of despair, you believe it yourself. Yes, it is him, or rather a manifestation of a darker will—him a conduit of those words. The three souls did not perish in your homeland, much to my regrets. I was a prisoner myself, bent to the will of the Betrayer, unable to resist. Still, my brother did not realize how attuned I was to the Artifact; it allowed me to exert some influence, yet not enough.”
The two objects upon the pedestals struck her attention at once. At first glance they appeared to be Animus Stones. Though they seemed to be like them, yet the familiar sensation was absent. “You hold the stones…”
“These?” the high servitor laughed. “No, they are not Animus Stones, God Stones, or Spherules of Divinity. They are kin to them, but much changed. The Artifact, blindingly white to your eyes, though the purity of life to mine—it is the untainted essence from the Pantheon. The Heart of the Sand, upon the right, that is given to my keeping from the prophet. It is their difference that wounded Amos, and allowed for a chance. A chance that failed, yet I do not think it was without hope, or entirely futile.”
Ashleigh pushed it aside. It did not seem to matter, not here, not now. She still did not trust the high servitor; much still concerned her in this strange realm. “I saw Lanan burn. What was that?”
“It is much like what you saw before, under his dominion. The will of a man so lost to the realm and his place in it. A dream he placed inside you. Would you like to know what it means? What is the meaning of dreams?”
“You could not say it in your halls?”
“When I last appealed to your fellow man, I was met with scorn, disbelief, even anger. I showed him things, things that he did not believe, in the realm of the Seen. So you are here in the ethereal realm. I would like to think your kind would be more inclined if you were truly in the hands of gods.”
Ashleigh’s fingers began to flex and loosen, more distrustful with every spoken word. “You are not human, just like him. I would call you a daemon, yet that would not seem right. Whatever you are, I do not trust you. Why should I heed your word over his?”
“You are not wrong, but you are not right either.” The high servitor’s face was unchanged, and spoke as if it was the simplest matter. “I am not human, much like my brothers, and the Father Above. Yet we are not gods, not in the way that you would see us. We are the First Born, and we have walked the earth for fifteen centuries.”
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“If I did, I would not have brought you here.”
“I do not believe you.”
“I expected no less. Still, this is the Unseen Realm, far away, yet connected to the land that you walk upon every passing day. You asked me of Lanan. What you see is a vision of what might be, not what is. The same for all your dreams. Amos—the Betrayer—through the voice of the daemon, he influenced your mind, planted ideas and thoughts; he showed you what he wanted you to see, to keep you alive. Not to bring you here, not with me, but very much alive. The dark god is not finished with you yet. Foolishly, I was allowed to see that.”
The voice in my head. “I am a disgraced sentinel who sinned much, and lost more. I deserved to die in the wasteland. Whoever, or whatever you are, I have no mind to your squabbles.”
“There is more at risk than you know,” High Servitor Jophiel said as he walked towards her, and placed his hands upon her shoulders. She did not turn away. “Your father saw what you would become. Why do you run from it?”
She grasped the hilt of Retribution and started to swing wildly at the high servitor. The blade cut at his shoulder, wrist, waist, and head. She was perplexed; all she severed was air.
“You cannot slay me in a dream,” the high servitor said flatly. “No more than you can be hurt yourself.”
“You slew my father!” Ashleigh screamed. Wrath occupied her thoughts, and vengeance her sword arm. “You took everything from me, from my mother. You slew us when you took his life. I will have your head for what you did!”
High Servitor Jophiel returned to the throne, fingers groping the Heart of the Sand. “Not by my hand. I honoured his last wishes. He thought of you at the end. His love for you was fiercer than life itself.”
Ashleigh dropped to her knees in grief and sorrow. The lust for revenge, the desire to cut him to pieces died. Words spoken seemed so real; the only hope was a deception wrapped in truth, yet truth all the same. Tears ran down her cheeks, disappearing into the whiteness below. It was all just a dream, but it hurt. “How did he die?” The words were weak when they left her lips.
The high servitor answered so matter of factly. “Slain—by the Darkness Rising.”
“Wh-what?”
“Men and women do not die in the desert, not since your people looked west. Those who cross are chosen; the desert is their crucible. Servitor Jannak—your father—served long and well. Your father found an Animus Stone in the mountains. He kept it safe, far away from you and your mother. We summoned him before anyone else could find it. Your imperator… he was already turning, it would not have been safe. Nor could we let your father return. He understood the need, even if you do not.”
“Y-you took him from me, from my mother. Then you let your brother slay him!”
“Many men and women died that day. Your father was a brave man, and now the stone he found is far away from those who would have done harm to others.”
“Yet you live!”
“I would have gladly accepted death. My brother needs me, and that is where our opportunity is borne, if you will serve as your father once did.”
“I would rather slay you than serve.”
“Then your father’s death was for naught?”
The words gave Ashleigh pause. “What would you have of me?” She hurt so grievously.
High Servitor Jophiel’s face was still as stone, his tone solemn. “Your mind is locked in a gaol, at the mercy of Sariel. I can free your mind of its Darkness, if you are strong enough to bear it. If you but ward the relics from those who seek destruction.
Ashleigh looked back in astonishment, sheathed her sword and said, “Dalian nonsense.”
“Do you refuse?”
The Unseen Realm began to shake and shift, the whiteness turned black, as black as the Darkness in her dreams. The Darkness seemed to come alive, creeping up, suffusing into her skin; the pain wracked her, and she felt her body tearing apart. Then she felt a push against it: like her flesh and bone was reknit as the Darkness pulled it apart, over and over.
“You must be freed or it shall consume you.”
Ashleigh dropped to her knees, head in her hands; the pain seared her senses. She looked ahead for a moment, and there the high servitor stood, the Artifact and the Heart of the Sand swirling around his body, churning in power—great beams of white and orange pushed outward, towards her. He chanted in a language she had never heard before, ululating higher and higher.
Suddenly another voice pierced her mind: stronger, louder, deeper, and coarser.
THERE IS NO LIGHT THAT CAN REPEL THE DARKNESS. JANNAK COBURN WAS MURDERED BY THE HAND OF THIS FALSE PROPHET! THE DAWN IS A LIE! DUSK HAS COME, EMBRACE IT, STAND BY MY SONS. THE POWER OF VENGEANCE IS YOURS IF YOU BUT GRASP IT.
“G-get out. Get out of my head. I am no thrall!”
DO YOU SCORN THE CAMPAIGNS OF RAFAEL AZAIL? ETERNAL DARKNESS AND ENDLESS POWER; THAT IS WHAT HE FOUGHT FOR, DIED FOR.
“That is ne’er what he wanted. Get out of my head!”
IF YOU WILL NOT SERVE, THEN YOU WILL JOIN HIM IN THE DEATH THAT YOU SO CRAVE. THEN YOU SHALL BE MINE FOR NOW AND ALL ETERNITY!
There was no push back any longer. No healing. No remaking. Ashleigh’s eyes were closed—or were they open?—it did not seem to make a difference. She did not hear the chanting anymore, only the sounds of her body being torn apart. There was only the Darkness.
“No, I will not be silenced. You will tell me what you did to her, or I will find out h
ow much martial training you do in this desert.”
The voice sounded gruff, deep, and commanding.
“The sentinel will tell you herself,” another voice said, soft and fluid.
Ashleigh’s eyes flickered open, and she felt strong arms cradling her head, sitting her up. Her vision was still a blur, but she made out sand-swept stone, two men in robes, and the man she almost died with behind her. “How am I alive, High Servitor?”
The robed man stepped down from the dais and knelt in front of her. Lord Daniel tensed at his coming. “You are stronger than I e’er hoped. Do you hear the voice any longer?”
“Gone. It is lifted. It no longer compels me.”
“Good,” Jophiel smiled. “Few mortals can hold a stone and not be driven to madness and death. That you will need in days to come.”
“That is what we came for,” Daniel growled. “Near died. Give it over and we will be on our way.”
“There is no stone we can entrust to you, not even in her care,” the high servitor said as he returned to the dais. “Be not denied: Ashleigh needed to come here, and whence events come to fruition, you will be grateful that she had. That does not involve a stone in hand, however. The sentinel knows her task.”
“The Voice had entrusted it to your keeping. She wants it back.”
High Servitor Jophiel’s face was strained, his brow knitted. “Lutessa ne’er entrusted a stone to us. Some linger still in Dalia.”
“Gabriel’s Gift,” Ashleigh offered weakly. “She blessed us with the desert crossing, said you took it yourself after Trecht came, to keep it safe.”
“You must hurry back to Dale,” High Servitor Jophiel replied flatly. “The Voice has been lost to me, but for this…”
“We will not leave empty handed,” Daniel insisted.”
“It is not here,” the high servitor declared. “While you persist the realm creeps closer to ruin. Go with my blessing and hope.”
“How you lie, High Servitor,” Daniel near shouted, rising. Ashleigh wanted to rise, but found herself too weak to halt the smuggler’s foolishness “We risk death, you attack us in your home, seduce us with lies and delusions. Now you send us back to death. I am not a fool like the chattel you assembled here, who listen meekly, obey the will of some deranged puppet master. If we are to die, I would die with sword in hand, and steel in your black heart.”
“Daniel, do not—” Ashleigh said weakly.
“I will have my pound of flesh, Ashleigh. We have been played for fools. I will not stand for that.”
“Stay your ground,” Hamad said as he stood between the smuggler and Jophiel.
“You are tall, boy, but skinny,” the islander lord said gruffly. “I will snap your neck like a twig.”
“They are not lying, Daniel!” Ashleigh plead. “Nor do I think we will face the desert.”
High Servitor Jophiel spoke plainly. “Darkness creeps upon Dale, directed by the Voice’s will or no, I cannot say. Yet there you must go, Ashleigh. The captain will await you in the south—along with a few ships and cargo that your Voice thought was lost. Servitor Hamad will show you the secret ways.”
“Not enough,” Daniel barked.
“Our enemies are to the west, not here.” Ashleigh pleaded, hoping that would sway the islander lord. It looked like it did, but he still stood his ground, staring daggers at the desert dwellers. “Stand down for the home that was lost,”
“I will slay him if you have deceived us,” Daniel said brusquely, as he turned and helped Ashleigh to her feet.
“If I deserve that,” Hamad said curtly and timidly, “I welcome the embrace of the Father Above.”
Damian, Daniel, they are the same side of the same coin. Is my choice betwixt two mad dogs who cannot see their every action destroys the realm?
“Before you go,” High Servitor Jophiel cried out as Hamad opened the door to the south. “In a life past, the orphan Lutessa loyally served Mother God, as told by the prophet Gabriel, divinity Itself. That day has passed, I fear. You contend now with a servant of Darkness. There are other servants, though the Voice is likely at the heart of this strife. It pains me to say it, but you must fight the battles that we no longer can. To you, Ashleigh, the power to be free from the taint and corruption and Darkness is yours. It means little more than the buzzing of flies. Do what we cannot. Stop this.”
“I am Isilian, and he is an islander,” she remarked. “It is always something we wanted to do, before stones and gods.”
“May the Father Above bless you,” High Servitor Jophiel intoned, bowing his head.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Voice of Mother God
Lutessa entered the command tent of the Faithsworn.
It was smoky and dark inside, with a small oculus above letting in faint rays of sunlight. There was a broad table in the centre, and a weathered map stretched upon it, with worn out candles and wooden figures weighing it down. Ten Faithsworn attended, some she recognized, others she did not. She saw worry and desperation in their eyes.
The silence concerns me overmuch.
“It has been too long,” Ser Jarl Yanif declared gruffly. “The commandant knew the risks he took—as did we. No man or woman here dared dissent when he gave the order. We must go forth as if he will not return.”
She looked around the tent and thought every man and woman took after their captain: tall and broad, with calloused hands and hard, stone-like faces.
“I know little of war, Ser Jarl,” Lutessa said. “Yet I do not see how we can make plans without ships.”
The Faithsworn shuffled, and a few murmured as if to say, ‘Who is she to say such things?’ She resolved not to keep quiet and bestow her blessing meekly.
“There are some cogs and a couple long boats.” Lady Jesse Hinart offered, one of the few hard-faced women in the number. “They will do.”
“We would be defenseless!” boomed Ser Jason Karet, one of the bigger men. A displaced child of the north from the look of him. “I did not swear my sword to Mother God to drown at sea, the overlord be cursed.”
“There will be no death at sea,” Ser Jarl growled, and every eye turned toward him. “We can send a score of small, fast ships. They can land on the shores, scout safe landing sites, and send their reports back.”
“Would that not take weeks, if not months?” Lutessa questioned. “That is time we do not have.”
“Would the Protectorate kindly provide another choice that does not result in defeat?” The weight of the words was greater than what Ser Johnathan and counsels El or Stephen had ever put towards her.
I am not within the White Walls, and my grasp can yet slip.
“Do tell us the ways of war from atop the Crystal Throne,” Ser Jarl burst out whence she did not feign a reply.
“We wait. Mother God wills the counsel’s return,” Lutessa declared, with as much gall as she could muster.
“If he does not?” Lady Jesse asked pointedly.
“Then the overlord will be the least of our concerns.”
Her words set off a flurry of hard speech and harsher japes. Some were hurled at her, others to their fellows who had not offered up ideas, or even assent to the more fruitful considerations.
They are frustrated and anxious. I do not fault them, yet I do not trust them. No foe to cleave in the field is bad enough, but they know, somehow they know, I am uneasy about this, even if I do what I must.
Ser Jarl slammed down on the oaken table, scattering pieces on the stretched map. “Enough of this prattle. Save it for the overlord. The Protectorate is not far wrong in this, and not a single lot of you would beg to differ if we were not marred in idleness. Yet a plan must be laid for all that. What would the Protectorate command? North or east? How much longer do we wait?”
Lutessa knew it was too long already, much as she wished for more time. It seemed so long ago that Damian Dannars stood in the Chamber of Judgment in defiance.
Mother God was profaned that day, made worse by these Faith
sworn. Yet again, they are the only reason we are still alive. I must not forget that.
It was a hard choice, but the threat was not from Trecht, even if her counsel of faith was rebuffed: the king would wait until the islands bloodied itself against her people. It was east, but it had to take less than weeks.
Worse, I have had no visions since that day. I must prove ourselves worthy once again to Mother God. May She forgive me for acting against Her will, and the servant who I have defied in my arrogance. “East. We must go east on the morrow in full force. Whatever is left to us.”
The Faithsworn tensed, and looked to each other warily in frustration and doubt.
They are sworn to obey, even if I decree their execution.
The silence was broken by the foot falls of a young boy: tall and lithe with shaggy brown hair, and a tabard of the Faith draped over his white linens. His face reddened from exertion
A messenger. “Speak before the Protectorate and the Faithsworn,” Lutessa announced proudly.
“It is ships, my la, my Voi-, High Priestess! More ships than the eye can see.”
“The banners? What are the banners, boy?” Ser Jarl shouted, rounding upon the boy.
The lad looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but in the command tent, unnerved by the bullish captain. “A great lion wrought in gold on a green field, ser, gold and green, I was told. White beneath it. The same sigil that is on your chest, ser. Mother God with sword in hand. Faithsworn, ser. The counsel of faith has returned!”
The Faithsworn spilled forth from the command tent; the boy was nearly bowled over in their rush. Lutessa rose from her seat, and took the boy in an embrace. “You did well, child. What is your name?”
“Michel, if it please you.”
“It does,” she replied, releasing the lad. “Return to your master, and tell him that all the Faith revels in his message.”
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