I frowned. Clearly I was missing something incredibly obvious. I hated weird challenges like this, because I always seemed to miss the really obvious thing. “Okay, lemme make sure I have this straight,” I said. “I have to climb this smooth, really high column and then do a shikvihr? I don’t even know what that is yet.”
“The shikvihr is a full pattern lay, consisting of eleven rings with eleven sigils per ring,” he explained patiently. “It is a ritual foundation that greatly enhances ability to control and focus potency. When done properly, it flows like a harmonious dance. The column will adapt to the level of your preparedness. Step back ten paces, and I will demonstrate an initiate level shikvihr.”
Yeah, I was off to a great damn start. I backed up the requisite distance.
Mzatal turned to the column and placed both palms on it, murmuring low again. As I watched, the surface of the column began to flow and change. Ridges and footholds appeared and disappeared in an undulating rhythm. He ascended with a grace to make Nureyev weep, shifting effortlessly from each protrusion to the next as they ebbed and flowed around him. Some of the ridges couldn’t have been more than an inch or two deep, yet Mzatal seemed to glide up the column like a rock climber in zero gravity.
I craned my neck back as he reached the top and began what looked like a dance, or kata. He flowed around the perimeter of the top, a hair’s-breadth from the edge at times, laying sigils in a flowing chain, with movements so beautiful it made my heart ache. With a final sweep of his hand he ignited the sigils, sending a resonant tone through the column that vibrated my teeth in an impossibly good way.
Another wave of his hand dissipated the sigils. He descended as beautifully as he’d ascended, then placed a hand on the column again. It shimmered and became dormant. He turned and beckoned for me to approach.
“This was without the distractions that accompany the final trial,” he said with a slight smile.
I suddenly felt like a fifth grader who’d been handed a calculus test. Only a few weeks ago I’d been so damn confident in my summoning abilities, yet now there was no denying there were major gaps in my knowledge base.
Throat tight, I gestured to the column. “I don’t even know how to begin, to get to…” I shook my head. “I don’t know any of this.”
“It is why we are here,” he said, exuding calm. “It is why we are training. You will know it. You will understand it intimately. You will be able to dance the shikvihr even though the world breaks apart beneath your feet. It is your foundation. It is your salvation.”
Clearly, he’d never seen me dance. “Okay, fine. What do I do first?”
“You climb,” he said, placing his hand on the column again. It shimmered and then a narrow stair spiraled around it to the top.
Nice that the column has a “kindergarten” level, I thought. “Just climb?” I asked him.
“To the top. Go.”
I gave him one last doubtful look, then started up the stairs. I fully expected them to start shifting beneath my feet, but they remained stable, though they seemed to narrow considerably the higher I climbed. I kept my back pressed against the column and took my time, and finally eased up over the edge.
A swell of potency engulfed me like an emptiness needing to be filled. I dropped to my knees, fighting the surge of panic as I realized the top of the column wasn’t solid. I knelt on a perimeter about a foot and a half wide, but in the middle was a two foot diameter…hole? I didn’t know what it was. Deep blackness radiated potency like a ravenous maw, and whatever it was, I knew I didn’t want to step on it. Or touch it. Or be anywhere near it.
Panic continued to claw at me. I squeezed my eyes shut, called up a stupid pygah, and focused on my breathing. I didn’t have to see the hole to feel it, and even shifting out of othersight didn’t do much. It still lurked there, dark and unknown, sucking at me, tugging with questing fingers.
I had no idea how long I was up there doing my impression of a treed cat, but at long last I cracked my eyes open and peered down at Mzatal.
“Can I come down now?” I called, damn near pleading.
Eyes on me, he nodded. Getting back onto the narrow stairs was the hardest part of the climb, but I managed to crab my way down. By the time I reached the ground I was drenched with sweat.
Scrubbing at my face, I trudged back to Mzatal. Look at me, I couldn’t even stand on the top. Trust me to flunk kindergarten.
Yet when I looked into his face, he was smiling. “Many do not make the climb,” he told me. “Some who make the climb cannot step onto the top. It is a start. Your body rebels more than your mind.”
My spirits lifted a fraction of a smidge. “You mean I didn’t fail?” I had a hard time believing that I managed to get through something others couldn’t, especially as fucked up as I currently was.
He shook his head. “You did not fail, and it was indeed a trial, its outcome determining the course of your training.”
I snorted. “You needed this to find out I don’t know shit?”
His mouth twitched. “That I already knew. I needed to know something more of your heart and your mettle.” He looked up toward the column. “The void can consume the resolve of even the most stalwart.” He returned his attention to me. “And now we train your body.”
He stepped into a wide stance—one arm stiff to the side, wrist flexed, and the other straight out in front, palm forward—and beckoned for me to copy it. I did so, though a thousand times klutzier. From there he led me through a kung-fu-tai-chi-yoga type of routine that left me sweating and shaking. At first everything in me screamed that it sucked—it was exercise, after all—but it was so freeing that by the time we were done, I was almost sorry it was over. Almost.
I felt the grove activate as we finished. “Someone’s coming.”
Mzatal went still. “It will be Seretis. He is early.” He straightened, adjusted his tunic. He wasn’t sweating or even breathing hard, the bastard. Luckily, I was doing enough for both of us.
Though I’d never actually met Seretis, I remembered the lord’s quick smile as he’d passed me on the way to deal with the anomaly at Rhyzkahl’s palace; seen a glimpse of his character as manifest in the residence he shared with Rayst. And Michael Moran had certainly spoken highly of him after our snowball fight. “Why is he here?”
“He asked to meet with me concerning a matter raised at the conclave.” He looked past me, down the steep, rocky slope that dropped from the far side of the column. “Do you see the pile of bricks at the bottom of the hill?”
I peered that way and saw a stack of dark basalt bricks about twenty-five yards away. “Yeah.”
“While I am gone you will move ten of those bricks from the pile to the base of the column.”
I blinked in astonishment and almost asked him if he was fucking kidding, but managed to hold it back. He wasn’t. Not one little bit.
“Sure thing, Boss.” I scowled and picked my way down the hill while he turned toward the grove. Yeah, and I intended to sing “It’s a Small World” in my head the next time his mind-reading-ass was trying to concentrate.
The bricks weighed probably about ten pounds each, which wouldn’t have been too bad to carry over flat terrain. But the hill had a slope of about forty-five degrees, and ranged from rubble to thigh high “steps,” which meant that this particular exercise suuuuuuucked.
Gestamar landed by the column as I reached the top of the hill. “Heya, Gestamar,” I said breathlessly.
He rumbled in what I suspected was amusement. “Greetings, Kara Gillian.”
As much as I liked Gestamar, I didn’t want to waste breath with casual conversation. He simply continued to watch while I lugged brick after brick. The uneven footing and the climb over the big shelves made the whole thing one big pain in the ass. By the ninth brick my muscles were pure jelly. I was so going to hurt tomorrow.
“A long bath in the hot pool will serve you well tonight,” Gestamar said, rumbling louder, and this time I knew damn well he was lau
ghing.
“Yeah, thanks, darlin’,” I panted as I headed back down the damn hill.
I stepped down from a boulder onto gravel, lost my footing and landed on my ass, though I caught myself before sliding. That would have left some ugly road rash. Still gonna have a bruise, I grumbled silently as my posterior protested. I grabbed the last brick and slogged my way back up the damn hill, but when I reached the top, Seretis leaned casually against the column where Gestamar had been. Yep, still totally looked like he belonged on a Spanish-language soap opera. He watched me, smiling, as I staggered past him. Lord or not, I wasn’t about to stop when I was so close to being done.
I stacked the brick with the others, then sat heavily and lay back in the grass, breathing hard. I turned my head to peer at him. “Hi, I’m Kara Gillian. Figure you already know that though, right?”
He smiled broadly. “I know it of certainty now. I am Seretis,” he said, voice light and damn near cheery. “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Kara Gillian, as delightfully sweaty as you are in this moment.”
I pushed up onto my elbows, liking him already. “Michael speaks highly of you.”
“And well he should,” Seretis said with a laugh. “I pay him enough to do so!”
“So, you and Mzatal meet up for weekly poker games or something?” Though even as I said it, I damn near busted out laughing at the thought of a bunch of lords getting together for poker night.
Smiling, he bent and picked up one of the big bricks, shook his head. “Nothing so amusing as that this time,” he said, giving me a wink. “Some qaztahl matters. And questions about you.”
I rolled my eyes and sat up. “I’m so popular!” Then I sobered. “Mzatal told you what happened to me?”
“He did, though I also knew some from them.” Seretis gestured to the three syraza sunning themselves on the roof of the palace. “There are those who think you dangerous, Kara Gillian.”
“Are you one of them?” I had to remind myself that simply because he seemed nice and had a sense of humor didn’t mean he wouldn’t prefer to see me dead.
His face still held a smile, though his eyes were serious now. “I could have been,” he said, turning the brick over in his hands, “had Mzatal’s answers been different, and had you assessed differently than you do.”
The sweat froze on my skin. I knew it would take only a flick of his hand for him to smash my skull with the brick. I swallowed to work moisture back into my mouth. “And you believe him? Trust his judgment?”
Seretis tilted his head and nodded slowly, regarding me with keen, hazel eyes. “If he says it, I know it to be truth to the best of his knowledge. It is in what he does not say,” he offered with a shake of his head, “that his shrewd genius abides.”
I nodded slowly, some of the tension slipping away. “I have no intention of destroying the world,” I said, “for whatever that’s worth,”
“I know this,” he said with quiet power. “I truly do. You carry a ‘danger’ that some would like to harness, and no,” he said with a smile, answering the question before I asked it, “I am not one of them.”
“I said once before that dangerous things are used, destroyed, or contained,” I told him. “Are you content with how Mzatal intends to contain and use me?”
His gaze went to the pile of bricks at the bottom of the hill. “I would rather hold—as Mzatal does—that you have the will, courage, and heart to contain yourself and to make use of your potential. Should that prove not to be the case, then I would need to reassess.”
I let out a low sigh. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Seretis looked back to me, held the brick out. “You disliked carrying these up the hill.”
I took it, weirdly relieved to have it out of his hand, even though I knew damn well there were a hundred other ways for him to kill me before I could even blink. But by passing it to me it seemed as if he relinquished my fate back over to my control. “Exercise and I don’t always get along.” I told him. “We agree to disagree.”
He crouched. “Amkir. Jesral. Rhyzkahl. Kadir.”
My gut clenched, and I made a sour face. “You mean the Four Dickwads?”
Seretis let out a soft snort of amusement. “The Four Mraztur.”
“Sounds like a nasty word.”
“There is no direct translation,” he said, “but, in your vernacular, perhaps ‘motherfucking asshole dickwad defilers’ will serve.” His gaze penetrated me, and when he spoke again, the air seemed to tremble around him. “Every brick you carry, every time you climb the column, you strengthen yourself against them. They do not rest in their purposes. Dance the full shikvihr and you become a true thorn in their side,” he said, eying me appraisingly. “Mzatal believes you have the passion, resolve, and skill to do it.”
My eyes went to the top of the column. Memory of the terror of that yawning void whispered through me, and I shuddered. “I have a long way to go,” I murmured, then looked back to him. “But I’ve been described as a tenacious bitch more than once.”
He chuckled, then his smile softened. “You would not have survived Rhyzkahl’s venom or Mzatal’s assessments were you not, Kara,” he said gently. “The Four seek you, and they seek Earth. They believe you carried power in the form of Elinor’s essence and they seek to use you to advance their plans.” He shook his head. “You were more than they had bargained for and less of what they thought they had.”
I turned his words over in my head. “What do they want of Earth?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
“What most all of us lordlings want,” he said, tilting his head. “Connection. Access. Since the cataclysm, we know it is critical for stability and control of the arcane, as well as the vitality of the qaztahl.” His smile faded. “The Four Mraztur want more though. Benevolent alliance is not what they seek.”
I scowled. “I’m not going to let them fuck up my world,” I said, though I was fully aware those were big words for someone who could barely carry ten bricks up a hill.
“Perhaps that purpose and determination will make this—” He tapped the brick in my hand. “—lighter.”
“Nothing will make the burden lighter,” I replied. “But it sure as shit makes me more willing to bear it.”
“It is much to bear.” His eyes dropped to the sigils that were visible above the neckline of my tank top. For the first time his smile faded completely, as if a light had gone out. He lifted a hand toward me then paused. His face was unreadable, yet I could see in his eyes his need to touch the sigils and his loathing to do so.
I went very still, sensing the silent, motionless battle within him. My pulse thudded as I waited, and I realized I wanted him to touch the sigils, wanted him to really know what I went through.
He shifted his attention up to the trio of syraza on the tower, though his hand didn’t waver. His gaze stayed on them for half a dozen heartbeats, and I had a feeling there was a silent discussion going on between them.
Seretis looked back to me, eyes haunted. “May I?” he asked softly. Beneath the words I felt his hope that I’d say no.
I worked moisture into my mouth. “Yes.”
He shifted closer, pausing with his fingers barely an inch above the sigil on my sternum. Unbidden, the memory of the torture that fired this sigil flared. It is as though I am immersed in acid and my skin boils away as I scream and thrash. Clenching my hands into fists, I tried in vain to control the shudder.
Grief shadowed across his face as he absorbed the memory. He visibly shook, then sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening in brief horror as if the power that had formed the sigils reached for him. He recoiled hard enough that he lost his balance and landed awkwardly on his backside, breathing heavily, eyes never leaving the sigil.
I realized I was staring at him in shock, and I quickly controlled my expression as best I could. “Yeah, that’s usually the reaction guys have when they look at my boobs,” I said lightly, trying to break the bizarre tension and give him a chance
to recover.
Seretis closed his eyes and drew three controlled breaths, clearly drawing on the pygah and possibly others. After a moment he exhaled and opened his eyes. The horror had faded, yet the revulsion and grief still remained. He shifted to a half cross-legged position with one knee up, similar to the kneel/sit that the syraza so often used, then raised his eyes to mine.
“I am so very sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper but with no less strength.
“It is what it is,” I replied quietly.
A soft smile returned to his face. He reached and brushed my cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. “And you are here, forged in fiery torment,” he pulled his hand back, rested his forearm on his knee, “prepared to kick the ass, as Michael would say, of the Four Dickwads.”
A shiver of lingering terror raced over me, but I gave him the low chuckle he no doubt expected. I didn’t feel anywhere near strong enough to even look any of them in the eye, much less kick any asses.
He laughed, a beautiful sound that helped disperse my residual fears—and his as well, perhaps. “Trust me, you don’t want to look them in the eye. Ugly, the lot of them.” He stood smoothly and held a hand out for me.
I allowed him to pull me to my feet and gave him a more genuine smile. I didn’t even mind that he’d clearly read my thoughts. He kept hold of my hand, laughing eyes on mine as he bowed toward me and brushed his lips across my knuckles—sharp contrast to Jesral who hadn’t bowed at all, though I doubted Seretis was aware of it.
“And now, my sweaty, fiery summoner,” he said, releasing my hand. “I must take my leave of you as Mzatal awaits me again.”
“It was my pleasure to meet you, Lord Seretis,” I said, actually meaning it.
Seretis beamed. “And a delight to meet you, Kara Gillian.” He turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back. “You could surprise Mzatal and carry all the bricks down again.” He took two steps, then stopped again. “On reconsideration, surprising Mzatal is not always the wisest course of action.” He laughed and continued toward the palace, whistling.
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