For a moment, the humming of the amber faltered. Tal kept his questions close to his chest and waited for her to continue.
"But one day soon after I had ascended, Ysilda came to me with a plea. She had been to visit Hellexa, and what she had discovered terrified her. She said our sister was interfering with Paradise and questioning our Lord's very divinity. She begged me to intercede, to speak to our sister and turn her aside from this ill-fated course."
Izoalta's hands pressed on his forehead, then chest. Her skin was cool and wrinkled from her long years. He wondered if he was turning feverish; his skin certainly felt flushed compared to hers.
"I did not have much hope by then. But she was my sister. So I went with Ysilda to Blue Moon Obelisk, and there I tried to save my sister's soul. But I was too deeply entrenched in my faith to see her point of view. Our conversation turned into an argument, then into a screaming match. I finally left, seeing that my sister was lost to her perversion, and returned to my duties back home.
"For many years, I did not hear from her. It was a betrayal of my station, but I said nothing of my sister's heretical studies. If anyone else had discovered it, I would have been punished and lost the position I had worked for my entire life. But in spite of all her flaws, Hellexa was my sister. And among my people, there is no bond stronger than the blood between siblings."
"And yet…" Tal murmured, peeking at the high pellar through a half-lidded eye.
Izoalta flashed him a twisted smile. "And yet I betrayed that bond — for one of the Chosen came to visit. I like to think I would not have spoken of Hellexa's studies had it not occurred. But before one of the Lord's own disciples, the will to protect my sister folded. I confessed all I knew — which, fortune would have it, amounted to little. I knew of Hellexa's heresy, but not the details of her studies. I only understood it challenged the Lord's divinity. I did not know of Founts and what they might portend.
"But what I said was enough. I was punished for my brief concealment, but not severely, for even the Chosen recognize the difficulty of such bonds. The true consequences I heard of later and pained me far worse. In the end, the tower was made rubble, and Hellexa and all her followers were slaughtered to the last. I lost both my sisters that day — for when Ysilda discovered what I had done, she refused to speak to me."
"But you know something of your sister's work now," Tal pointed out. His eyelids fluttered open to glimpse the high pellar standing above him, her hands hovering over his body. He quickly closed his eyes again, as if by looking he might spoil whatever she was doing, be it a spell or mere concentration. Beneath him, the amber orbs radiated with mild heat. Glyph-carved, he guessed them to be, for they seemed to be creating a magical field around him that the high pellar was manipulating.
"It took decades to come around to it, but eventually, guilt wore down my faith. I was gripped by morbid curiosity as to what conclusions could drive my sister into such madness. I went to Ysilda, who had taken it upon herself to be the old ruin's caretaker, and after months of proving my repentance, she finally relented and told me what she knew. And it was then that, for the first time in my life, I became aware of what the World truly was."
Tal couldn't help but open his eyes now. "Then you are not really a priestess to the Night Puppeteer? You're like Pim, undermining Yuldor's house from within?"
"Relax and lie back down," Izoalta commanded, then answered, "Something of the sort. Pim, as you call him, and I share an understanding and a common cause. But the Chosen rarely have just one motive. The games they play are long indeed. I would be cautious with him, were I you. If he has kept you alive this long, I do not doubt he has a purpose for you."
Tal had thought as much on several occasions, but the words rang truer when spoken aloud. He remained silent and still, trying not to violate her orders.
"Yuldor's vision has failed," the high pellar murmured at length. "Instead of his Paradise spreading beyond his mountain, more monsters descend with each day. He has promised an age of bounty, yet none has arrived. I will always treasure him for what he has given the people of the Empire — for as much as he has taken, he has indeed benefitted us. But his age is past. The time has come for a new god."
A new god. He thought over all he'd heard from the Extinguished throughout his travels, all he'd learned from Hellexa Yoreseer's book. Is that what I intend to become?
He knew the answer as soon as he wondered. He was a man, a mortal man. Though the World's own blood ran through his veins, that fact did not change. That his own sorcery poisoned him was evidence of that.
But even if their end goal was not the same, he took heart in the fact that their initial aims were aligned: to depose Yuldor.
If only I can survive long enough.
"You may move now — my examination is complete."
"Examination?" Tal opened his eyes again and stared up at the aged Nightelf. New lines seemed to have appeared in her face since he'd first entered, and she leaned again against the basin.
Yet for all that, the nod she gave him was firm. "To treat a malady, I must first understand it. But I think I have the measure of this one now. Remove your gloves."
He slid upright, difficult though it was with the awkward angle of the basin's walls. "What's this?"
"Your gloves, Puppet — remove them."
A slow suspicion welled up in him. Silently, he removed one glove, then the other. Then he stared at his hands.
His middle fingers were not quite as they had been before, appearing slightly shorter than the fingers to either side. But they were there.
His hands were whole.
He could scarcely believe it. He had thought he had sensed the fingers growing beneath his gloves, true. But he'd dismissed the notion as delusion.
Now, the truth was splayed before his face.
"Your fingers," Izoalta said. "I could sense the flow of sorcery to them. They were injured somehow?"
"Severed."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Entirely? That is a feat indeed. But it is fortunate for you that they were."
"Fortunate?" He met her eyes with a mocking smile. "Cut off your own finger, then let me know if you still think it fortunate."
"If I had, I would say the same," she replied, unperturbed. "Your injuries provided a focal point for your karkados. The canker developed from an overabundance of power. Perhaps you drew on more sorcery than you ever have before; perhaps you accessed it after a long fallow period. It does not matter. What does matter is that you or something else scarred your spirit."
Izoalta thrust a finger at his hands. "The result is a loss of control over your sorcery. Karkados attacked your body, did it not? Your spells failed where they never had before? Yet even cankers have patterns. If there is an end toward which they might direct the flow of power, they will do so. For you, it was the mending of your body. Without the loss of your fingers, the canker would have wreaked further havoc elsewhere in your body."
Tal looked down at his hands once more. He had thought the pain in the missing fingers must be connected to his resurgence of sorcery. But he had never imagined it to be in this way.
And now I'm whole once more. Almost.
He lowered his hands and clutched them together in an attempt to control their trembling. All the while, he touched the newly grown digits with quiet wonder.
He spoke again. "This canker. What must be done to cleanse it?"
Izoalta's dark eyes whirled and flashed. "It will not be easy nor pleasant. And I can only guide the process. The desire to heal — that must come from you, Puppet."
"From me? Then it's simple enough — I have no greater desire than that."
"You misunderstand me. Karkadosi such as this — they are an attack of the body upon itself. I have seen it in others like yourself, other Founts, in the years since I accepted my sister's discoveries. And those few I have been able to save, it was only by the afflicted's own will."
"And here I thought you would wave your hands over me and be done
with it."
The aged Nightelf snorted a laugh and straightened. "Here is what you must do. When the ritual begins, open yourself to the sorcery. Let all your guard down — no barrier can stand in the way. You must accept it into yourself, as part of yourself, and cease to fight against it. Only when your impurities are embraced can you purge yourself of them."
He found himself resisting her guidance, even though he suspected it was best to accept it. But the stakes were too high to meekly follow without objection.
"But I was dealt scars by a devil. Surely they'll kill me if embraced."
"Then they will kill you now, or kill you later," Izoalta said mercilessly. "You regrew fingers, Puppet. You can heal these scars if you will it."
Tal felt far from certain of that. But do I have another choice?
He shook his head. "I thought I knew what this canker was. But the more you speak, the less I understand. What is it? What caused it? Is it from Heyl's scars? Or did I wield too much magic at once?"
Izoalta smiled, her spattering of silver teeth put on full display. "Must it be just one?"
"It would be preferable."
"Yet wishes bears no fruit. It is all of these, Puppet. What it is, I have already said: an assault of your sorcery on your body. Which began it is difficult to say. Perhaps, without the devil's wounds, the sorcery would not have spoiled, and the karkados never begun. Or perhaps an overabundance of sorcery caused the scars, not the devil." Izoalta waved a hand. "It cannot be known, nor is it relevant now — for the solution is the same."
Tal's hands had clenched into fists without his realizing it. With an effort, he loosened them again, his newly grown fingers aching from the strain. He could not continue the way he had. The canker haunted him every waking moment, and for much of his slumbers. He had no other leads for a cure. In the end, he would have to relent to Izoalta's demands.
Yet he had never accepted fate easily before.
"I have heard of magical mushrooms that make people imagine things to be real that are not. I'm afraid you have been overindulging, Wise Mother."
"Believe that if you must. But if it helps, I will explain further. This ritual — it has been passed down by generations of high pellars, beginning with the Origins themselves. It will bring you close to the very core of the World, what my people know as 'the Womb.' This is what the ancients believed to be the source of all sorcery."
The Womb. The World's core. Strains of ideas twisted in Tal's mind. Did this Womb differ from the Worldheart, or were they two names for the same thing? Yet they could not be the same. Izoalta's sister had written that the Worldheart lay atop Ikvaldar, not deep below their feet. Did that mean there existed an even more potent wellspring of magic than what Yuldor possessed? Or was it mere legend?
He had more practical concerns at the moment.
"Why should I wish to stray near the source of sorcery? It seems a place better left undisturbed."
Izoalta's dark eyes swirled. "A wise observation for a foolish man. It is perilous to stray close to the Womb, Puppet, as you say. But only undiluted magic might cure you of your disease. Draw near, and you will purge yourself of all the scars you have accumulated. You will reunite with the sorcery that storms within you."
His heart beat faster with her each declaration. "It's an appealing prospect, I must admit."
Izoalta held up a crooked finger. "However! Beware its call. You must resist it with every scrap of willpower you have. Focus only on mending your scars, then return as swiftly as you can."
Tal nodded. There seemed little left to say. Only then did he realize he had accepted the ritual as inevitable.
"Very well," he relented heavily. "I'll embrace death with open arms. Is there anything else to this madness?"
"Only this. The ritual is painful. Do not take it out on my temple."
Tal flashed her a wry grin, though it was shaky with anticipation. "I'll try."
At a gesture from the high pellar, he settled back down in the basin. The walls seemed closer somehow, the ash suffocating. He felt the amber orbs gently pulsating beneath him. They suddenly struck him as circling fish, waiting to nip at him as soon as he relaxed.
Accept it. Accept it all. All the discomfort, the pain, the guilt, the fear. His sorcery, both potent and restrained, had meant many things to him throughout his storied life. It was a heavy load to shoulder; too heavy, perhaps.
But it was not the first time he'd had to reconcile with his past. Even though it had never been in such a direct, visceral way.
He sucked in a breath, then let it out. "Alright," he muttered, closing his eyes. "I'm ready."
"Then we'll begin. Open yourself to your power, Tal Harrenfel. Let it fill you as you have never allowed it before."
Tal clenched his teeth. Part of him wanted nothing more than to throw the gates open and drown in the flood behind them. Another part wished they could forever remain closed. He wanted to live. He'd never wanted to live more. Ashelia had forgiven him. Garin had forgiven him. Perhaps even Kaleras might reconcile with him, given time.
Time. I need time. If he could get through this, and the task beyond it, he might once more claim a sliver of the happiness that had evaded him all these long years. He might have more time.
With a final, relenting sigh, he slackened his muscles, then opened the dam.
For a moment, pure bliss filled him. The sorcery intoxicated him more thoroughly than any soporific or drink could have achieved. He reveled in it. He felt the glowing, pulsing cords that wound around him and through him, interconnecting all of life, all of the World. The Heart's arteries. Sorcery was not just a part of life; it was life, life itself.
But then it morphed, and he stared into the face of death.
It burned. It tore through his veins, seared his skin, ravaged his organs. Heyl's scars ripped open and spilled forth something more vile than infection or pus. Poison intermingled with the raw sorcery, tainting it. He felt his body rotting beneath its influence.
Dying.
But this was him, all of him. He was the strength and the scars, the potion and the poison. He was tainted with the sins of his past, but thrumming with the promise of a better future.
Living.
He felt the scream erupting from his throat, but the greater call came from within. Somewhere, deep inside him, or perhaps deep within the World itself, came a gentle hum. The source. He felt the flow of the sorcery cascading from it, rising from those depths to spread into all things. He did not know if it was the Worldheart he sensed or something else. It did not matter.
He reached for it, and as his grasping senses made contact, he was consumed.
Heart of the Flames
You've gone mad.
It seemed the only reasonable explanation for their plans as Garin stared at the Nightelf village. They could see little of the actual town from their vantage point, huddled behind a tree three dozen paces from the entrance. What they saw was warning enough. The forest's giants had been felled and ringed the village, their trunks offering twenty-foot-tall curved walls that would be difficult to ascend. The entrance, an archway that looked magically formed from the roots of two trees, was guarded by a pair of Nightelves, who stared into the forest, bows held loosely in their hands.
Utterly bloody mad.
Garin ducked behind his tree and glanced at Wren. The furious swirl and bright gold of her tendrils told of her barely restrained exhilaration. A small smile played on her lips, even as her pixie features hardened into flat planes. He might have groaned had he not wished to make as little noise as possible. Just like her to look forward to peril, he thought.
Ilvuan pressed sharply into his mind, bringing him back to task.
Enter the town, the Singer instructed. Its center is where he lies.
Garin had to stifle his scoffing. The way the dragon put it made it seem much easier to accomplish than it would be. But squabbling with him now would not help.
Tal's in the center? he asked, wanting to be clear
on their destination.
Ilvuan's annoyance burned him. There is no time for delay, Jenduit. Go to him. At once!
Before Garin could think any further questions, the Singer was gone once more.
"Through the entrance, then," Wren whispered.
His head rang with Ilvuan's final shout. "No other choice," he mumbled.
"Do we fight the guards? Or dupe them?"
He shrugged, then sent a thought inwardly. Any ideas?
But Ilvuan had departed. Garin held in a sigh. It was just like the dragon to leave at the crucial moment.
"Might have to do a little of both," Wren answered her own question. She didn't seem displeased by the prospect. "We can use mist shadow to get close, then take them out quietly."
His stomach turned as he imagined the scene. Silhouettes ringing them, the uncertainty of which were real and which were false. Shouting and screaming all around, spells and arrows flying, swords and knives flashing…
He had grown braver over the course of their journey, but he doubted he would ever fully embrace violence.
"Or we could use wind shields to cover ourselves as we enter," he murmured. "They won't know it's an attack if no one is injured."
Wren pursed her lips. "They might pursue."
"Anyone in that village might follow — killing a couple of guards won't change that. In fact, it will make it likelier."
She held out a moment longer, then sighed out a sharp exhale. "Fine — we'll try it your way. But if we get thrown back in a tree cage, I'm finding a way to shove you out."
He clasped her hand and tried on a smile. His thoughts traveled down darker paths. If they were caught, he doubted their fate would be a cage.
Not if Pim had anything to do with it.
For a moment, he found himself distracted from the task at hand as he ruminated fruitlessly over what the Gladelysh elf had to do with anything. He's trying to keep Tal from us, and us from him. Why? He doubted Tal had any knowledge of them. He couldn't imagine his old mentor allowing such intervention to continue.
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 27