Master of restless shado.., p.67
Master of Restless Shadows Book Two, page 67
part #2 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
His hand shook, but he kept his grip on the locket as he coiled his shadow tighter around himself, dragging Clara deeper in.
Clara’s guardsmen lunged for Fedeles, but Ariz kicked the feet out from under the closer of the two, sending him crashing into his partner. With a brutal stroke, Ariz plunged his sword down through both their sprawled bodies. Then he bounded into the air. Ariz wheeled through the clouds of mist and swept straight for Clara’s motionless figure. Several of the physician-priests abandoned Remes and raced forward, hurling cursed knives at Ariz. Another guardsman drew back a bow and loosed an arrow into his wing.
Fedeles jolted as Ariz tumbled.
He landed in a crouch, then bounded back up to his feet, once again taking a human form. The arrow fell from his grazed forearm and he charged the altar again. Behind him, Elenna staggered to her feet, clutching her belt knife.
Fedeles’s heart shook, but he could do nothing. His entire being grappled with the blazing fury of Clara’s soul. She shrieked and lashed out at him, unleashing a chaos of sensations and memories that were not his own.
Hierro’s long fingers dug into his throat, choking him as vicious curses rang through his head. I’ll kill you someday. Kill you and laugh over your corpse. Oasia rocked him in her arms and promised that she’d come back and save him. He buried himself in her embrace but only felt resentment churning in his chest. How can you leave me, you bitch? You know what he’ll do to me if he can’t have you anymore. Then the Shard of Heaven blazed before him, radiant gold spells scattered through brilliant blue stones like countless stars sown across the sky. A wild glee filled him. So much power and glory—after all I’ve suffered, it should be mine!
Clara’s rage burned all around him, threatening to consume him. But in the midst of the chaos and wrath, Fedeles drew his shadow around him. He felt the certainty of himself—his soul—in its dark silence. Impenetrable, indomitable, this was his and his alone. Even depleted of strength and encircled by madness and flames, he remained certain of who he was. He’d endured all of this before, survived it and made his darkness part of himself. No matter how powerful Clara was, he would never allow her to tear his identity asunder. He’d destroy himself and take her with him before he allowed that to happen.
But he didn’t believe Clara shared his resolve. She possessed hurt and pain and anger—just as he did—but she’d never tempered those driving forces with compassion or regret or love. Her power was an inferno, but it arose from a volatile, unbalanced spirit. Hatred alone was not enough to make a person whole. Rage was not strength.
Surrounded in flames, Fedeles perceived this so very clearly. Clara’s anger ignited her power, but they were not one and the same. He relaxed and let Clara hurl all her might against the razor-edged darkness at the core of his being. She struck with resounding force, but Fedeles didn’t waver. Instead Clara’s soul split. The bright power of her witchflame tore away from her snarling spirit. Teal flames peeled back from a hissing pale thing—an underbelly like a soft white centipede. Fedeles deflected that poisonous spirit like a glancing blow. At the same time his shadow enveloped that shining witchflame.
His body warmed, then grew searing hot, as if engulfed in fever. The edges of his shadow smoldered. But he didn’t relent. All around him, he sensed spell after spell collapsing as he drained away Clara’s power. Transformations and thralls dissipated throughout the Shard of Heaven. White mists descended everywhere, seizing entire troops of guardsmen the instant they were stripped of their animal bodies. Maids and priests were suddenly released from the compulsions that howled through their minds. Thousands of songbirds at last flew free of the city.
On the altar, the physician-priests surrounding Remes stared at one another in confusion. One of them tore the cursed implements from the prince’s body in a panic, while another sank to his knees and threw up.
The last of Clara’s spells died and Fedeles hurled the locket to the ground. It cracked apart against the hard blue stone. The sphere of whirling enchantments crumbled and Clara’s pale, depleted soul shot back to her body. Fedeles staggered, still blazing with too much magic. But he didn’t dare fall. He still held Marisol in his arms.
Clara let out and aggravated shout, then drew in a deep breath, straining for any shred of power to hurl against Fedeles. Only a few feet from her, Ariz cut down the last guardsman still defending Clara. She stepped back from him.
“Ariz, please.” Clara spoke softly, her expression suddenly entreating. “Don’t hurt me. Have mercy.”
Ariz stilled and Fedeles thought he was considering a way to simply take her prisoner. At the same time, a faint blue light seemed to condense at Clara’s back—magic too subtle for Ariz to see, but still there and growing. Was she already replenishing her power?
Before Fedeles could act or call out a warning, Clara jerked, her arms clawing up at nothing. Ariz bounded back, sword raised. However, Clara’s hands fell to her sides. A ribbon of blood suddenly spilled down her throat and more poured from between her lips. She tried to spin backward, only to topple from the altar and flop against the stone floor.
Then Fedeles saw Elenna, red-eyed and haggard, standing where Clara had been. The hilt of Elenna’s belt knife jutted from the back of Clara’s neck. Gachello’s ghost cloaked her in blue light.
“Join your brother in the three hells,” Elenna muttered down at Clara.
“Well said,” Ariz told her. Then Ariz turned and gazed at Fedeles with an expression of relief. “You two all right?”
Fedeles glanced to Marisol. She looked exhausted, but she nodded and offered Ariz a hesitant smile.
Fedeles opened his mouth to assure Ariz that he was well. But then the entire floor of the Shard of Heaven shuddered beneath them. A radiant light surged up through the blue stone, turning it gold. Giant bodies throughout the nave of the chapel slumped and toppled into mounds of soft, dead flesh. The floor shook again, then suddenly, it gave way.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“No! Don’t do this!” Narsi bellowed, but it was already too late.
Atreau stood encased in marble, with his head turned slightly, as if offering Narsi a last glance at his defiant profile.
A mordwolf leapt at Atreau but fell back after impacting his stone body. It scrambled to its feet and, catching sight of Narsi, jammed its muzzle into the space between Atreau’s outstretched arm and the wall. It snarled and snapped and dug at the bright blue stone of the floor. Another slammed its head between the wall and Atreau’s hip, but the mass of its shoulders stopped its attack. It continued lunging for Narsi, pushing ahead inch by inch.
Narsi stumbled back from the bared teeth and flying spittle. He couldn’t just wait here, he knew that. But how could he abandon Atreau like this? Even frozen in marble, the long gash in his leg looked fatal. But there was a way to help him—to save him. He had to comply with Atreau’s last wish: destroy the Shroud, then come back to save him.
That would work, wouldn’t it?
If the Shroud was destroyed then Atreau might be released. Then Narsi could treat his wounded thigh. He could save him—he would save him.
Narsi turned and sprinted through the narrow corridor. The floor was uneven, catching his feet as he ran. More than once he scraped a shoulder and hand against the facets of the rocky walls. But Narsi didn’t slow.
Sweat beaded his body, but a chill emanated from the blue stone, prickling his skin. Narsi’s breath streamed from his lips in white plumes and he felt patches of ice on the walls and floor. A frigid white mist drifted all around.
His lamplight bounced off the blue stone surrounding him like it was dancing across the surface of the sea. Gold suspended in the depths flashed like schools of sea serpents. The farther he went, the larger and more common golden seams appeared. They knotted and twisted together, filling more and more of the walls, ceiling and floor, until soon the corridor shone as if lined with brass mirrors.
Everywhere around him, Narsi caught warped reflections of his own figure. Blood and sweat dribbled down the side of his face. At some point he’d grazed his forehead. He hadn’t even noticed.
All he could care about—think about—was that if he acted quickly enough, he could save Atreau. There was still time. There had to be. He could still save him.
I will save him.
I will save him.
Narsi repeated that thought over and over, leveraging his growing fear and panic into a promise that kept him moving ahead.
The icy fog thickened, and his own refection in the faceted walls grew contorted and warped.
He didn’t see the white gate barring the passage until he slammed into it. The long pickets and rails felt like spears of ice against his damp body. However, the instant Narsi felt the distinct texture of the gate, he knew what it had been made from and pulled his hand away. These were polished human bones, strung together with silver.
Narsi pushed past wondering who these bones had once belonged to. He didn’t have time to waste in pathos or rumination, though the sadness pulled at him.
He dug out the black key Sacrist Amabilo had given to him. His hands shook so badly that he nearly dropped it. After taking a deep, slow breath, Narsi calmed his racing heart and shaking muscles enough to slot the key into the keyhole. As he turned the key, the assembly of tiny bones making up the lock slid apart. The skeletal gates parted. And a biting cold breeze rushed over Narsi. He shuddered and the flame of his lamp died.
In the darkness, Narsi felt frigid mists curling around him, sinking through his clothes to settle on his skin. Then a flare of warmth and golden light rose from the seams of gold in his own hands. The horn in his pocket flashed and sparked. Narsi abandoned his lamp and took up the horn. As he gripped it, the two prongs of the horn extended and spread like the branches of a tree sprouting new twigs. Flames lit up at the tips, like dozens of spring leaves bursting to life.
The warm light scattered through the dense clouds of white mist. Here and there the flames reflected off blue stone and the wide seams of gold. The icy vapor whirled and churned in the gold-and-blue illumination, looking as if it stretched on forever.
Despite the light and fire, the air around Narsi seemed to grow even colder. When he extended his left hand into the surrounding white masses, he felt as if he’d plunged his arm into ice water. But he continued to reach out, feeling for any obstacle ahead as he searched for whatever it was that encased the Shroud of Stone. A cask perhaps, like the one that had held Yah-muur’s Horn? Or could it be written on the wall?
He had to find it—destroy it. Atreau was depending on him. So was Yara, and Esfir and Father Timoteo. Master Ariz. Querra. His uncle, Elezar. Mother Kir-Naham, Spider and Inissa, the duke and duchess. Entire households, theater troupes. Cities filled with thousands and thousands of people—so many. Too many for him to fail.
He had to find it.
His heart raced, but his entire body shivered uncontrollably. Narsi’s numb fingers smacked across a rough surface. The mist rolled back before the horn’s light, but it only showed him his own desperate expression reflected in a twisted vein of gold. He’d found a wall.
A wall was better than nothing. It had to lead him somewhere. Narsi hurried onward, keeping one hand to the wall. The Shroud of Stone must be nearby, he assured himself. But dread gnawed at him as he continued searching, blindly, through the frigid, writhing vapor.
Gold forms and blue shadows arose through the mist. Narsi made out an ivory tower, etched with countless pale symbols. He sprinted ahead, only to have the tower waft apart before him. An illusion, born from the mists and his own desperation. Narsi wanted to shout with frustration. Instead he kept moving. Searching.
Then his foot struck something. It clattered against the floor and he looked down to see the lamp he’d abandoned. He’d gone in a full circle and was standing once more at the gate. He could no longer see it through the deepening mist. But reaching out, he touched the cold bones.
The corridor didn’t lead to anything. Just this empty chamber. Had he gone wrong? Missed a turn or passed unknowing into a different tunnel? In his frantic state Narsi nearly turned back to retrace his steps. But then he thought of the key. This was the gate it had unlocked. Sacrist Amabilo wouldn’t have sacrificed himself to deliver the wrong key, Narsi was certain of that.
This had to be the right place, but what was he supposed to do? Where was the Shroud of Stone? Narsi’s entire body shook from cold and fatigue. He knew every moment he wasted was a life he couldn’t win back—another soul he was failing. How many enthralled people were already dead? How many more were watching in terror as the Shroud of Stone slowly overtook the city. The wards defending the sacred grove would not last forever. Even Skellan’s vast wall of flames would eventually fail. On the Old Road, Narsi had seen it all.
He had to make this right, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t know what to do. He’d been so arrogant accepting the horn, thinking that he could save everyone. But who was he, really? What qualifications did he possess? He wasn’t a sorcerer or mystic. Not a warrior or even a clever spy. He’d just happened to be there and acted on impulse, accepting a responsibility he couldn’t have truly understood until now.
Now, when everything depended upon him, but he didn’t know what to do. When he stood here faced with nothing but his own failings and a chilling emptiness.
His teeth chattered and each breath he took felt like it sketched his nose and lungs with frost. He was so, so cold.
Narsi sank down to a crouch, curling his body around the heat of the blazing horn. The closer he came to them, the more the flames dimmed. The light dulled to mere sparks.
“No, don’t die out on me,” Narsi whispered. He could feel the horn cooling. Narsi’s fingers ached, as if poison was again eating into his knuckles.
Why is life is so hard? Why does it have to be like this? So full of anguish and despair.
The thought arose in Narsi, almost as if someone else whispered it to him, though he recognized that this was his own voice.
What if you aren’t able to save Atreau? What if you aren’t able to save anyone? Why cause all this chaos?
Narsi’s chest ached and a sob escaped him. He had to stop thinking this way.
He didn’t want to cry. He knew he couldn’t afford to fall apart. And yet anguish flooded him. Hot tears filled his eyes. All the joy and hope he’d felt in Labara were like barbs being ripped from his body as he thought of losing Atreau.
That voice rose up inside him again.
What is the use of loving someone when being parted from him leaves you broken? Bereaved?
He wiped at his face with a shaking, frigid hand. He had to pull himself together.
Even as he told himself as much, he remembered this same hand bracing his mother’s emaciated back, feeling her shake as she struggled for breath. She wheezed and choked. He slowly fed her drops of duera in a hopeless effort to ease her suffering. When she had died, Narsi had comforted himself with the idea that at least she was no longer in pain.
Is there a point in fighting for life when the only respite you will find is in the peaceful stillness of death? Why struggle and prolong the hurting for everyone? Be still. Be at peace.
Narsi startled at the question. What was wrong with him? How could he even wonder why life would be worth fighting for? Narsi clenched Yah-muur’s horn with both his hands. It bit into his palms, but he welcomed the discomfort. Better to feel that than the heartless numb creeping over him.
He took a deep breath but couldn’t sense his lungs fill or his heart beating, though he saw puffs of his breath moving the mist around his face. He felt separated from himself—no. He felt as if he wasn’t himself.
Then suddenly he understood two things. First, the mist surrounding him—filling his lungs and bloodstream—was a manifestation of the Shroud of Stone. Whatever vessel had held it must have been destroyed when the spell was released. And second, the voice he heard infiltrating his thoughts wasn’t his own. Just like the mist, it was a manifestation of the Shroud of Stone.
Narsi lifted his head and glared into the surrounding haze.
He was caught up in a spell. One that distorted his fears and doubts, draining him of strength and drive. But he knew that defeat, despair and apathy weren’t the entirety of his beliefs or feeling—not even close. He couldn’t give into them. He wouldn’t!
Narsi tried to push himself to standing but found he couldn’t.
“My mother’s death didn’t invalidate the beauty of her life,” Narsi said. He turned his thoughts to Atreau, seeking out his most vivid memories of the other man—his voice singing, his laughter, his hot, sweat-beaded skin. “No matter how sad I might feel if I lost him, I will never regret loving Atreau. Never.”
Once again, tiny flames lit the tips of Yah-muur’s horns, and a faint warmth spread over Narsi’s hands. At last he was able to push himself to his full height, shifting his weight back and forth.
How tired you are. Rest now.
Rest.
“You want me to be still?” he shouted, his voice deafening in its reverberation through the faceted chamber. His ears rang. “I will not. I will never stop.”
Mist whirled and billowed around him. Narsi stared at the blank white expanse. In the distance he picked out a pale figure drifting steadily nearer. Trails of vapor formed a delicate pattern all around the figure, as if weaving gossamer veils around him. Narsi studied that pattern and recognized dozens of archaic symbols for peace written over and over in white. They poured endlessly from the mist.
Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace . . . On and on, until the word became ubiquitous and lost all meaning.
The figure in the mist turned and Narsi’s own reflection gazed back at him with deathly serenity.
Why fight against the only true peace in this world?
