“You can work both powers, live on either of them, while we cannot.”
“Just so.”
The halls they walked were made of existential rock, basalt and granite, bedrock of the world, but as they traded the cathedral-sized passage for the garish light of open air, Alshiba marveled yet again at what Malachai had done. His city was a spectacular feat of architecture—palaces, mansions, temples and towers, all of them interconnected by hundreds of arched bridges. The sere rays of T’khendar’s sun made everything a stark contrast of shadow and light. There was beauty here, but it was a harsh beauty.
Björn had taught her to see such things, to appreciate the varying shades of aesthetics. But thoughts of Björn brought hated tears, so she forced her mind back to Malachai instead. “You know,” Alshiba whispered, for a whisper was all the air her lungs could manage, “you know he’s quite insane, your Overlord. The same power that sustains you has driven him mad.”
She didn’t know how the Shade would respond, but he only smiled. “Perhaps he is insane,” he admitted. “But his children are not.”
“No?” she challenged. “It was wholly rational then, this genocide of his that you and yours participated in?”
“We are but pawns in the game, Your Excellence,” the Shade returned somberly, “prancing to the players’ dictates, prey to their delusions.”
“No,” she disagreed in her bare whisper. “You have a choice. There is always a choice…to do or not to do, to act…or not.”
“If the only choice is between life if you obey or death if you do not, is that really a choice?”
“Yes! There is the Returning,” she gripped his arm and stared into his depthless obsidian eyes as she gasped to draw breath. Was there hope? Could he be turned to her cause? “Death is only the end of one life,” she whispered. “The choice should never be one of death and life, but to choose the right thing, the right path.” It was what Björn had always taught her, yet what path does he walk now?
“And which is the right path, Your Excellence?” the Shade inquired sadly, holding her in his arms like a limp rag doll yet treating her with the utmost gentleness and respect. “How does a mere pawn determine the right path when only the players know where the paths may lead? When the players can twist the paths so each seems true, or alter their course so each ends where the players want despite any choices made?”
“You speak as if Fate controls us all,” she managed, even more breathless than before. Her head was spinning so violently now that the Shade was nearly carrying her.
“Not Fate, Your Excellence,” the Shade replied quietly as they walked slowly across the bridge. “We aren’t fated to an end—would that it were true, for Chance plays in the game of Fate, and sometimes Luck as well. No, ’tis the players that control our choices, and they are infinitely harsher taskmasters than Fate.”
Reaching the far side of the arched basalt bridge, they entered another building through a row of beautifully crafted stained-glass doors. As soon as they were inside, footsteps approached, and the Shade stopped and looked down an intersecting passage. “Rad nath, First Lord,” the creature said with a reverent bow.
He’s speaking the Old Tongue, Alshiba thought with surprise. She hadn’t heard the language spoken since she was a child. She slowly managed to turn her head to see who this First Lord was…
And her heart leapt and shuddered in the same moment.
Epiphany give me strength—tell me he’s not here!
But her eyes didn’t lie, and when the tall man with the dark curls and the vibrant blue eyes came to a halt before her, she even smelled his familiar scent, reminding her of their intimate moments and vanquishing all her hopes in the same breath.
His betrayal was the worst of all.
Though the Shade was wholly supporting her, she had forgotten he was there. To see Björn walking of his own accord, his shoulders so straight while she struggled to draw every breath…her oath-brothers had told her that Björn had betrayed them, but she had prayed them mistaken.
There was no mistaking the man standing relaxed in front of her right now, however, and there was no mistaking the reverence with which the Shade had addressed him.
“I’ll help her, Dämen,” Björn offered.
The Shade bowed off.
No, please! she thought, choking back tears. Anything but to be near him now…
Alshiba had no choice but to let herself be lifted into the arms of her long-time lover. Björn was as strong as ever, his breath warm upon her damp skin, but never had the feel of him brought her such anguish.
I’ll die before I let him see me cry!
As Björn headed off, following along five or so paces behind the Shade, Alshiba gave him a scathing look. “How could you?” she demanded with every bit of fire she could muster. Perhaps it was the anger, but she began to feel a little of her strength returning.
He turned his gaze upon her with that look of his, the one that always made her breath quicken—even then, even hating him as she did, she felt her desire for him stir and waken.
Björn gifted her with a droll smile. “Was that a rhetorical question?”
“You had all the power you could have desired as the Alorin Seat,” she protested, her voice near to tears. She was so hurt, so frustrated and confused by what he’d done. It was numbingly difficult to comprehend his betrayal.
Björn gazed down at her sadly as he carried her. “You think this is about power?” he inquired quietly.
“Of course it’s about power!” she snapped, regaining enough of her breath to raise her voice, enough even to want to stand on her own. “Put me down.” She struggled against him.
He dutifully lowered her gently.
Finding her feet, she straightened her skirts and glared at him. “In love with you, I might’ve been, Björn van Gelderan, but I’ve never been a fool. If this wasn’t about power, what was it about? Who blasphemes the Maker—by Cephrael’s Great Book!—by daring to create an entire realm, Björn? Who does that if they aren’t raving mad for dominion?”
The Fifth Vestal gazed sadly upon her, his eyes so incredibly blue, his features near godlike in their perfection. “If that is what you truly believe, Alshiba, you should be grateful for this betrayal. I’ve given you the chance to claim what you’ve always wanted: the Alorin Seat.”
Alshiba gaped at him. “I never—” she gasped, stunned. “I’ve…that’s never been my goal!”
“Not in so few words, perhaps,” Björn agreed, “but do you really think I didn’t know the thoughts in the back of your mind? Those little whispers that told you if you can’t sit the throne, at least bed the Seat.”
Alshiba felt as though she’d just been stabbed. “I…loved you,” she choked out, hastily wiping tears from stinging eyes lest they fall and betray her promise to herself.
“Loved, is it? Not still?” He settled her an innocently inquiring look that was yet somehow so lustful that she found herself blushing—and hating him even more for it.
“Save your wiles for those who desire them.” She wished her voice might’ve betrayed less of the terrible ache she felt, the agony of a breaking heart. “I am the First Vestal, by the Maker’s grace,” she managed, drawing herself tall, “not some mortal woman aching for the gifts of your loins!”
Björn chuckled as he gazed down at her. “No, love, I expect you’ve had enough of my loins to last you several lifetimes.”
Alshiba stared at him. Amazing that one statement from him could make her feel so tawdry, so empty inside. Her eyes stung again, and a lump formed in her throat. Finally she turned, picked up her tattered skirts, and set off behind the Shade, who was now at least twenty strides ahead down the black stone hallway.
Björn easily fell into step with her. “You do me an injustice, Alshiba,” he protested. “I am not this monster you accuse me of. You know me better than that.”
“You stood up to be counted with every monster imaginable!” she hissed, not daring to look at him. His c
ountenance was too precious to her, his near presence too forceful upon her heart. She stared ahead as she added, “Dagmar said he saw you decapitate Jarell hal’Benniman even as he pled for mercy.”
“Jarell was the worst sort of river slime to ever work the lifeforce, Alshiba, and you know it,” Björn argued. “I did you a favor.”
“Yes, you’re full of favors, it seems,” she quipped bitterly.
Abruptly he took her arm and halted her. His fingers lifted her chin to meet his gaze, and she trembled at his touch. She loved this man more than life, and he’d shattered her, broken her over his knee like a brittle branch.
Björn’s fingers followed the trail of tears down her cheek. “There is so much I wanted to tell you…want to tell you still…if only you could find faith in me...”
She slapped his hand away. “Why now? Why do you seek my understanding now when all is irrevocable? Why not before, when you shut me out of your life?”
He gazed at her in that manner she’d come to despise, his eyes so distant…as if he saw all that had ever been and would ever be, yet didn’t see her at all. Björn’s lips curved in a tragic smile. “Trust is a fragile thing, isn’t it?”
Unable to bear his gaze, she spun away and followed the Shade into a sweeping hall where at least fifty of his brethren had gathered. It was intensely unsettling to see silver face after silver face, all of them exactly the same—the same features, the same icy indifference, even the same velvet coats. It was like looking upon a hundred mirror images come to individual life.
Björn was catching up to her, so she assumed a stature of proud resolve, both for the benefit of the horrid Shade clones—to see they had not broken her—and for herself, that in looking the part of bravery, she might start to feel a measure of it.
Her heart leaped when she saw her oath-brothers waiting at the front of the hall. Dagmar stood as tall and broad as ever in his characteristic black. Raine seemed calm, quietly accepting, with that lock of soft brown hair falling unassumingly over his colorlessly crystalline eyes. Beside Raine stood the Avieth Seth, as always a quiet storm just waiting to explode. And then there was Björn—damn the man!—who settled off to the side with his effortless elegance. Björn watched her until she came to a halt between Dagmar and Raine, and then he blessedly turned away.
Alsihiba found reassurance in the company of her oath-brothers; and yet, as she tried to push thoughts of Björn from mind, she realized her sudden recovery of strength could be attributed to no other.
“Have you tried to work?” Dagmar asked in a low voice.
She nodded grimly. “The moment I arrived here. They tell me I was unconscious for two days.”
“So was I,” Raine noted without turning his gaze from the dais and its towering basalt throne fashioned in the shape of two bestial demons tearing out each other’s throats. Alshiba didn’t want to know if such horrors actually existed, if Malachai had created the things depicted on that throne. Still staring forward, Raine added with odd indifference, “We’re dying, you realize.”
Alshiba looked at him; she was starting to feel rather numb herself. “They’ve treated me well,” she admitted, somehow unable to vilify Björn to the others, even then. “It was my reaching for elae that left me in such pain.”
Standing on Dagmar’s left, Seth grunted caustically. “What need for torture when we can do it to ourselves? Saves them the effort.”
“They could have killed us if they wanted us dead,” Dagmar pointed out in his calm way. He noticed a hangnail on his thumb and absently pried at it with his teeth. Alshiba had never seen him bothered by anything.
“We’re dying already, brother,” Seth reminded him sootily. “It’s hardly a mercy to draw it out.”
“Malachai visited me,” Raine confessed in his quiet way. “Else I’d not have been able to walk at all.”
Hangnail caught between his teeth, Dagmar muttered, “Björn came to me.”
Seth grunted disagreeably again. “Belloth take the both of them.”
Alshiba cast him an irritable look. The Avieth made a practice of naming the worst sort of beings at the worst sort of times. Who knew if Malachai didn’t actually make his pact with the legendary Lord of the Underworld himself? And naming the demon god was never a fortuitous habit.
A hush suddenly spread through the room, followed by a great shuffling, and Alshiba looked behind her to see the Shades prostrating themselves on the marble floor. She turned back to the dais just as Malachai entered from behind the throne.
Oh, my…
It tore at her to see him so, even after all he’d done. Unending compassion was a Healer’s curse, and on first glance, all Alshiba saw was a tortured soul.
“Rotted to the core,” Seth muttered ungraciously.
Raine shot him a sidelong look full of immediate annoyance.
Malachai was still dressed in his small-scaled armor that looked much like the luminous skin of a green viper. His pale hair hung limply about his shoulders, and his brown eyes hid in shadowed hollows, as if fearing what they would see should they be touched by light. There was a fierceness to him that had not been there when last Alshiba saw him, a month before he began his genocidal rampage, and as he entered, he seemed to bring a terrible chill into the room.
A fist of fear clenched around Alshiba’s heart. She had effectively ignored the truth for a brief few hours, but there appeared to be no escaping it now. She was mortal here, and as a mortal, she would die.
Malachai seated himself stiffly onto his throne and settled his empty eyes on the four Adepts as if wondering why they were there. Two Shades entered from behind him, and one leaned to whisper in his ear.
“Oh…yes,” he said, and he lifted those hollow eyes to Alshiba and her oath-brothers. “Your Excellences, I have a parting gift for you.” He waved the Shades off to enforce whatever command he’d already given, and then seemingly deflated back against his throne. “It’s over, you know,” he told them in a voice that seemed paper thin. “The war, I mean.”
“This war won’t be over until you and all of your abominations are seared from the face of the realm!” Seth retorted scathingly.
Malachai simply stared blankly at him, with no more comprehension than if he was a tree that had suddenly spoken.
Alshiba glanced around the wide room. She couldn’t help but wonder if the Shades were ever going to stand up again. It was highly unsettling to be surrounded by a sea of velvet-clad bodies lying face down in silence.
Just then a long procession of Shades entered through the doors. Alshiba caught her breath. In their hands, they carried…
“Heads.” Raine said grimly.
Cleanly severed, jaws agape, dead eyes staring. A terrible understanding set upon Alshiba as she recognized the faces of the dead. She felt her newfound strength evaporating, and she dug her nails into her palm to keep herself lucid, to keep from shrieking.
“Dear Epiphany,” Raine muttered as the Shades paraded by carrying the severed heads like horrid ornaments.
“That was Gerald hal’Gere,” Dagmar noted grimly. He continued in a low murmur, “Vivienne d’val Bartheon, Jasyn ryn Tavenstorm, Scar Whitmore…Willem Stonewall.”
Dead! Alshiba shuddered and a moan escaped; her vision began fading at the edges. The Hundred Mages! All dead! “They were supposed to be safely in the Citadel!” Her voice was a bare whisper.
“Björn,” Seth hissed.
“He wouldn’t!” Alshiba gasped.
Seth gave her an incredulous look. “Who else, sister? The strongest of us are dead or standing before you! The Citadel was impregnable, but not to him. Never to him,” and he slung a venomous glare toward the Fifth Vestal.
Feeling hopelessness like a heavy blanket, suffocating and black, Alshiba at last admitted the truth. Only Björn could have breached the Citadel’s defenses.
Then, suddenly, she understood that this must’ve been Malachai’s plan all along. He’d sworn to destroy Alorin’s magic and all who worked it out of re
tribution for the Council of Realms’ vilification of T’khendar. By slaying the Mages, and after such a long genocidal war, who would be left to teach Awakening Adepts? Who would be left to test them for their master’s rings? So much knowledge would now be lost…
She felt the world closing in on her, blackness descending with the swiftness of shadows, but then strong fingers were cutting into her elbow, pushing her to stay on her feet. She blinked to clear her vision and saw Björn next to her. His fingers cut into her arm, but the pain dissipated the faintness.
Seeing that he had her attention, Björn opened his right hand, and Alshiba saw him weave a vision for her eyes alone: a small band of travelers winding through a wintry mountain pass. There were perhaps fifty faces she recognized, maybe a few more, and these Adepts traveled with their families and their belongings.
Safe! A wave of relief passed through her. A man led them through the dangerous pass, a dark-haired man with fiery emerald eyes that seemed to light the way with their glow. She knew him, too. If there were these fifty, surely there were more, pockets of others who’d survived Malachai’s scourge.
Alshiba lifted her gaze to meet Björn’s. How? she mouthed the words. Why? And she seemed to hear his answer echo in her mind: I am not the monster you accuse me of.
***
“Alshiba. Alshiba.”
The Alorin Seat roused with a start and lifted tired eyes to her oath-brother Raine. In their centuries of friendship, he had always been the one she called upon when she needed support and reassurance…or a shoulder to cry on after Björn’s merciless tongue had wounded her, bringing tears. But the latter was lifetimes ago, what still seemed like yesterday.
She noted that the sun had risen while she ruminated, more hours wasted on thoughts of Björn. He was the puzzle she could never solve. No matter how many ways she put the pieces together, they never formed a whole.
“I apologize for my late arrival,” Raine said as Alshiba pressed palms to her eyes, shaking off another sleepless night. “On the way here I sidetracked your Espial on an excursion of grave importance. I had to know, you see. Alshiba,” and he stressed her name to gain her attention, “so much has happened that I haven’t been able to brief you on—”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 37