Vaaler could see his words had little effect on the Queen or her council. His words never did. He was the crown prince, heir to the throne—but he did not have the Sight. Dreams and visions were all the Danaan advisers cared about; ancient magic they couldn’t even explain guided their actions. But Vaaler knew he was right in this. He had to convince them.
“Your visions, my Queen,” he said, addressing his mother, a sudden inspiration forming in his mind.
“What of them, my son?”
Her hand dropped from the ring at his words, as if she suddenly realized she was clenching it in her fist and was ashamed to have him catch her in the act.
“You have seen the destruction of our people in your dreams. Perhaps you are foreseeing the coming of the humans. Perhaps your visions are a warning that we must abandon our isolationism and strengthen our relations with the Free Cities and the Southlands or suffer the inevitable consequences.”
“No, Vaaler,” the Queen said wearily, “I dream of fire and the utter destruction of our capital in a blaze of burning Chaos. I dream of the coming of the Destroyer of Worlds, not the coming of a foreign army. I have foreseen a second Cataclysm, not a political upheaval.”
“But maybe—.”
“No!” she cut in, her voice sharp. When Vaaler questioned her about her dreams she inevitably became angry with him. As if it were his fault he had been born without Chaos in his blood. “You don’t understand the Sight, Vaaler! You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Of course, my Queen.” Vaaler’s apology was stiff and cold.
“Your input during council is always welcome,” the Queen said to him in a softer tone. “But once it is given, you must be content to let us make of it what we will.” She gave another weary sigh. “You are dismissed.”
There was nothing more he could do but bow respectfully and leave the chamber.
His attendants were waiting for him as he stepped out into the hall, as they always were within the confines of the castle. He hated their presence. Though they obeyed his every order without question, Vaaler suspected they were loyal to him only because of the Queen. She was the leader of their people, the successor to an unbroken line of prophets who had guided the Danaan race since the Cataclysm. For keeping the kingdom strong and safe and prosperous they owed her their lives, their homes, and the lives of their families. But to the Sight-less heir to the throne they owed nothing.
At least they didn’t accompany him out on patrol, or whenever he joined one of the merchant caravans traveling to the Free Cities. He had argued that attendants would undermine his authority on patrol, and they would draw attention to himself in the human lands, making him a target. Far safer to travel alone under the guise of a simple merchant, he had insisted. The Queen had granted her son this one concession, albeit reluctantly. The freedom from the ever-present shadow of his attendants was one of the reasons the prince’s expeditions to the human kingdoms were becoming more frequent.
Freedom from the watchful eyes of his attendants had also been the best thing about his apprenticeship under Rexol. He could only imagine how much worse things would be for him now if his mother had insisted on sending someone with him. How much less would they think of him if they had seen him fail not only at the Sight, but at the Gift as well? And not just fail, but fail miserably?
However, despite his inability to master Chaos in any measure, Vaaler knew the importance of those years. Human history, the culture of the Southlands, the politics of the Seven Capitals—Rexol had made sure Vaaler studied and learned as much as possible about the strange, exotic peoples who lived beyond the borders of the forest. The mage had recognized an intelligence in Vaaler, a hunger for knowledge and an ability to study the patterns of the past and learn from them. And through his studies the prince had come to understand that it wasn’t necessary to have the Sight to be a visionary.
None of the kings in the Southlands had the Sight, though they all employed the prophets of the Order in their courts. But the dreams and visions of the Seers were only one factor to be considered when decisions had to be made. Prophecy had to be weighed against reason and facts and the opinions of councilors, and the strongest rulers among the humans were those wise and intelligent enough to analyze all the evidence to reach the most logical decision.
Here in the Danaan court everything was backward. Here it was the Monarch who presented the visions and it was the councilors who provided the countering arguments of facts, circumstance, and reason. At least, that was how it had been in ancient times. Vaaler had read many descriptions of those ancient Danaan courts in the texts Rexol had often asked him to help translate. But somewhere the Danaan people had lost their way. They came to rely solely on prophecy, and instead of offering arguments to balance the visions of their Sighted rulers, the councilors’ role evolved into one of interpretation—trying to find the meaning behind the often cryptic or symbolic images of the Monarch’s dreams.
So far it had worked. The Danaan kingdom had known almost five hundred years of uninterrupted peace. But times were changing. Vaaler knew he would be the perfect ruler should he come to the throne. He would base his decisions on rational analysis, and the future of his people would be guided by logic and common sense—not obscure nightmares of burning Chaos and the return of a long-dead enemy of legend.
But would the Danaan people ever accept him as their king? He glared back over his shoulder at his attendants. “I’m going out on patrol,” he told them.
“We shall follow you to the stables, my prince.”
He nodded, anxious to be rid of them but content in the knowledge that once he had horsed up they wouldn’t follow. On patrol, he was spared the burden of their company. Out on patrol, he commanded respect.
And, most important, out on patrol nobody cared that he was blind to the Sight.
Chapter 29
“Go prepare the horses,” Rexol ordered his apprentice. “I want to leave within the hour.”
Keegan hesitated, and the mage knew what he wanted to ask. Why are we answering the Pontiff’s summons? Why didn’t we run when I told you what happened in Endown?
But the young man knew his master well enough to understand that if Rexol had wanted him to understand, he would have already explained it to him. Instead, the young man swallowed his question and left to see to their mounts.
Even after his apprentice was gone Rexol did not allow his grim expression to slip. It was important for Keegan to believe that he was upset at having to answer the summons. If the young man suspected the truth, the Pontiff would likely sense it and Rexol’s gambit would fail. But if he could maintain the ruse then the Crown—an artifact imbued with the power of Old Magic—could soon be his.
The Talisman was calling to him. How else to explain the events of the last few weeks? After years of researching the Talismans the Slayer had used to elevate himself to the status of a God, Rexol had suddenly stumbled across information suggesting that the Crown had once been given to the Order and locked away inside the Monastery. Then, even as Rexol wondered how to get inside the impregnable walls, Keegan’s actions had compelled a summons from the Pontiff.
It made sense, at least to one who understood the ways of Chaos. And Rexol understood Chaos better than any other living person in the mortal world. The Talisman was an object forged with the power of Old Magic; its power could never truly be contained. The monks sought to keep it hidden away and under control, but by its very nature it would seek to break free of their constraints. The power of the Crown called out to the power within Rexol himself, like calling to like. The backlash of his Chaos-fueled research into the ancient Talismans had culminated in this sudden and fortuitous turn of events.
“Master,” Keegan said, interrupting his thoughts upon his return. “The horses are ready.”
The mage nodded and motioned for the young man to lead the way.
As he followed his apprentice out to the courtyard and their waiting mounts Rexol still wasn’t certain of the ex
act path that lay ahead. He was certain, however, of where the path was leading. The last time he had entered the Monastery he had gone prepared for war. He had survived the encounter but lost Cassandra. This time he would go in the guise of a man willing to submit himself to the Pontiff’s will … but he would walk out with the key to becoming a God.
Like most Southlanders, Keegan had heard descriptions of the Monastery before. In his mind he had constructed an image of a massive citadel overlooking the barren desert, an imposing and intimidating edifice: unassailable, unconquerable, eternal. But the secondhand accounts of the Order’s stronghold couldn’t do it justice, no matter how evocative or detailed.
The Monastery was more than a mere building; it pulsed with power, like a living creature. Keegan had first felt it while they were still miles away, when the fortress was a mere speck on the horizon. It rolled out across the dunes toward them, a tremor in the ground and a crackle in the air that grew ever stronger as they approached their destination.
Now, as he and Rexol pushed their way through the small but fanatical throng of devoted worshippers camped before the Monastery’s entrance, Keegan understood why his Master had insisted they both refrain from taking doses of witchroot during their journey. Even without the drug coursing through his system, his mind was awakened to the immense power of this place. He could feel the supernatural heat emanating from the Monastery’s unnatural black marble, buzzing in his skull and clouding his thoughts. If he had been under the influence of witchroot, it might have been too much to bear.
As it was, he still struggled to wrap his mind around the sheer magnitude of what he felt. But this was not the wild rush of fire and flame that threatened to swallow him up whenever he called upon the Chaos. Similar, but not the same. This was the slow burn of Chaos trapped and bound, its fire totally and utterly contained within the dark stone walls.
The worshippers parted grudgingly before them as they approached the building’s heavy stone gates. Though both master and apprentice were clad in the fearsome garb of Chaos mages—painted faces; hair in wild, irregular braids; bodies laden with jewelry and charms fashioned from the teeth and bones of mystical beasts—the supplicants refused to be intimidated by them. Keegan wondered if they somehow knew that the interlopers’ power was muted without witchroot coursing through their veins; or perhaps their bravery was simply due to the proximity of the Monastery itself.
They reached the gates without incident—a barely visible seam in the otherwise flawless surface of the smooth black stone. Rexol rapped once with his gorgon’s-head staff.
“I have answered your summons!” he declared, his voice loud and defiant.
A single bell tolled from inside, and the gates opened inward, causing Keegan to blink in surprise. He had expected the grinding of gears and the groaning of machinery to accompany the movement of such massive slabs of stone, but there was only silence. Rexol stepped quickly through and he hurried to follow, not giving his mind a chance to wonder at what he had just seen.
The Pontiff was waiting for them inside, along with half a dozen other monks gathered in a large courtyard just inside the entrance. Their faces were calm but even beneath their loose-fitting robes Keegan could see their bodies were tensed for action. Though he still couldn’t hear them he could feel the gates close behind, sealing them in.
“Rexol,” the Pontiff said by way of greeting, delivering his words with the timbre of an official proclamation, “you have been summoned because you have defied a direct decree from the Order.
“By right and law, all children in the Southlands touched by Chaos belong to the Order. By taking an apprentice from among them, you have defied the authority granted to us by the True Gods.
“For your actions you are being charged with the crime of heresy. If found guilty, you will be burned alive at the stake in accordance with the ancient laws.”
The Pontiff paused, waiting for Rexol to reply. Much to Keegan’s surprise, his Master remained silent.
“I did not know if you would come,” the Pontiff finally said. “I wondered if you would try to run to save your life.”
“My life is only forfeit if I am found guilty,” Rexol reminded him. “Or is this trial to be nothing but a sham?”
“You will be given a chance to answer these charges,” the Pontiff promised. “But only after the Inquisitors have finished with you.
“Take them to the dungeon,” he said with a sharp nod of his head.
The monks closed in, and rough hands seized Keegan by the shoulders. Instinctively he began to summon the Chaos trapped in the charms adorning his body, though without the glow of the witchroot it would be difficult to draw upon their power. But a quick shake of his master’s head stayed Keegan’s hand.
Now is not the time to panic. Do not start a war we cannot win.
In accordance with the Pontiff’s orders Rexol and Keegan were taken down to the dungeons. In a tiny preparation room they were stripped of their jewelry: the necklaces and rings unceremoniously removed by the monks, the braids and feathers in their hair roughly combed out. They allowed Keegan to remove the ornaments from the pierced holes in his skin himself, though they watched him with a determined vigilance as he did so.
There was nothing they could do about the tattoos, but Keegan suspected they had little reason to worry. Here in the bowels of the Monastery they were surrounded on all sides by impregnable black stone. The young man could feel it pressing in all around him, smothering his Gift, making even the tiniest shaping of Chaos all but impossible.
Divested of their talismans the prisoners were led down a dark hallway. Keegan stumbled several times. He briefly wondered how the guards could be so sure-footed, then recalled their sightless eyes. The monks would have no use for torches or lanterns. The guards marched them through the blackness for about fifty paces then ordered them to stop.
Keegan heard the sound of a metal key and a heavy door swinging open on rusty hinges. A hard shove in the back sent him sprawling forward, and he collapsed to his hands and knees. An instant later he heard Rexol grunt as he, too, was forced into the cell, though somehow the mage managed to avoid tripping over his prone apprentice.
Keegan took a few seconds to make sure he was uninjured, then carefully stood up and tried to gather his bearings. He was surrounded by impenetrable darkness; there wasn’t a single sliver of light in the cell. He couldn’t even tell if someone else was in the cell or if he and Rexol were alone.
A disembodied male voice nearby answered his question. “So this is your new apprentice. I wonder, Rexol—does he show as much potential as Cassandra?”
“How did the Inquisitors find you, Jerrod?” Keegan recognized his master’s voice, though he had no idea who the other speaker—this “Jerrod”—might be. “Did you became careless? Or were you finally betrayed by one of your own?”
“As you betrayed me?” their mysterious cellmate asked.
Rexol gave a dismissive snort. “Betrayal puts too fine a point on it. We were allies of convenience, nothing more. You understood that as well as I.”
“Coming here was a mistake,” Jerrod replied, seeming to suddenly change topics. “The Pontiff will try you for heresy. He will burn you at the stake.”
“Don’t be so sure,” the mage countered. “We haven’t even begun the trial.”
“I am a prophet of the Order, Rexol. Listen to me and know your fate: You will die here in flames of agony. I’ve seen your ashes in my dreams.”
It was impossible to keep track of time in the stone cell. Had they been here minutes or hours? Keegan couldn’t say. He had tried to speak once to ask Rexol any of a dozen questions. Who was the man imprisoned with them? How did they know each other? How long would they be here in the cell? Was there any chance of escape? Rexol had shushed him after the first word. Since then, the three prisoners—assuming there were no others sitting silently with them in the darkness—had passed the time in silence.
Keegan tried to make himself comfortable
on the cold stone floor only to find it all but impossible. He crawled forward slowly, feeling his way until he found the wall, then tried sitting with his back to it. Better, but not by much. He was still sitting there, knees pulled up to his chest, when the door opened and the blinding brightness of a single lantern caused him to squint his eyes shut in reflexive pain.
“Let me speak with them alone,” a female voice said. Once more there came the sound of the door closing.
Curious, Keegan dared to open his eyes a crack, letting them adjust to the soft light that now filled the cell. His master was seated against the opposite wall.
Another man—Jerrod, no doubt—was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. He looked to be about forty. Average build, with light brown hair and a short beard running the length of his chin. He would have been completely unremarkable if not for the dead orbs where his eyes had once been.
But Keegan barely paid any attention to either Rexol or Jerrod. After a quick glance at his fellow prisoners his full attention was turned to the young woman who stood before them, the lantern dangling casually from her left hand.
She looked to be about Keegan’s own age. She was small—a few inches over five feet and slight of build—yet she carried herself with the confidence of all who served the Order. In contrast with the shaved heads of the Inquisitors, she had pale blond hair that hung down to her shoulders. Her aristocratic features were undeniably attractive, though her eyes were the expected dull and lifeless gray.
“Do you recognize me, Rexol?”
“Of course, Cassandra. The years may change your appearance, but I will always recognize you. We have a bond. We always will.”
The woman seemed to shiver at his words. “I am a servant of the Order. You are a servant of Chaos. Whatever bond we might once have had is long since broken.”
“If that is true then why are you here?” Rexol asked.