Caeden shook his head mutely.
“Kan,” said Asar simply. “Its mere presence within the world. As long as there is kan, the Lyth are trapped. And kan exists here because it is drawn through the rift between our world and … there.”
Caeden frowned for a moment longer. “The rift in Deilannis that you believe Shammaeloth is trying to reach,” he said slowly. “You’re saying kan comes from the Darklands.”
“Yes.”
Caeden frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. The power they were using came from there? “So this rift … Licanius can close it, somehow? Isn’t that what we want?”
“It is—which is why you went to such lengths to get Licanius. But if the Lyth take possession of it, we don’t believe that they will close the rift entirely. We think that they want to control it instead. Use it.” He gestured. “We want to erase it from existence. They want to make it into a door that they can open and close at will. They’ll free themselves, but they won’t fix the bigger problem.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?” Asar’s face showed his frustration at having to engage in the conversation. He held up his hand as Caeden made to ask another question. “Can you not see where this is going, now? The more answers I give, the more questions that will follow. You know more, and none of it matters if you cannot do anything about it. We need to try again, or you need to rest so that you have more energy for our attempts tomorrow. Which should it be?”
Caeden licked his lips, then nodded with a sigh. He wasn’t done with this line of questioning, but he’d learned something. For now, it was enough.
“One more try,” he said, a little reluctantly. He was exhausted, but they were here now.
Asar inclined his head. “Very well.” He took a deep breath, leaning forward to place his hand against Caeden’s forehead once again. “This time, I’m going to try and send you back to Kharshan. Your first meeting with Gassandrid. Concentrate, Tal’kamar. Concentrate.”
Caeden closed his eyes. At first there was nothing, and he began bracing himself for another failure.
And then everything suddenly … blurred.
The sun beat down upon the baked-clay streets of Kharshan, its constant heat merciless even at this late hour of the day.
Caeden shaded his eyes against the sinking ball of flame, studying the Citadel as he approached. It was larger than all the other structures in Kharshan, though the multi-tiered building with its flat-topped roofs was still made of the same uniform, sandy-colored brick as everything else here. It stood out as the peak of this isolated desert city, but it was not as impressive or palatial as he’d expected for the abode of a revered leader.
The guards at the entrance reported his arrival promptly, and a minute later a traditionally attired attendant appeared, his torso as clean-shaven as his face. It was uniform for any who might engage in manual labor, practical but also an indicator of status.
Caeden bowed low. Servants were venerated here, in their position because of their willingness to put others above themselves. It was not easy to become a servant in Kharshan; there were only a few dozen of the official positions, and those were vied for constantly.
“It is an honor to be served,” he said formally, carefully pronouncing the words in the strange tongue.
The man blinked at him in surprise but quickly regained his composure, bowing smoothly in return. Lower, as was the custom. “It is an honor to serve.” He straightened, looking at Caeden for a moment. His expression was carefully subservient but his eyes were sharp, appraising. “Please, follow me. My master has awaited your arrival eagerly.”
They moved into the main structure. Caeden had half expected to walk inside and discover that the outer shell was nothing more than a ruse, but the inside was just as plain, just as simply adorned. Perhaps more so, in fact. The walls were bare of art, the furniture utilitarian at best. The only thing of note, other than the lack of finery, was the enormity of the rooms and hallways. The narrowest passage Caeden saw could easily accommodate five men across—understandable, though, given that the Zvael considered the body sacred. Even an accidental touch against another would at the least cause embarrassment here, and at worst have the offender thrown in jail for their carelessness.
He did note one oddity as he was guided through the roomy interior: a man chained to the wall. He did not look abused or uncared for, but he was clearly a prisoner. Why here though, within these walls, Caeden was uncertain.
It took a full minute of walking before they reached the room in which Gassandrid sat. Caeden had seen him earlier during the victory celebrations, even managed to gain an invitation here, but this was the first time he had actually seen the man up close. He looked young—though as Caeden had already determined that they were alike, that would be in appearance only. His short-cropped black hair and immaculately trimmed goatee were common to the Zvael, but his hazel eyes were unsettlingly perceptive as he watched Caeden enter.
A long table laden with food split the middle of the room. Caeden eyed it, vaguely disappointed. This was more like what he’d expected. Food was not scarce, exactly, but what was on the table was easily enough to feed ten.
“Gassandrid,” said Caeden politely.
Gassandrid inclined his head. “And you are Tal’kamar.”
Caeden nodded back, hiding his surprise. He’d kept his endeavors mostly quiet over the past hundred years; he was not accustomed to his reputation preceding him.
Gassandrid turned to the servant. “Please tell the others that it is time to eat.”
The servant bowed, then disappeared through a nearby door.
Caeden frowned. “Others?” He’d imagined this conversation would be private.
“My attendants. There are a dozen or so of them. Do not worry—they will eat at the other end of the table for the sake of our privacy.”
Caeden looked at him curiously. “You eat with your servants?”
“Am I any more a man than they?” Gassandrid frowned at him. “Are they not my people, my friends? Why should I not dine with them?”
Caeden shook his head in surprise. “I meant no offense,” he said, words slow due to the strange language. “It is not the custom elsewhere. Rulers fear that it lessens their authority.”
Gassandrid sighed. “If a builder and an architect sit at the same table, does one role become more like the other? Or do they work better together because of it?” He waved Caeden into the seat next to him. “We are all servants, Tal’kamar—just with different roles. They serve me so that I may serve the people. We have different jobs, but we are equals nonetheless.”
Caeden conceded the point with a nod; it was not so simple elsewhere, but the customs and beliefs of Kharshan were different enough to make such a statement true.
Gassandrid watched him for a long moment, then smiled slightly. “But you did not come here to talk about who sits at my table,” he said quietly. “I have been expecting your arrival for some days now.”
Caeden raised an eyebrow. “Days? How—”
He cut off as the far door opened and a burst of chatter filtered into the room, followed by a train of men and women. They each bowed politely in Gassandrid and Caeden’s direction before taking a seat, keeping to the other end of the table as Gassandrid had said they would. They began serving the food, their conversation and laughter low, just enough to fill the room with the pleasant sound.
Gassandrid watched Caeden with amusement. “You may speak, Tal’kamar,” he said. “None can overhear.”
Caeden coughed, a little disconcerted, but nodded. “How did you know I was coming?” he asked eventually.
Gassandrid smiled. “It was shown to me. It is happening exactly as I saw.”
Caeden frowned. “A prophecy?” he asked dubiously.
“Nothing so vague.” Gassandrid leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I have seen these moments, exact and clear. Like a memory, but of something that has not yet happened. Played out in perfect detail. No signs, no inter
pretation like the charlatans would have you believe is necessary. Only what will be.”
Caeden stared at Gassandrid, suddenly uncomfortable. Was the man insane? In all his travels, in his hundreds of years, Caeden had not heard of anything like this beyond the vague claims of soothsayers.
“That … sounds useful,” he said eventually. “Can you tell me something? Something about my own future?”
Gassandrid shook his head. “I said it was shown to me. I did not say it was my own power.”
“Oh.” Caeden gritted his teeth. Was he being toyed with? “Who showed it to you, then?”
“The one who sent you here,” said Gassandrid, watching Caeden’s expression closely.
Caeden opened his mouth to say that no one had sent him here, that he had come of his own volition.
Then he understood.
“The creature of light?” he said softly.
Gassandrid nodded. “He has been seeking out those like you and I, those who will live long enough to make a difference in this world. There is much I have to tell you.” He glanced across the table, toward his servants. “But after the meal. Some matters are too sensitive to discuss over food.”
Caeden was tempted to protest. He’d waited for so long, looked so hard for even a hint of the creature he’d seen four hundred years ago. He couldn’t begin to estimate how many times he’d doubted himself, doubted what he’d experienced. Wondered whether it had been a powerful figment of his imagination, a way to give himself hope where there was none.
But he restrained himself. He had learned patience the hard way, sitting in a cell for eighty years. Better to wait a little longer than risk offending the source of his information.
“How old are you, Tal’kamar?” asked Gassandrid suddenly, his hazel eyes curious.
Caeden hesitated.
“Four hundred and fifty years. Give or take,” he said eventually.
Gassandrid’s eyebrows raised. “So it is true.”
Caeden frowned. “What is true?”
“That we cannot die.”
Caeden stared at Gassandrid, taken aback. He’d felt certain that they were the same, regardless of the other claims Gassandrid had been making.
“How old are you?” he asked slowly.
“I am thirty-five.”
Caeden almost choked.
The man looked closer to his midtwenties than midthirties, but that was beside the point. This was not Alarais, someone who had had years of experience at this existence. This was someone who hadn’t yet lived through even a single lifetime.
“There are stories about you in battle,” said Caeden eventually, after he’d recovered. “Men say you’re impervious to Essence.”
Gassandrid inclined his head. “The Zvael do not lie. Blades and arrows cut me, but Essence—any Essence—dissipates. And I can control my own Essence well enough to ensure that those blades and arrows never get close enough to touch me.” He looked at Caeden curiously. “You?”
Caeden shrugged. “I heal quickly. But that is all.” He decided not to go into too much detail. He didn’t trust Gassandrid with the knowledge of his weakness.
Gassandrid accepted the statement with a nod, and the talk turned to smaller things for a while. Gassandrid spoke a little about the war against the Shalis, confirming or denying rumors that Caeden had heard along the way. At times he appeared modest, deflecting credit for victories onto others, pushing the idea that he had done it to serve his people. At others he seemed almost childishly pleased that rumors of his exploits had reached so far across the lands, no matter whether they were perfectly accurate or wildly exaggerated.
Finally, though, the dinner came to an end. The servants rose one by one and began filing out, cleaning up their dishes as they went. Eventually Gassandrid stood too, beckoning Caeden to do the same.
Caeden frowned, but stood and followed Gassandrid into a small antechamber. It was furnished with two chairs facing each other, nothing more.
Caeden’s frown deepened as he sat. “Why are we in here?”
“I had this room designed especially for such conversations,” said Gassandrid easily as he took the seat opposite Caeden. “We cannot be overheard, either accidentally or otherwise. There are certain aspects of this discussion …” He gestured apologetically. “You will understand soon enough.”
Caeden acceded the point with a nod, though he was still unsure of how rational Gassandrid actually was. The man evidently believed everything he said, but that hardly made it truth.
He forced himself to appear relaxed, at ease. Sometimes those who believed in something strongly enough were the most dangerous, too.
“Which religion do you follow, Tal’kamar?” asked Gassandrid once they were both comfortable.
Caeden shook his head slowly. “None, particularly.”
Gassandrid frowned at him. “Come now. Of course you do.”
Caeden blinked, not expecting the response. “I do not believe in gods,” he said slowly.
“But you do not believe this with passion,” observed Gassandrid.
“There is only one reason to be passionate about a lack of faith—and that is fear,” said Caeden quietly. “Fear that you are wrong. An innate need for others to share your opinion, so that you can be less afraid.” He shook his head. “I do not feel the need to argue, to cajole, to threaten or accuse. If others wish to believe differently, that is no business of mine. I simply do not think that there are gods.”
“Then your religion is one of the self,” observed Gassandrid, his tone holding neither judgment nor surprise. “You believe that you are a god.”
Caeden snorted. “No. Of course not.”
Gassandrid leaned back, crossing his arms. “What is a god but a being with more power than those below them can comprehend? With understanding more vast than others can imagine? If you do not believe such a being exists above you, then surely you are a god, Tal’kamar. You are immortal. You are more powerful than any normal man could ever dare dream of becoming. Your knowledge and experience is more vast than other men can even imagine.”
Caeden smiled slightly. “But without the moral imperative, perhaps.”
“Not at all. A parent has moral imperative over their child. What do your added years of experience not enable you to understand better than those who have lived a fraction of your lifetime?” He gestured out the door, toward one of his servants. “If I told Sola there that you had lived more than ten times his age, if I described the powers you possessed and the things you have seen. Do you not think that he would listen to you? Respect you? Revere you, even?”
Caeden shifted, becoming uncomfortable. “I am not a god, Gassandrid. We are not gods.”
Gassandrid studied Caeden for a moment. Then he nodded.
“I agree, Tal’kamar,” he said quietly. “But if you do not believe it is possible for a higher power than ourselves to exist, then you must concede that we are.”
Caeden scowled. “If there were a higher power than us in this world, Gassandrid, I would know of it by now.”
“Would you?” Gassandrid nodded to Sola. “Do you think he knows of you?”
Caeden hesitated for a moment, then sighed, waving his hand tiredly. “Very well. Continue,” he said, though he couldn’t keep the dubiousness from his tone. “Which religion should I believe in, Gassandrid? Derev? Mekrahk? The six hundred gods of Thilian Mar, perhaps? The animal gods of Suza? The God Who Does Not Speak? The Blind God? The Gods of the Elements?”
Caeden could hear the irritation entering his voice, but he didn’t care. “I have seen more bad gods than good men venerated during my travels, Gassandrid. I have seen the Three Gods of Rel worshipped—one for mind, one for body, one for spirit—where men take three wives and force each one to embody those aspects, on penalty of death. I have seen the people of Drash deify the Field of One Hundred Statues, each icon a different god for a different purpose. That field is filled with mounds of gold and silver where people throw their offerings, within sig
ht of the slums where the poor live in squalor until they starve.
“I have seen religions that sacrifice animals. Religions that sacrifice humans, children. I have seen the City of Portaeus, where they worship the No God, where only the worship of self is allowed.” He leaned forward. “I have seen mankind making up stories to make themselves feel safe at night. Or for power. Or for glory. Or for respect. Or for control. But I have never known a god, Gassandrid. The wise among us understand that they are fantasies. That they do not exist except in our own minds.”
Gassandrid watched impassively while Caeden spoke, seemingly unperturbed by his outburst. When Caeden had finished he gave a small nod, as if having expected just this response.
“You are right to doubt, of course,” he said quietly. “But I was not talking of religions—things created by men in order to control other men. I was talking of gods.” He stretched. “You have heard of El, then?”
Caeden felt his mouth twist into something close to a snarl. “I have,” he growled. “Those particular lies were taught in my place of birth. In my youth I believed the myth, right up until the moment I realized that if the One God existed, he hated me more than any other man on this earth.”
Gassandrid looked at Caeden appraisingly. “Of all the religions, it is actually closest to the truth.” He held up a hand as Caeden opened his mouth to protest. “And also the furthest from it. You are not wrong in describing it as a lie, Tal’kamar. If anything, it is perhaps the worst lie that has ever been told.”
Caeden stopped, frowning a little. “How so?” he asked eventually.
Gassandrid took a deep breath. “The account of how this world came into existence—its creation by El, the fight between El and Shammaeloth—is, essentially, true,” he said quietly. He shook his head slightly as Caeden made to argue. “It is true, until it talks about who won.”
Caeden blinked. “What?”
“When El created the world, He gave some of Himself into it. Part of His power.” Gassandrid’s tone was calm, matter-of-fact. “Shammaeloth, in his jealousy, took advantage of that weakness and trapped Him here, within the bounds of time. El had intended for the world to be free, but Shammaeloth needed control in order to contain El. So he created fate. A single path, when there were supposed to be infinite possibilities. A complete lack of free will.” Gassandrid spread his hands. “In short, Tal’kamar, we are puppets. We live in a prison of inevitability. A mirage of choice.”
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