The belcin glared defiantly at Farrell. Though he had to know his fate, the man tried to blame Farrell. Rather than give in to his anger, Farrell trusted in Seritia’s words.
“To sate your thirst for money and power, you condemned those poor souls to a fate worse than death. Miserable as their lives might have appeared to you, it was all they had. Though you had no right, you took even that from them. May you choke on your greed.”
Farrell walked away without looking back. At first he picked his way through the maze of dead Chamdon, but after a dozen steps, he took to the air. Once airborne, he doubled back and flew over the temple.
It pained Jolella to see Farrell in such pain. The hurt his father had inflicted on innocent people cut him deeply. Kel gazed anxiously at the sky as Farrell flew over the temple. She laid a hand on his arm. “Let him go, ancient one.”
“But—”
“I know you are concerned, and it pains me too, but for now leave him to his thoughts. I will go to him when the time is right.”
“How will you know when the time is right?” Kel arched an eyebrow.
“Seritia will tell me when he is ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Farrell flew over the temple into part of the city that had escaped the violence. His mind raced as he relived the murderous act he’d almost completed. Rage and anger had fueled his desire to make the man suffer. Not simply kill him—murder would better describe what he’d almost done. He’d wanted the belcin to suffer and feel pain.
His anger burned so hot, he hadn’t been able to see the belcin was no worse than many rulers. He was a fool—a greedy fool—who let Meglar talk him into the unthinkable.
More distressing to Farrell, mere moments before he went berserk, he’d counseled Lingum to show restraint. Worst of all, the feelings of helplessness he’d evoked in the belcin made Farrell happy, almost gleeful. The more he reflected on the atrocities he’d tried to commit, the less Farrell recognized himself.
A wave of nausea smashed into him, and he searched for a place to set down. He chose the first empty spot and dropped quickly as his stomach revolted. No sooner had his feet touched the ground than he doubled over and vomited. Long after he’d emptied his stomach, he continued to heave. The uncontrollable contractions left him empty and drained. Finally he gained control and sat back on his heels.
Sweat from his forehead mingled with the tears in his eyes made it hard for him to see. Closing his eyelids, he used breathing techniques Heminaltose had taught him to calm his stomach and center his mind. When he tried to use his sleeve to wipe away the tears and snot, he realized he still wore his armor. He summoned a small cloth from his endless pocket and cleaned his face.
Free of moisture, his eyes focused again. With each lungful of air, his heart rate slowed and his composure increased. He finally scanned his surroundings and found himself in a cluster of small houses. Most were little more than rough frames surrounded by cloth or, in a few cases, leather. The house he squatted behind had more wood than most, but much of that was so rotted that cloth might provide better protection.
Calmer, he noticed it was quiet, unnaturally quiet. Even at its calmest, an area such as this ought to reverberate with the sound of people. Children playing, mothers cleaning and sharing gossip, dogs barking, men boasting. Something. But there was nothing.
Standing slowly to investigate, he heard the sound of booted footsteps from around the corner. The person’s pace was slow and deliberate and he heard the click of metal on stone every second step. It was coming nearer.
Waiting for the person to appear rattled Farrell’s newfound calm. Though it only took seconds, it felt like an eternity. At last a black boot appeared at the edge of the street, and Farrell realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled as a tall, dark-haired man came into view. The jet-black hair had been pulled back and tied with a cord. The black shirt and britches fit perfectly, and the boots were shiny and new. The black staff looked like it belonged to a wizard, but Farrell didn’t detect any hint of magic.
The man peered down the street, first away from Farrell, then in his direction. Looking away one more time, the man turned and walked toward him.
“Hello, Halloran.”
Farrell recoiled upon hearing his name. He drew his staff and stepped back into the wooden home. “How . . . who are you?”
“Don’t be alarmed, I’m not here to harm you. I only want to talk.” The man’s voice tried to be soothing and calm but missed the desired effect.
“Who are you?” Farrell asked again. He allowed a faint glow to form on the end of his staff.
“Put that down. You’ve nothing to fear from me.” With an air of complete confidence—or was it indifference?—the man came closer. “It doesn’t suit my purpose to harm you.”
Farrell’s eyes narrowed, and he tried to find some sign of who or what he faced. The stranger wasn’t a wizard, but he seemed unfazed by Farrell pointing his staff at him. Even the show of energy wasn’t enough to instill hesitation. Strengthening his shield, Farrell kept his staff extended.
The man looked down his nose at the staff, and Farrell thought he saw a hint of irritation. As quickly as it appeared, the annoyance disappeared.
“I was polite when I asked, but I do not promise to always be so forgiving,” he said. Whoever he was, the man expected to be obeyed. “You have my word I’ll not hurt you in any way, but I must insist you show me some measure of respect.”
“If defending myself from a stranger who ignores the fact I don’t wish him to come closer is a lack of respect, then your request is denied.”
“You never asked me to keep my distance.” He stopped walking and held his hands apart. “There, I’ve respected your wishes.”
Farrell lowered his staff but maintained his shields and left the energy at the tip of the staff, ready to strike. “To me you are a stranger. I have no reasons to lower my guard.”
“A fair response.” Although he’d asked Farrell to lower his defenses, he’d not shown any fear of what Farrell might do. “Were I you—well, I’m nothing like you, so I can’t say what I’d do.”
The man smiled, but the snide tone negated any reassurance he’d hoped to give. Still, Farrell detected no hostility, either in his tone or body language. Twisting his wrist, Farrell held the staff upright, as if he were using it to walk.
“Better, but still distrustful.” The sardonic smile sent a new wave of panic through Farrell.
“You said you wanted to talk.” He tried to quell the nervous hitch in his voice. “Say your piece and let me be gone.”
Again Farrell sensed he struck a nerve, and the man gave him another forced smile. “Very well, if that is how you want it, so it shall be, son of the House of Vedri.”
Farrell couldn’t tell if his face gave away the numb sensation he felt. How could the man know this? And more, why was he giving this information away? What did he want?
He chuckled. “Don’t be so shocked, Halloran. The House of Vedri has served me for over three thousand years. I keep track of every child born to the house. Even those others seek to hide from the world.”
The ground felt unsteady, and Farrell’s head spun as he gave voice to the impossible. “Neldin.”
He whispered the name, but Neldin raised an eyebrow and laughed. How could this be possible? Surely Neldin wouldn’t act directly.
“As you are a child of the House of Vedri, I may speak to you without fear of repercussions,” Neldin said.
Farrell struggled to remain calm as he searched for an escape. Even using everything at his disposal, he had no hope of defending himself from a God. He needed help—divine help.
If he called to Honorus, would he offend Falcron? Khron hated his Brother, but would he even answer a call for help? Calling Falcron made the most sense. If He thought it necessary, Falcron could call the other gods for help.
“My Brother won’t answer you.” Neldin relaxed, and His smile was friendlier. “He can’t. Just as I c
an’t interfere when Honorus or the others speak to you, They must allow Me the freedom to talk to you.”
“What do we have to speak about? I oppose all You stand for.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge Me or My motives. We have more in common than you think.”
Farrell snorted. “We have nothing in common.”
“So you say, but all that you know of Me has come from My enemies.”
“I know You seek to conquer the world.”
“Do I?” Neldin shook His head. “Is that what you’ve been told?”
“No one needs to tell me. I have eyes to see what Meglar is doing in Your name.”
“Ah.” Neldin nodded. “So you think Meglar’s actions mean I want to conquer the world?”
“Is there another explanation?”
“Yes, Halloran, there is.” Neldin waved His hand, and His staff disappeared. “For three thousand years, My Siblings have persecuted My followers. They’ve torn down My houses and executed My faithful. Meglar is attempting to right some of the wrongs done to My devotees.”
“By killing everyone?” Farrell snorted. “Most of the people he’s killed had nothing to do with destroying Your temples.”
“How many of My followers did the Six allow to live?” Neldin asked. Now Farrell heard anger in his voice. “You call Me and My followers evil, but which side embarked on genocide first?”
“You started the war in Trellham.”
Neldin shook his head. “I did not.”
“You’re saying Your followers didn’t attack Seritia’s temple?”
“That is what your biased version of history may tell you, but it isn’t true. Yes, there was a dispute between the two temples, but did that give the Six the right to exterminate My people? Would you condone slaughtering to the last person a nation that lost a war?”
“No, of course—”
“Yet you stand there and defend those who did just that to My followers.” Neldin stared at Farrell.
“You unleashed the hordes of Neblor into the world.”
“After Khron leveled My temple, killing everyone inside.” Neldin waved his hand. “Even if we accept I was at fault for the war, you already agreed the Six had no right to hunt down and kill all of My followers. Yet They did.”
Farrell knew there was something wrong with Neldin’s logic. The Six weren’t evil; Neldin was. “It doesn’t matter who started that war. In this war, Meglar is acting on Your orders.”
“And you are acting at the direction of the Six. I see no difference.”
“The difference is Meglar has no regard for life. Just like his master.”
Instead of being angry, Neldin merely shrugged. “If his actions are a reflection of Me, then the Six are every bit as evil as you accuse Me of being. Just a few short moments ago, you wanted to kill the belcin in a way that would make him suffer before he died.”
“But I didn’t. Falcron and Seritia stopped me.”
“Yes, They did, but by your logic, your actions define Them.”
“They stopped me,” Farrell said. “Meglar acts unchecked by You.”
“Does he? And you know this how?” Neldin cocked his head to the left. “Everything you think you know about Me is based on assumptions or misinformation from My enemies.”
“But . . . I mean . . .”
“And let us be clear, Halloran. The Six have only intervened to stay your hand once. Trust that I have stopped your father more than that.”
“You have?” Farrell couldn’t imagine Neldin doing anything other than urging Meglar to greater atrocities.
“Yes.” He nodded. “But tell me, do you deny how much you wanted to kill the belcin? That you reveled in your power and how easily it evoked fear in that little man?”
Neldin’s accusations slapped Farrell in the face. They accurately described his feelings.
“No need to answer, Halloran. I know what’s in your heart. And since Our Champions are an extension of Ourselves, that must be how the Six feel as well.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Yes it is.” Neldin smiled again.
“No!” Farrell tightened his hand around his staff. “My mother was a good queen and a caring person. You had Meglar try to kill her.”
Neldin’s eyes flashed anger again. “Your mother was given the opportunity to rule the Seven Kingdoms and the world with your father, but she refused to share power. She wanted it all for herself. That is why your father tried to kill her.”
“She refused to destroy innocent lives to achieve Your goal.”
“Do not delude yourself. Every ruler makes decisions that cause the death of untold innocent men, women, and children. Your mother is no different.”
“She never twisted people’s lives to create mindless creatures to do her bidding. Or worse, take newborn babies and steal their entire lives to build an army. That is who and what You are about. The Six have never asked . . . would never ask me to do anything remotely the same.”
“Protest as loud as you can, but in your soul resides the desire and the power to take whatever you want. I’ve seen it, and so have you.”
The image of the helpless belcin, shaking as Farrell screamed, came to mind. Farrell shuddered, but perhaps Neldin was right. Farrell did have it in him to be that person. But it wasn’t who he was. “I can’t deny what I did today, but that is a small part of me. It does not define my entire being.”
“Is that right?” Neldin asked. “Did I mistake you for someone else when you sucked the life out of two wizards in Belsport for trying to break into your rooms? Did another wizard kill Quonus outside Endor’s walls for tormenting you as a child? What about the wizard in Arvendia who set a trap for My servants that included a skin-flaying substance no one could cure and that slowly killed all who were touched by it? Those were not actions of your own hand?”
Farrell cringed as his mind replayed each of the scenes Neldin dredged up. Several other cruel, painful deaths he’d inflicted on his enemies also came to mind.
“One cannot fight a war halfheartedly.” Even Farrell heard the lack of conviction in his words.
Neldin smirked and nodded. “Killing someone with a sword or swiftly with a spell is indeed a part of war, but even your mentors paused when you did such vicious acts. Or do you conveniently forget those details?”
“Just because some of my actions during a time of stress were less virtuous than they ought to have been doesn’t make me the same as Meglar or one of Your dark wizards.”
This time Neldin laughed deeply. “Do you really mean to stand there and justify your actions as good and moral just because you did them in opposition to Me? Is everything you do, no matter how cruel, acceptable so long it is done as part of the war?”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I?” Neldin shook his head. “Or am I exposing what you keep hidden even from yourself? Say what you will, but you cannot resist your birthright.”
Farrell saw himself in everything Neldin said, but while it escaped his restraint sometimes, it wasn’t who he truly was. “No, I’m more than these few incidents you throw in my face. Perhaps that is what you see, but I’m nothing like Meglar.”
“Just what do you know, really know, about your father?” Neldin asked. “Have you spent time with him? Spoken to him personally? Do you know what’s in his heart? Or do you listen to the hate of those around you who are his enemies?”
“He betrayed my mother,” Farrell said. Suggesting his mother had lied to him about Meglar flew in the face of all he believed. “By stealing the power from Yar-del’s Source, he effectively killed my grandfather. And when he returned to Zargon, he killed my other . . . his father. What could Meglar tell me that would speak louder than those actions?”
“The truth.”
“Truth?”
“Yes, Halloran. The truth. You would do well to hear what happened from his point of view.” Neldin moved closer and spread His hands. “Since their founding, Zargon and Yar-del
were bitter rivals and hated enemies. The union of Meglar and Zenora united more than just a man and a woman. It was supposed to unite two warring kingdoms and make one great realm. Meglar and Zenora were going to rule the combined kingdoms as equals.”
Farrell snorted. “Their union was a sham from the beginning. Meglar tricked my mother into believing he loved her. She only turned on him once he revealed his true motives.”
“That’s Zenora’s opinion of their union,” Neldin said. “The truth is Zenora loved power more than your father. When it was clear his bride had no intention of sharing power, Meglar asserted his right, and she and Heminaltose attacked him. He had to flee Yar-del to save himself. Though it pained him, your father left you behind rather than risk seeing you injured in the fight.”
“That’s Your version of things, and it’s entirely self-serving.” Farrell recoiled at the anger that flared in Neldin’s eyes. For a fleeting second he wondered if he could goad Neldin into attacking him. He’d be dead, but it would give the Six a chance to end the war right then. “The truth is, he never offered to share power with my mother because he never told her about the idea.”
“If you believe nothing else, believe that he and your mother discussed the topic.”
“Very well, I believe they talked about it.” Farrell knew how that conversation would have gone. It might have been what spurred Meglar to steal the Source.
“After their fight, your father left Yar-del. Yet even that betrayal didn’t turn him against Yar-del and Zenora. He knew that one day both kingdoms would be his son’s. Yours.”
Farrell shook his head. “Now I know You lie. Meglar had three other children before me. Vedric was his heir, not me.”
A faint tick over Neldin’s left eye was all the reaction Farrell got, but it was enough. “Vedric was a bastard who would’ve had no claim to either throne. When your father returned to Zargon, he was content to wait until he could speak to you himself. To tell you his side of things. But when he heard Zenora and Bren had Heminaltose kill his son, your father vowed to rid the world of those capable of such a vile act.”
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