The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Chapter XXVII

Secret of the Mynah

In which Zephyra is betrayed

Now Edana moved, seeing the creatures for herself. Two scaly, slimy things grew bigger every time she blinked, and the crowd screamed. The things resolved themselves into human-like shapes, maintaining their scales, and adding long, ferocious teeth and talons.

A silver line shimmered around the pavilion, indication of a shield spell. Barring the monsters from escaping; keeping back any one of the Elamisi who might attempt heroics.

Tregarde’s doing; just in time Edana saw him lower his arm before he charged over to Alia. Pounding footsteps sounded in Edana’s ears, then at once Sheridan stood beside her. Through the clamor of the crowd, one word emerged, repeated over and over.

“Rabisu! Rabisu!”

Edana jolted. When she was a little girl, her father told her of a blood-sucking arsha’tûm which feasted on the blood of humans. It lurked on roofs and doorways, to ambush its victims: the rabisu.

They’re no danger to little girls who get home before dark, Papa claimed.

Until this moment, she thought he’d made up the monsters to keep her and Bessa from waiting until the street glowlights came on before ending their play for the day.

Oh by the Sower! Why didn’t Papa tell us how to kill them?

The lord of Elamis fell back, and Bessa leapt away from him, this time not needing to prod the high priest into moving. She ushered the priest past Edana, heading for the opposite side of the pavilion.

Meanwhile, Edana ran toward the rabisu, thrusting her hand into her pouch as she did so. Though child-like in size now, the arsh’atûm threatened to grow bigger. Only a handful of Halie’s salt remained, and she prayed it would be enough. In an arc she flung the salt outward, pelting both of the monsters.

The creatures screamed, with such force the ground shook. Those in the audience who had not yet fled now fell to their knees. However, Edana remained upright, thanks to the amulet Ziri gave her before their assault on the Red Daggers.

Smoke furled up from the monsters. Their scales glowed black, then red as they began to separate, revealing molten skin beneath. Burning from the inside out, the rabisus collapsed upon themselves in a smoking ruin.

Bessa returned, stepping past Edana and striding toward the protector. He stumbled backward, as if to escape her, then righted himself. What he might have done next they would never know, for in a blur of motion Alia emerged beside him. An iridescent flash of light, and the next thing they knew she held the crook of her blade poised less than an inch from his neck. Should he take another backward step he would meet her knife. Swallowing hard, he remained still.

Leaving Tregarde free to make his next move. Slicing open his hand, the sorcerer uttered a single word.

Instantly Protector Amavand became ramrod straight, his arms held straight out: a paralysis spell overtook him.

Unhindered now, Bessa descended the steps to stand just above Amavand. Fine white salt sifted through her fingers, coating his stumps.

Now it was Amavand’s turn to scream, soulful and agonized. More black smoke poured out of ruined flesh, which began to decay rapidly. The exposed parts of his forearms turned green, then black.

Edana watched, fascinated. Did the decay extend up his arms? Would it encompass the rest of his body?

The townspeople clustered around Tregarde’s spellshield shared her fascination, their eyes fixed on their lord. But for Protector Amavand’s wailing, all was deathly silent.

Privately, Edana cheered. No one would question, no one would doubt that Protector Amavand had allied himself with evil forces. Now it should be easy to find allies, and secure aid. Then she sobered. After all, the Elamisi now understood what their lord was. But his court was another matter.

Amavand’s court still lived.

Undefeated. Unbroken. Unfettered.

And they could summon their infernal queen.

“By the Truthsayer…” the high priest whispered.

“We need to get him away from here,” Edana said urgently, gesturing for the others to come to her.

Overhead, the stele of Aletheia loomed, bright and shining against the dull blue sky. Graceful, majestic, the ancient stele was hewn from stark white granite. According to Bessa’s travel guide the structure had been erected nearly a millennia ago.

The giants would make short work of it.

That is, unless the sorcerers of Elamis could come up with a protection spell potent enough to counter the giants’ stone-breaking sounds.

“Guileless One,” she called, gesturing him to join her friends.

High Priest Fravak gingerly stepped over to them, glancing back all the while at the remains of the two rabisu she’d killed.

“Listen to me,” Edana said, pitching her voice low. For emphasis she tapped her thunder mace. The Lyrcanians eyed it with open curiosity; she and Bessa had not shown it to them earlier because they didn't have time to safely demonstrate how it worked.

“This weapon came from giants. They’ve been attacking Rasena Valentis, and on the night the sky burned green we fought one of many battles against them. Along with these they have other weapons, weapons of such power as to knock down stone buildings merely with a sound. This thunder mace is a smaller version of a gigantic weapon. One reason we came here was to find counter spells—”

“Yes, but—”

Her eyes flashed as she cut him off. “The giants are allied with Erebossi. He was allied with a bel nakri—a queen of Erebossa.” She gestured to the screaming man. “His followers are not all dead, and the giants can teleport. Do you understand?”

High Priest Fravak paled. “By the Goddess. What—”

“Your strongest sorcerers,” Edana pressed on, as if he hadn’t said anything. “The ones you trust, the ones you can certify are faithful and are not in the service of the protector or his abyssal queen. Summon them now to the Aletheia’s Fane, and have the townspeople come inside. If we need to make a stand, we’ll do it there. Understand?”

Fravak nodded, slowly at first, then his features hardened with determination. “It will be done.”

A silver bubble formed around Amavand. At a gesture from Tregarde it floated to his side, carrying Amavand. Sheridan moved to the other side, and together the two men escorted the satrap to the temple.

Now Alia turned to the crowd, flanked by Bessa and Edana. Warily, the crowd eyed her.

“Good people of Elamis,” she began. “I am Alia Ironwing, priestess of the Huntress. I was trained and raised by dryads, who sent me here to investigate the one corrupting their groves. Your protector is my quarry, for it is he who made war upon the dryads. Let me warn you now: the Huntress gives no quarter to those who harm Her daughters, or aids those who do.”

She let the threat linger for a moment, then added, “I am going now, with my companions, to prepare in the defense of this city, against the Erebossi allied with Protector Amavand, such as the ones you saw here. I will brook no opposition. Some of you may still cling to foolish loyalty to your lord. Be warned: you should visit what’s left of the tower in the park before you think of testing us.”

Alia, Tregarde, and Sheridan had set a trap on it, Edana remembered. Anyone bearing the ichor of the bel nakri in their veins would die a quick, agonizing death.

The women left quickly, before the people could react.

Gratifyingly enough, Alia’s warning seemed to have penetrated, because a multitude of people began hurrying toward the fane. Amongst them, the truth-seer Behnam, shepherding a pair of young women.

As soon as he reached the threshold of the temple Edana shot out her arm across his path, forcing him to stop and notice her. Startled, he reflexively maneuvered his charges behind himself, as if to protect them. Chagrined, Edana adopted a benign expression.

“Peace, Behnam. Listen to me. The people trust you. We need all of the townspeople to take refuge, for their own safety.”

His face cleared, and he nodded, understanding her at once.

“But Protector Amavand …? Surely he will die?” Hope bloomed in his eyes.

“His daughter still lives,” Edana quietly reminded him.

The light in his eyes died quickly, and for a moment his jaw quivered. Then he squared his shoulders. “Understood. I will go now.”

He whispered something to the young women who accompanied him. The women nodded. One hugged him, and one kissed his cheek. Both women released him. The woman on the right, wearing a silky woolen caftan, stared sidelong at Edana as she entered the temple. Behnam watched the women go. Once they were inside he ran back down the steps of the temple and joined Aletheia’s priests.

Edana looked over at the citadel. The morning mists hovered over the lake, but patches of the citadel peeked through. Was the Handmaiden there? Did she know what had happened?

How long before she retaliated? How long before giants appeared?

Edana set her mouth in a thin line. The Elamisi had to have sorcerers who could withstand the giants.

They had to.

She turned on her heel and hurried into the temple.

They had work to do.

Zephyra’s heart had been in her mouth as she ran to the edge of the crowd. In her mind’s eye fissures appeared in her heart, growing longer and wider as she witnessed what became of her father’s hands.

Rabisu, the people had said. Rabisu.

Arsh’atûm. Bloodsucking arsh’atûm, low as low can get. Why had her father’s blood given birth to those things? Especially after he drank the nectar of the Greatest One. Such a grotesque metamorphosis should not have happened after drinking in the divine.

What happened? And how had it happened?

Questions swirled in her mind, even as her stomach lurched. One thought loomed large in her mind.

Her father had tricked her.

He hadn’t taken the nectar of the Goddess, after all. Instead he must have summoned an abyssal to aid him.

And, in his emotional state—caused by those wicked she-wolves—he had failed to bind the abyssal properly. Nor did he word the agreement carefully enough. Yes, that had to be it. In his hastiness, he’d handed the she-wolves the very weapon they needed to turn the people against him.

Tears stung her eyes.

“What are they saying?” someone asked.

Zephyra stood on her tiptoes and peered over the shoulders of the people in front of her. In the distance the Rasena Valentians and the Lyrcanians were conferring amongst each other, with the truth-seer Behnam on the edges. But one of the Lyrcanians had begun levitating her father, whom he’d encased in a protective shield.

All at once she realized what they were doing.

The temple. They were going to move him there. To let him die out of sight? To gloat?

It didn’t matter. What did matter was that she find a way inside, without being seen.

Alia had begun addressing the crowd, uttering a threat that Zephyra had seen for herself was not empty. She shuddered, thinking of the screams of Nariman and the other Manticoran Guards, of the way her own fingers burned when she’d touched Delir’s amulet.

The huntress swept away without a backward glance, heading for Arenavachi’s Fane. It was all Zephyra could do not to rush after her, but she remembered just in time that Ironwing knew what she looked like. Likely her companions knew as well.

Zephyra looked over the crowd. Sadly, Artostes had not joined their ranks. Had he come, he would have been able to secrete her into the temple without anyone noticing. But of course, he remained the palace, sensibly watching over events via the oraculum. And she had no time to go back for him.

Well, she was not without her own abilities.

“I will pass between,” she whispered.

‘Passing between,’ as Artostes called it, was a fading from sight and memory. It was a form of a Sending, except it meant partially walking Erebossa in bodily form. Though Zephyra was skilled in the power of negation, she had not ever tested herself in this fashion before. Passing between would take supreme finesse, and exquisite control. To leave this world and enter the next while she still lived was no light undertaking. If she got it wrong, she would die. If she got it right…

She raised her hand to her diadem. Blessed by the Goddess, it augmented her powers. Her hand trembled slightly.

Entering Erebossa without permission from the Goddess would expose her to unspeakable terrors. In Erebossa, Zephyra would be exposed to the eyes of the False Ones, and their agents.

She fixed her gaze on Arenavachi’s Fane.

It was a short distance away. So short.

But within Erebossa she could move quickly, find her father, and drive away anyone surrounding him.

“Greatest One, I beg Your protection,” Zephyra prayed. “Shield me, Greatest One, as I pass between.”

Gripping her diadem, Zephyra focused her will upon it.

An overwhelming chill took hold of her then, as if she’d gone to the tops of the mountains where dragons rested and trees could not grow.

Darkness surrounded her. A few feet away everything and everyone glimmered in a silvery blue haze. The air rippled, as if everyone around her walked below a lake or a pool, and she was staring down at them. She turned, pointing her feet toward the fane.

That was when she saw them.

Her heart leapt into her throat, cutting off her screams.

Looming over her were two gigantic beasts. Though shaped as men, they sucked away all light. Their eyes glowed a sickly yellow, with slitted pupils that roved two and fro as they glared down at her. They carried swords made of shadow, clutched in skeletal talons.

Zephyra could not explain to herself later how she did it—one moment, one of the creatures was reaching for her, causing her to involuntarily lash out as if to slap him—and the next moment, she stood in the doorway of the temple.

Motionless, stunned, she stared at the now-distant fellshades.

They stared back.

One took a step toward her.

“In the name of the Greatest One, stay away from me!”

Again the air shimmered in front of her. A barrier, like the one the Lyrcanians used around the pavilion.

No one with mortal sight could see her. People walked through her and around her, all clamoring to get inside, where they believed the foreigners would protect them from the rabisu they’d so ably killed.

Zephyra could not bring herself to scoff at them. What the Eitanite did wasn’t remarkable at all; anyone with blessed sea salt could kill rabisu. The Elamisi would remember that before long.

Then she remembered that the sorcerers of Elamis no longer enjoyed their full powers. All part of her father’s plan, to draw them into the fold once he revealed the Goddess, and the benefits of allegiance to Her. Unfortunately, he never made it to the next stage, so the mages might naturally doubt they could wield the salt as easily as the Eitanite had.

By the Goddess, everything was going wrong. But Zephyra had no time for tears now, she had to find her father.

She flowed through and around the crowd, seeking the she-wolves. Where they were, so also her father would be.

Their auras disquieted her. Opalescent rays, like moonbow steel swirled about them when she last saw them. As though they were holy, celestial. And wherever they went, they left an opalescent trail which led her unerringly through a labyrinth of corridors.

At last she came to a door, which she passed through.

Again her blood ran cold. Two more abyssals—or were they the same ones?—stood over her father, a ghastly parody of his Manticoran Guard.

Her father lay on a bier, still encased in a silver shield. A thin yet formidable barrier which held back the abyssals which battered mercilessly against it. Nevertheless, it held fast. Several feet away the three she-wolves held court, alongside the two men of Lyrcania. One of the men, pale-faced with carob-colored hair, kept pacing back and forth through one of the abyssals, giving no sign that he knew it was there.

Zephyra’s heart pounded. For the moment, the abyssals didn’t perceive her. For the moment, she could marshal her powers. This time, she could not flee. Either she stood her ground, or she abandoned her father.

As she watched, Alia went over to the bier and reached through the abyssal on her father’s left. In her hand she held a sharp metal stylus. Cruel, remorseless, she jabbed it into Protector Amavand’s stump. Utterly without care if she caused him pain or not.

Protector Amavand made no reaction, and Zephyra swelled with a pride that was quickly extinguished when she saw his aura. Dim, sickly yellow-green. Like pus.

He was dying.

Anger surged through her. She opened her hands and flung them in the direction of the abyssals.

“Leave him! By the Greatest One, I command you to leave him!”

The infernal wraiths noticed her then, smoke swirling around the place where their heads should be. The smoke cleared just enough for her to make out pale, ruined flesh, the face of a corpse long trapped under water.

Zephyra let out a wordless roar, heating the air around her as she gathered the Greatest One’s gifts to her. She raised her hands, preparing to attack, when the abominable sentinels vanished on the spot.

Blood thundered in her ears. Thrown off balance, she had to stop to regain mastery of herself. When she could hear normally again she heard Alia saying,

“…we have her. Finally!”

Unmistakable triumph in her voice.

Seething, Zephyra took a moment to entertain fantasies of tearing Ironwing to pieces. If anyone deserved to be tormented by Erebossi, it was the baleful foreigners in this room.

But the Protector let out a shuddering breath, bringing Zephyra back to herself. Chastened, she glided over to her father and planted herself beside him.

“Should we kill him, then? We need a Marinite here to dispose of him properly,” the Siluran was saying.

“One of my priests could do it,” the Eitanite offered. “We’re far enough from the sea that I wouldn’t count on there being Marinites here.”

Bitches.

They would pay. Later. For now, Zephyra did her best to shut them out, focusing all her will on her father.

«Father,» she began. If he truly had drank the nectar then he should be able to see her.

Protector Amavand’s eyes swiveled sharply, before settling on her. His body flinched, then went still.

«Zephyra—how is it that you’re—»

«Tell me of the mynah, Father.»

It slipped out. Normally, she never outright said what she wanted. To do so was an invitation to be thwarted.

To teach you patience, her father claimed. Patience and contentment with what she already had, what he had already given her—what she never sought nor asked for. She was not to seek, only to accept.

Father closed his eyes, and took another shuddering breath. «You should not have come here. Not like this.»

«I am not afraid of the dwellers of Erebossa, my lord.» It took everything she had to keep the bite out of her voice.

«Oh, Zephyra…Zephyra…they are not…» his inner voice trailed off. When he began again he startled her by asking a question she did not expect.

«What?!»

«You saw the woman, didn’t you? Regal, like a queen, dressed in purple with a silvery light about her.»

Father described her so perfectly that Zephyra’s heart sank.

«You know of her? Who is she? Father—?»

Protector Amavand’s smile was sad, and his eyes turned glassy. For several heartbeats he didn’t speak.

«This day would come, she said. She is a prophet. Powerful. I underestimated her. Now comes the hour she foretold. She said she would exert herself in my favor if I confessed the truth to you.»

«Why believe her? Do you know she told me you lied every day to me?» Zephyra replied, a note of accusation creeping into her voice.

«I have lied. I have, Zephyra. Every day I let you think I was your father, every day I called you ‘Zephyra,’ and let you think you were my daughter.»

«What?!»

Shock almost robbed her of concentration. Just in time, she caught herself becoming corporeal again. What—Where—what did her father mean? For hours she’d been pondering the prophet’s words. In the end she concluded that if the prophet spoke truly, she had meant to accuse Protector Amavand of being half-hearted in his service of the Greatest One. Such a transgression would explain why the Greatest One would abandon him so remorselessly to the she-wolves.

«I shall explain…» he promised. «I have this much time left.»

Twenty years ago…

“It cannot be Amavand. Your Majesty. It cannot be Amavand.”

The seer stood over his lord’s desk, bent at the waist with his hands splayed flat on the reddish surface of the tamarisk wood.

Protector Baraz stared pointedly at the man’s hands, and the seer quickly withdrew them, folding his hands behind his back. The seer cleared his throat, but met his lord’s eyes, insistently holding his gaze.

“Your Majesty, if you choose Amavand as your successor, he will destroy your land. He will destroy Elamis.”

“You think he is weak.” The protector of Elamis spoke matter-of-factly, in a quiet, dangerous tone that put Zephyra on her guard.

“I do not deny it. Your son may not be weak in loyalty to you, but he is weak in other ways. Weak of mind. Weak of will. Clay in the hands of anyone strong enough to mold him, and there are many who have that strength, Your Majesty. Your son has no principle of his own he will stand up for. No mind of his own, that he might reason out his own principles. Everything he does, he does to cultivate the favor of those who succor him. And while you’re on the throne, he’ll seek your favor. But when you are gone—when you are gone, Your Majesty—”

Protector Baraz rose, silencing him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he strolled over to his balcony. He looked out over the city. Below, people walked to and fro on their errands as the sun approached its zenith for the day.

“Who is it that you believe will corrupt my son?” Protector Baraz asked, not looking back at the seer.

Zephyra, standing invisibly next to the seer, marveled at the protector’s resemblance to her father. Except, she had to admit, that Protector Baraz had the stronger features. Graced with chiseled, well defined features, his face seemed carved from fine marble. Strong jaw, keen eyes. In his bearing, in his every gesture he exuded authority and power. Even from her current vantage point across time he awed her with his presence.

In contrast, Protector Amavand’s face was softer, as if shaped by hand…from clay. Guilt swelled in her; comparing the two men seemed a betrayal somehow of her father.

Who was not her father.

Still stunned by Protector Amavand’s extraordinary claim her thoughts became sluggish. It could not be so. It could not be so that he wasn’t her father. No memory came to mind of any other candidate for her true father. Why would she not remember him? Not remembering her mother made sense, because Protector Amavand always claimed her mother died in childbirth.

Now Zephyra mentally cringed, feeling foolish. Since when did Elamisi women die in childbirth, here in the City of Magi where the most powerful magi in all of Thuraia could be found?

Answers to all of her questions remained elusive at the moment, however. Instead she must focus on the world through Father’s—Amavand’s—eyes. Currently, he was spying on his father, through a scryer’s globe. And with him, a seer, Pishkar—with hair! So young he looked, almost unrecognizable from the rather wizened man who died two winters ago.

How had Pishkar managed to spy on Protector Baraz? The lord’s rooms were supposed to be proof against scrying. Or had that been Protector Amavand’s innovation, because he had remembered the transgressions of his youth?

The seer replied, “There is no one name I can give you, Your Majesty. It is not a simple matter of ‘eliminate this one person and all will be well.’ It is your son’s nature that is the problem. It is who will attach themselves to him if he is protector. Some will be near. Some will come from afar. And some will not be of this world.”

Protector Baraz turned back sharply at that last. The seer again met his eyes, forthright.

“Not of this world? What do you See? You’ve had a vision, have you not? Speak of it, and hold nothing back.”

“Shadows, Your Majesty. I see shadows. They want your son. I beg of you, leave the throne to Shahi instead.”

“So her husband could rule? So the throne will pass from my line?”

“It will pass regardless; Amavand shall never sire a child.”

Protector Baraz stood motionless for several heartbeats. When the silence seemed unbearable, he finally narrowed his eyes, staring at the prophet with cool appraisal.

“You never spoke of this before.”

“I hoped it would not be necessary, Your Majesty.”

“But that is why you insisted I should wed Shahi to my cousin, isn’t it? That is the real reason you did not want me to have her marry the protector of Shushan, isn’t it? So you could remove any objections to passing the throne to Shahi?”

The prophet bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. I care about Elamis. I care about you, and your legacy, and I know—the Relentless One knows—that Amavand will sunder it all. Please—”

Suddenly, everything went black, and it took Zephyra a moment to realize that Amavand had thrown a cloth over the scryer’s globe. By this means he turned away from the vision; he’d had enough.

Amavand turned now to Pishkar, who was watching him with a wary eye. The seer said nothing, demonstrating at a young age the prudence Zephyra had always known him to have.

“All of Nekdel’s lands will be yours when the time comes; I swear it will be so.”

Zephyra would have gasped, were she still in her body. She had never heard such naked corruption from Father—from Protector Amavand before. Such desperation in his voice.

Come to think of it she never met this Shahi, either. Father had a sister? Why did no one ever speak of her?

Pishkar backed away. “I do not ask this. There is no need to pay me. I have never coveted anything belonging to any man, not Nekdel, not anyone. You wanted to spy on the protector, and I helped, but I do not require anything in return.”

Amavand’s voice was cold. “But you will have it all the same.”

So this, then, was the reason Amavand had always warned her to be sure of what others valued before bringing them into her league. Without leverage over Pishkar, no means to bribe him, he resorted to dirtying the man’s honor instead.

There was a wrenching of memory, and suddenly they stood now in the throne room. To her surprise, Amavand now sat on the throne. Which meant he became his father’s successor after all. Except for the soldiers, everyone around him dressed in austere clothes, plain simple garments with little ornamentation. This next memory, then, must be from the fifth year of his reign. During the Uprising, when shadow-reapers from Shushan had either charmed away or poisoned the crops of the farms that supported Elamis.

As Zephyra understood it, the nobles of the day wanted to curry favor with the ordinary people. Their plainclothes were meant to convey that they, too, shared in the suffering. And especially that they were not stockpiling extra food they withheld from the ordinary citizens of Elamis.

The scribes and lore keepers always said that Amavand’s handling of the Uprising settled forever the question of his mettle. No one ever again doubted his worth to wear his father’s crown.

So they said.

“We will not last the winter if this keeps up,” one of the guardsmen was saying. The seers were nodding their agreement.

One man stepped forward.

It took a moment for Zephyra to place him: Artostes, the Magister of War. Though, he was not wearing anything sumptuous enough to suggest he bore that lofty title at that moment. And, his hands were trapped in the dead-end sleeves of his coat, indicating he was a stranger. Two Manticoran Guards flanked him, their faces concealed by electrum masks.

“My lord, my name is Artostes. I have come a long way to speak to you. Word of your war has come to me, and to you I bring a way to help Elamis.”

This time Zephyra braced herself for the wrenching. Amavand and Artostes were still wearing the clothes they had on in the throne room, which meant it was the same day.

A frisson of fear shot through her when she realized they were standing in the Gate Room.

The entrance to the nekromanteion.

Open on one side, a vaulted ceiling covered the chamber’s three walls, creating an iwan arch. The arch, tiled in white enamel brick, offered shade from the oppressive sun. Heat still tormented him; however, and thus Amavand flapped an ostrich-feather fan about himself as he stood before a pair of bronze doors in the central wall of the iwan.

Every time save one, whenever Zephyra came to the Gate Room entrance the bronze doors were shut fast. Only once did Amavand allow her to see the doors opened, on the occasion when he introduced her to the Greatest One.

On that cherished day, Zephyra nevertheless remained within the iwan. Both Amavand and Artostes forbade her to cross the threshold into the necromanteion. Dire warnings echoed in her mind, dire enough to secure her obedience.

With the doors open, the circular room beyond them was now on display. Eight blind arcades along the walls were decorated either with enamel green brick, or mosaic tiles. Each arcade with mosaic tiles showcased a different symbol. Asphodel, symbolic of the Grey Plains where unquiet spirits roamed. Yellow roses for the Everlasting Lands where the virtuous dead were sent. Black hollyhock, for the Place of Judgement. The twisted yew tree, which grew near the Abyss of the Damned.

These arcades, truly, were shadow gates, activated by the seals on the black marble floor. The mystery; however, concerned the “blank” blind arcades. They might lead anywhere in Erebossa, but Artostes discouraged Zephyra from investigating the matter.

On the floor, a mosaic braid pattern border enclosed an inlaid seal. Inside the border, a large central ring held a smaller ring, which in turn contained a yet smaller ring. Between the large outer ring and the medium-sized inner ring were four seal discs, equidistant from each other. Three seal discs were inset between the second ring and the third. Both the rings and the seals glowed red, a sign of death magics at work.

To cross the threshold into one of the arcades—shadow gates—one must use life-sowing magic. At least, Zephyra always thought so, but Artostes always insisted otherwise.

“How do I know you can do what you say?” Protector Amavand demanded.

Artostes smiled, that smug, self-satisfied smile Zephyra always loathed. “What is the limit of a sorcerer’s power?” the future master of war spoke in a silky smooth voice.

From the vantage point of occupying his memories, Zephyra felt Amavand’s profound annoyance with that question.

“What limits the gods set, that is the limit of a sorcerer. If you would master the tides, and obtain the aid of the dragons below them, swear fealty to the Sea Lord. If you wish to master the elements and control the wilds, you must obey the Huntress. To make the deserts bloom and the fields fertile, set an altar to the Reaper. To heal the sick, bow down to the Restorer. And to see the past or the future, give the Seeker Her due.”

Bitterness laced his voice, which he made no attempt to hide. Which prompted Zephyra to ponder how resentful he sounded, as a child might resent rules he thought was unfair.

“And where is your loyalty, lord of Elamis?”

“To Arenavachi, like all the other rulers of this land. Is there a point to this? I asked you to prove yourself—”

“We must both prove ourselves, honored one,” came the mild reply. “It was foretold that you should not rule Elamis. A seer said so. A seer of the order of the Seeker, no less. Your presence on the throne is in violation of Her will. Your crown cannot rest easy on your head, with such knowledge, can it?”

Amavand’s temper flared. With a snap of his wrist he shut his fan and pointed it at Artostes. “Is. There. A. Point?”

“We are limited by the gods only as we choose to be.”

The answer knocked Amavand off balance, but Zephyra sensed his excitement all the same. Mentioning the Seeker touched a nerve in him.

Few within Protector Baraz’s court ever knew the Seeker’s will with respect to the succession. Father and son -- although the father never knew of his son's awareness of the prophecy -- exerted great effort to ensure it never became common knowledge. Unfortunately for Amavand, whispers of his lack of divine authority carefully spread amongst a select group.

“The war with Shushan is because the gods are punishing us. The war will end if Amavand steps down.”

“Is that right?” Amavand circled Artostes. In his mind he meant to intimidate the strange newcomer. However, he managed to only complete one revolution, then Artostes winked out of sight. Amavand whirled on his heel, looking about himself in obvious surprise.

Artostes immediately reappeared, this time in the central ring. Somehow he had also shed his coat, inexcusably allowing the free movement of his hands.

“What?” Amavand lunged, then stopped himself just in time from stepping onto the gate seal. The living could not cross it, not without proper preparation first.

Amused, Artostes let out a deep-throated laugh which echoed on the stones of the necromanteion. “I pay no obeisance to those great pretenders you spoke of,” he said. “I do not need permission from the Huntress to shake the ground. I do not regard the Sea Lord when I summon a sea dragon to my bidding.”

Keeping his eyes on Amavand he lowered his hands, holding them out in front of himself, and spacing them so that they were only the width of a soup bowl apart. Lightning sparked, arcing from one hand to the other.

Impressed and disquieted at once, Amavand was rooted to the spot. What Artostes had done could not be dismissed as a mere trick: a huntsman could summon a storm, but to wield the power of a storm was another thing entirely. Zephyra had never heard of a huntsman throwing lightning around.

Nor, apparently, had Amavand.

“How do I know that’s not an illusion?” he demanded.

Artostes smiled wider. “A good question. A wise question.”

Until that moment he had stood on the seal. Now he hovered a few inches above it. He spun, putting his back to Amavand, so that he was facing a shadow gate. Flinging out his hands, he hurled the lightning at one of the “bricked” shadow gates.

The bricks vanished in an explosion of light. Were she in her body Zephyra would have screamed. Fortunately, Amavand screamed enough for both of them.

All light vanished. Dark clouds swirled just beyond the blind arcade between the Abyssal and the Judgment shadow gates. At the height where eyes might be glowed two citrine orbs. Amavand’s heart skipped a beat.

“Greetings,” said the cool voice, which Zephyra recognized as belonging to the Goddess.

Amavand licked his lips. “Greetings…? I am Amavand, Protector of Elamis—”

“I know who you are, My son. Why have you summoned Me?”

It took him a long while to answer, as he weighed his own heart. Power. Artostes both demonstrated, and offered him much power. And with this power, came a way out for Amavand. A way to save Elamis, without giving up his crown. And a way to avoid the judgment of the Seeker, who had sent prophets to declare him unworthy to rule.

But what was the price?

Another wrenching, and this time Zephyra re-oriented to find herself on a ship. Choppy seas rocked the vessel, whose beleaguered sailors already battled against wind and tide. Father gratified her by staring out at the sea, because through his eyes she saw the sea for the first time in her life. For her, the world ended at the gates of Elamis.

But Amavand had other things on his mind. Sea sprays stung his eyes. The incessant shouts of the sailors battered his ears, and the chill wind leached all heat from his body. Sailing proved a miserable experience for him, and he would be glad to get it over with.

As soon as he learned why he had to undertake the journey in the first place, that is. Artostes came up beside him. Before he could speak, Amavand demanded,

“It’s time you told me why we’re here.”

Because he was sharing his memories with her, Zephyra knew Father had come out to sea on a promise. A promise, from Artostes and the Goddess, that if he undertook the voyage he would be striking back at the Seeker. A sweet salve for a grudge he’d nursed for—he paused to calculate—nearly fifteen years since he overheard Nekdel counsel against allowing him the throne.

When Amavand came to the throne, he carried out his first priority: making Nekdel pay for his counsel. Fearing the hold Pishkar might have over him if he killed Nekdel, Amavand instead confiscated everything the prophet owned and forced him into exile.

Unrepentant, Nekdel left the city without a fight, but with a final warning: “If you love Elamis, step down, lest you destroy both the city and yourself with it.”

A parting shot, one which haunted Amavand. Now the Greatest One was offering him a way to strike back.

Artostes stared up at the stars. “Soon will come the day when another prophet will be your enemy. Today she is also your enemy, but she doesn’t yet know it. Today she is slavishly devoted to the Seeker. You will break her utterly, and sunder the plans of the False One you hate so much.”

Protests died on Amavand’s tongue. Why deny the truth? With all his heart he hated the Seeker. He just thought he’d kept his hatred well hidden. How had Artostes caught him out? The Greatest One must have told him…

“How?” he demanded. “How shall I do this?”

“By being in the right place at the right time. We are almost there. Just watch, and you’ll see.”

In the distance, a storm brewed. It looked downright cataclysmic, and Amavand wondered if this was the real reason for the violent rocking of the ship. He wanted to throw up, but it was unseemly for him to succumb to such weakness. Instead, he looked away from the storm and closed his eyes.

“So we need to find a harbor? Is that where this special event will happen?”

“You don’t wonder why the storm is in front of you but not around you?” Mockery made Artostes’ voice a sing-song.

Pride prickled him, and Amavand forced himself to open his eyes again. He pretended to look out onto the sea. Staring at everything made him ill, so he fixed his attention on the horizon.

“Is this your doing?” Amavand asked. “The storm. Is it your doing?”

“Of course it is. And I didn’t need to petition the Sea Lord or the Huntress. The Greatest One is sufficient.”

Her power amazed him every time She demonstrated it. He reveled each time Artostes performed some feat of sorcery that should have required allegiance to the False Ones. Artostes didn’t even need a sylph to call up a raging storm.

The storm didn’t last long—it burned out before the watchman called out the hour.

But it was long enough.

Where the storm had brewed now floated the carcass of a ship, reduced to nothing more than splinters. Over the roar of the sorcerers came the wails of the ship’s survivors. Someone, a huntsman perhaps, sent up a twisted column of fire. The fire swirled red and white, guaranteeing that whoever saw it would understand it to be unnatural, and would send out a force to investigate.

“We don’t have long,” Artostes warned.

They moved quickly. It was important that no one spot the ship, so Artostes put fog between it and the survivors. Beyond the fog, he dispatched men in rowboats. They moved not by their own power, but by his command of wind and tide. A scryer went with them, the quicker to find their quarry.

And a bird.

A night-black bird with a citrine band about its neck.

Zephyra’s heart skipped a beat.

“What is that bird?” Amavand wondered aloud.

“A mynah. A gift from our goddess. I have trained it to say a particular phrase when it sees the face the goddess has shown to me.”

“You trained it to do what?”

The memory blurred, but did not wrench. Suddenly, Amavand stood before her. The grey-haired, glassy-eyed, dying Amavand. He reached for her, then stopped himself as his hands vanished. His gaze locked with hers as he said, «For what it is worth—for what it is worth, Zephyra—I did love you.»

They heard the bird first. In a clear voice it insisted, “This is the one! This is the one! This is the one!”

The men raised the dinghy. Three men had gone out. Three men had returned, with another in their midst. They had a bundle wrapped between them. Gently, they lowered the bundle onto the deck.

The mynah returned to Artostes, alighting on his outstretched finger.

“This is the one! This is the one!” it cried.

Artostes stroked the bird’s neck and smiled. “That will be all.” He slipped a black hood over the head of the bird, and cradled it gently in his arms. It quieted instantly.

“What is this?” Young Amavand demanded.

The bundle was the length of a person.

The men looked up. They glanced at Artostes, who nodded. Carefully, the men unwrapped one layer of the bundle.

A girl lay inside the mass of blankets. She was unconscious, still and silent. One of the men took her chin in his hands and prodded her face toward Amavand.

Zephyra froze, a cold sword piercing her heart.

«It’s me.»