Is this what Argath and Damian meant? What they so desperately wanted me to see? They trusted him, believed in him, and now they are dead. Do I only trust because of the stone? I always trusted Rachel. Ever since we were girls. That is her face. Her voice. Her presence. I know my girlhood friend. My family. My sister.
“What would you have me do?” Lutessa asked.
“Only what you always have. You are their Voice. You are my Voice. Show them what their faith means,” Rachel stepped forward timidly with a hand outstretched. “And I would have you give unto me Gabriel’s Gift. I will take it where Lord Kaldred cannot tread.”
The stone was pulsating, and it sent tendrils of fear and doubt through Lutessa’s mind. She was fiercely protective of it. The Mother’s Pilgrim came from it long before Lord Kaldred ever touched it, yet it was the Faithsworn she feared, and it was only the stone that assured her of their continued obedience.
If Rachel speaks the truth…
“Where will you take it?” Lutessa asked weakly. “Where will you go?”
“To Jophiel, past the mountains of Isilia. It will remain safe in the Order’s care.”
Where I once sent enemies to their deaths, a land of scripture and prophecy. To the Desert of Death. “The desert cannot be crossed,” Lutessa protested. “Only Gabriel could, to see the wisdom of the First Born. You are not—”
“It is by the grace of Gabriel that I crossed the desert and learned at High Servitor Jophiel’s feet. He will keep it safe. No one else can.”
Lutessa knew it had to be done, and reluctantly placed Gabriel’s Gift in Rachel’s outstretched hand. Lutessa wrapped her fingers around her friend’s tightly. The warmth was unmistakable.
She is there. Returned. To preserve our Faith. “Will I see you again, Rachel?”
“I am always with you, my sister.”
The crypt was suffused in a brilliant flash of light—not unlike the stone itself—and Rachel was gone. Lutessa stood alone in the darkness, felt goosebumps all over her skin, and a terrible, wretched cold. She remained for a time, hunched over Justine’s tomb, in thought and prayer.
Mother God…
Chapter Nineteen
The Wings of the Harpy
Aerona did not flail against the Deathsworn.
“The others await in the Gardens, Elder Reuven,” a Deathsworn announced. “It is the emperor’s wish that you make for there now.”
“Release her to my care, then,” Reuven replied. “They are not needed.”
“Three shall accompany you. That is the emperor’s will.”
Reuven nodded his head despondently and fell in beside Aerona. The two Deathsworn who had dragged her from the throne released their grip, but pushed her forward like some common prisoner. You are a traitor, Reuven.
The Deathsworn lead her through the twists and turns through of the labyrinths. It was all too familiar: dark halls, beige runes that emitted a ruddy light, shut and barred doorways, and the deadening echo of her own footfalls.
More than once Aerona thought to act, to embrace the Heart of the Sand, to feel its Light rush through her veins, and demand obeisance from her captors; and if the Deathsworn did not swiftly obey, she would use its power against them and Reuven.
A lingering doubt stayed her hand, and the stone remained dormant.
“Halt,” the lead Deathsworn commanded, then turned to Aerona. “See that she does not speak.”
She looked up at the set of twin doors; the runic symbols fluttered and fading. The tall Deathsworn put a gauntleted hand near the centre and began to speak. The words were deaf to her, and she saw Reuven’s hand grasp the stave-sword sheathed to his back. He swung it around and thrust the blades through the back of the Deathsworn.
The two Deathsworn beside her drew their own stave-swords, eyes intent on Reuven. Then, with a flick of the wrist, Reuven pulled the weapon out of the dead man, and hurled it like a javelin towards Aerona. She caught it, spun it around in an arc, and the blade cut through armour, flesh, and bone.
“We are not going to the Gardens,” Reuven declared while taking back the bloodied stave-sword, cleaning the blade with the tail of his cloak. “Emperor Archelaus can die in his deluded bliss. Did he tell you aught of use?”
She smiled: for Reuven’s dependence, and relief that not all had given into fear. “He spoke of what you endured in the Fall. Do you not know his tryst?”
Reuven paced at the runic door, wordless and impatient. Aerona spoke when it was clear he would not, “He spoke of how Sariel was sealed away.”
“Pointless,” Reuven murmured, pounding his fist against the wall. “I was there. I could have told you that. The emperor wants us all dead.”
“I do not doubt that,” Aerona answered. “But this you do not know.”
Reuven stared at her intently.
“Here,” she said, withdrawing Vindication, handing it over hilt first. “Grasp my sword.”
Reuven frowned, but took it anyway. He flicked the sword with his wrist, as if getting used to the balance. Looking back at her dismissive and disappointed, he took in breath to speak, but was suddenly convulsing in pain. It looked like tendrils of smoke tried to burst out of his neck like protruding veins; the blade seemingly heavier than an anvil. The blade dropped to the floor, while he backed into the door, fingers grasping his neck, as the tendrils slowly faded. Horror and disgust marred his face.
“Darkness!”
Aerona picked up the sword, and sheathed it at her side. “He forged a weapon of Light and Darkness—Vindication— so that he could channel and control the two forces. That is how he turned the power against Sariel.”
Reuven spoke with mirth. “The Heart of the Sand will—”
“Elder Reuven!”
The voice was loud and harrowing. It came from down the hall. A Deathsworn charged forth, stave-sword extended like a spear. Reuven held his weapon out to parry, and Aerona withdrew Vindication once more.
Rage seemed to twist inside the Deathsworn as the echo of plate boots rang off the walls. Her foe’s eyes were sere, intent, and remorseless. She planted her feet firmly in the ground, kept herself low, ready to strike at his legs when he lunged at Reuven.
But the Deathsworn dropped to the ground mid-stride, blood puddling beneath him, fingers stretching outwards in a final act of defiance. A stave-sword had pierced his gut.
“They have grown weak guarding an old, dead man.”
Yeuil emerged from the dark, and she yanked the bloodied steel free. Reuven stormed towards her in a fury.
“Why have you come Yeuil?!”
“I have news that could not wait.”
“No, it must and will wait. The remnants of the Emperor’s Chosen will hunt us. There is no time.”
“Dach is routing them now. It was my decision, Elder. If there is any fault, I surrender myself to your judgment.”
Though his back was to her, Aerona knew that Reuven was seething. In the brief time that she was with them, none had dared show him any defiance. You are not angry at the act. Your pride is what wounds you.
“What is the news?” Reuven grumbled.
“War has begun. The Northlands, as you thought. The Dalians were waiting for the Trechtians. It is a field of fire. Lutessa commands the front lines.”
The news shocked Aerona. She never thought Lutessa lacked strength and resolve, but the high priestess was a slip of a girl who preached and lectured: she had never fought with sword in hand.
“We cannot wait for them to recover,” Reuven insisted. “The Voice cannot fall. We move, now.”
Reuven stormed off down the halls, talking as he went. “I will need Daniel, Ashleigh, and Johnathan on the bridge. Awake, Yeuil, awake. Give them whatever they require. Amos will not wait.”
Aerona could not fathom what Reuven was thinking. Not long ago, he wanted to leave them for dead. He is hiding something, but what?
She emerged on the platforms where the narthecal was docked, and it was abuzz with Reuven’s Deathswo
rn returning; and their stave-swords dripped with crimson. The sky on either side was a dull grey, not of the onset of night, but Dusk, a premonition told her.
Inside the narthecal, it was a quick sprint to the bridge. It was her first time on the bridge. There was a wall of immense glass at the front, and below them were near fifty Deathsworn running about or sitting at desks with flashing lights. Yeuil ran off towards the Hall of Healing and Reuven began to bark out orders. “Have we all boarded?”
“Elder Reuven,” a barrel chested Deathsworn with long sandy hair replied from a wide semi-circle below, “the last few are returning now. The runic barrier is down.”
“Then set a course for Mount Cimmerii.”
The barrel chested Deathsworn worked at the blinking lights of his station, shouting at who he called navigators, and the ship began to move in fits and starts. Aerona heard a whirring sound from beneath the decks. She looked forward, and the grey sky swirled past her as the ship’s prow tore through darkened clouds and cut towards the land below.
She followed Reuven to the crest of a wide platform and looked at the men and women working below. The barrel-chested man who answered Reuven sat near the centre, and the navigators seemed to be on either side. None seemed bothered by the jarring movements.
Aerona did not release her grip from the rail for ten minutes, and even then, she felt like she was going to fall. Reuven had said little in the time. His eyes were intent; the weight of the realm on his shoulders, as if their foe was just ahead in the grey.
It is Lord Eldred that has taken the sky from us. He is closer than we thought.
“Whoreson! Traitorous bastard!” Daniel screamed, charging at Reuven, though the Corsair slipped before crossing half the distance.
Aerona leapt, grabbed him by the tunic, and screamed at him, spittle flying. “What are you doing, Daniel?!”
“Whoreson left us for dead, Aerona. My brother and Jaremy are dead on account of him. He will answer for it. All of it!”
Aerona pushed Daniel against the rail. “Did you think I forgot, Daniel? I was there. I saw the corpses. This is not the time!” She threw him down in anger and frustration.
“You and him seem awful friendly,” Ashleigh said mockingly. “Something you would like to share?”
Aerona would not let that slide. “Someone get her a blade. Say that with a sword at your side Ashleigh. Say it!”
“Enough!” Reuven shouted before Ashleigh could reply. “Lest you want every living creature to share the same fate as your fallen allies, you will heed my words!” Aerona crossed her arms, disgusted, and leaned against the back rail. “Do not forget that Lord Luc would have torn you apart if not for us. At much risk I brought you upon my ship so that you might still do some good. If I had wanted you dead, I would have sliced your throats in that wretched hideaway.”
“Only on account that you need us,” Ser Johnathan said calmly, gaze unflinching. “I know your kind, and what you think of us, and our life’s blood.”
“We need each other,” Reuven declared brusquely. “Naught can divide us any longer.”
“Lord Eldred,” the knight declared solemnly. “Where is he?”
Reuven took a deep breath before speaking. “The slopes of Mount Cimmerii. We make for there now. Aerona will face him in the wastelands. You three must descend into Mount Cimmerii’s depths.”
The words sent a shiver down Aerona’s spine, and from the look on Ser Johnathan’s face, she was not the only one.
“I will not return to that mountain, nor will I let her stand alone,” the old knight protested. “I may not have been in Lanan, but I know the foe you would have her face. You are deluded, Reuven.”
“You must, you will,” Reuven insisted. “The ritual of the Dark Brotherhood must be broken.”
“The Portal is opening again, is it not?” Ser Johnathan asked ominously.
“Yes,” Reuven answered, cold and direct. “When the brotherhood left Lanan, they returned to the wasteland, and using Amos’ knowledge, crafted what are called the Pillars of Eternity. They house and siphon the Darkness of the Animus Stones, powering the Portal. Unlike before, they are not opening a gateway to Sariel’s twisted realm: they will cut through this plane to the Endless Void, and Sariel’s Essence will come hurdling forth, merging consciousness’s with Lord Eldred. The Darkness Rising will do more than taunt, churn, and corrupt the living mind. He will take physical form, and exist on two planes. His Ascendance and the Rebirth.”
The memory pained Aerona. The Portal was where she made her last stand with her Brood. It was a time when she thought her life was at an end. Not hers, but it snuffed out the life of the warriors who trusted her with their lives. Forgive me. Lie in peace with the knowledge that vengeance is at hand.
“What can we do to stop it?” Ashleigh asked.
“To hold the Portal, the Dark Brotherhood will need to maintain the coursing power of the stones. Should they be disturbed, the path the Portal cut will be dammed, though not fully extinguished. Should the brotherhood perish, the stones will be a chaotic current, and they will attempt to inflict the Dream on you. None of you can be controlled by that. Without a catalyst to contain the unbridled power, it will surge outward and—”
“Be merged with the Heart of the Sand, and with Vindication in hand, turn the dark god’s power against Him,” Aerona finished as the stone pulsed beneath her garb.
“Did you forget, Reuven” Daniel cut in, anger and rage still marring his face. “That Luc ravaged us not days ago? We cannot fight all three! This Heart of the Sand be cursed.”
Reuven seemed to be prepared for that. “I have not. The ritual will drain much of their life essence—the Darkness intent entirely on Sariel’s ascension. They will not be able to draw more than what remains inside of them; and we shall ward you from that. Lords Aleksander and Gareth have little proficiency with sword in hand; choosing to engross themselves with the Fell Darkness that Lord Eldred has shared.”
“Luc is another matter,” Daniel spat back.
“If you are half the swordsman you say you are Lord Daniel Baccan,” Reuven replied coldly. “Then a weakened Lord Luc will fall to you.”
“Might be that we could,” Ashleigh declared icily. “If we can but trust your wards. Last time we regretted such protections.”
“There is much and more you do not understand,” a soft, calm, and unfamiliar voice said. Aerona looked frantically for the speaker. Then, behind her, she saw a whirlwind of sand, and a strong hot breeze pushed against her face. It slowly faded away, revealing three men in long brown robes, trimmed with a dull, faded red. They folded their hands behind their backs. One was short and round, another of middling height, and last was tall and lanky, and twin dragons stitched into the fabric of his robe.
“You were not meant to face the Fell Darkness,” the tall man said. Aerona was sure the voice from a moment before was his. “Reuven and I will weave stronger wards, should the unthinkable come about. The time has come for the Children of the Dawn to defeat the Dark Brotherhood. All depends on it.”
“I should gut you where you stand, Jophiel!” Daniel declared. “They took my sword, but I can still make you bleed. Beg for mercy!”
The two others in robes drew thick quarter staffs, near eight feet in length; they held them aloft, crowding around the man called Jophiel.
“Ever the coward, Hamad,” Ashleigh seethed.
“Put away your weapons, servitors,” Jophiel intoned. “Our foes are below, not above. They know this, as do we.”
“Yes, High Servitor,” they intoned, standing aside, strapping the weapons on their backs, though their hands never far away from them.
High Servitor Jophiel walked forward, placed a hand on Reuven’s shoulder, and the two passed a look of understanding.
Another of them. As different as the sun and moon. This one would never grasp a weapon himself.
The high servitor’s gaze shifted to Ser Johnathan, but it was if he struggled to find words. “Much
has changed since last we spoke, Ser Johnathan. I do not regret my actions, and though you may feel disdain towards me, you must know now that I was a thrall to my twisted brother, and could not have known that my servitor had succumbed to the dark god.”
“Yet he is deep in Lord Eldred’s corruption,” the knight bristled. “You should have known.”
High Servitor Jophiel sighed. “I should have. We can still make things right.”
“I am a man, Jophiel. I make my own choices.”
The high servitor sighed, and turned towards Daniel and Ashleigh. “You were meant to slay Amos, but you heeded your own counsel. It has cost much, no more than to her.” He looked towards Aerona, and it took much not to think about who he meant. “Will you make your own choices, and spurn millennia of wisdom?”
“I will do what I feel is right,” Ashleigh said stubbornly. “Rafael would have wanted that.”
“Do not think that I trust you,” Daniel replied. “You, Reuven, Amos: you are all the bloody same. If you are so willing to send the living into the grave, send your own, or go yourselves and see what you wrought on others.”
“Together,” Reuven declared emphatically. “Or we may as well crash this ship.”
Silence fell. Aerona was conflicted, all but her trust in Reuven. She did not know the high servitor, but there was a warmth and kindness in him—a sagacity that he shared with Reuven. Yet she also trusted Daniel, Ashleigh, and Ser Johnathan; and they had been betrayed by the high servitor.
What Aerona did know beyond a certainty is that Ser Elin, Lords Kaldred and Eldred—whatever name he chose to go by—was a threat, and that Lords Aleksander, Gareth, and Luc were taken by the Darkness, serving the twisted will of Sariel. She realized the high servitor was right: it was time that they met their end.
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