The Divided Knight - Chapter Seventeen

The circular stone platform dominated the rear courtyard of the High Fortress. Etched into its surface was the shape of an enormous seven-pointed star, and words had been carved into it all along its outer edge. The words were all Eltaran – a spell that, for five hundred years, no mage had been permitted to learn or speak. As he stood in the center of the platform, waiting for the Sword Priests he had selected to accompany him on his journey to Eltara to arrive, Atraxos the Black read the words and sneered at the ignorance of the Conclave. You fools had such power available to you, but you were too afraid to use it. The world is truly better without your cowardly lot.

With a sudden frown, Atraxos looked up from his contemplation of the spell and turned his gaze northwestward. Three hundred leagues in that direction was Valewind, the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Telvany. Ever since having King Lyrian issue his decree calling for the eradication of the Order of Catharzen, Atraxos had known Duke Hilstren of Telvany would be a problem – anyone with ties as intimate to the Order as he had would be nothing less – but, today, a new, more arcane sense of that problem drifted in on the morning breeze. Prior to his most recent contact with the Demon Lords, Atraxos, powerful though he was, would have been unable to perceive the change from such a distance. He perceived it now, however, and it gave him a moment of pause. A new mage has arisen. The King's Guard alone will not be enough to deal with such a threat.

Three Sword Priests emerged from the High Fortress and joined Atraxos in the center of the stone platform. Each of them was dressed in black leather armor with sinuous forms the color of blood emblazoned on the front. They were each, like all Eltarans, more than six feet tall, and Atraxos felt a small measure of satisfaction that, because of his last contact with the Demon Lords, they no longer towered over him. Atraxos turned to them as they fell into place behind him.

“We have a problem,” Atraxos said, speaking in Eltaran. “A new mage has arisen in Telvany. He will pose a threat to us if he is not dealt with.”

“A single mage surely cannot pose too great of a threat, my Lord,” the tallest and most imposingly built of the Sword Priests – his name was Edrend, Atraxos remembered – said.

“He can if he forges too strong of an alliance with the monks. They are far more powerful than you realize. Edrend, I have decided you will not be accompanying me to Eltara. I want you take charge of the King's forces personally and strike at Telvany without delay. Show no mercy to anyone who stands in your way.”

For a moment, Edrend looked as if he was about to protest, but then he straightened to attention and said, “As you command, my Lord.”

Atraxos smiled. “Do not fear for my safety because of your absence, my friend. Your brothers, here, will more than suffice when it comes to my defense, and I now have abilities at my command which, should I need them, may make even their presence unnecessary.”

“As you say, my Lord,” Edrend said. He looked at Atraxos. “May I go?”

Atraxos's smile grew into a grin. “You may.”

Edrend placed his fist over his heart in salute, gave a stiff bow, and then headed back into the High Fortress.

“He will find it difficult to command the humans, my Lord,” one of the two remaining Sword Priests, whose name was Velatrax, and whose appearance reminded Atraxos of nothing less than that of a Vampire, said once Edrend was gone. “They fear us.”

“As well they should,” Atraxos said. “Once, all Eltarans were feared by the humans, and that fear allowed us to rule. And it will, again. When we are finished putting our enemies to the sword, this world will once again be ours, and ours alone. And it will not be the only one. The entire universe will be ours for the taking.”

“A lofty goal, my Lord,” Velatrax said. “But, if I may say so, it was an attempt to attain a goal similar to that one that destroyed our people after the last Mage War. Though we of the True were locked away, we were aware of what happened, of how the Elders listened to the counsel of forces they did not understand and were annihilated after making a futile attempt to set our people up amongst the gods. How can you be sure something similar will not happen, this time?”

For a long time, Atraxos said nothing. Then, he threw back the hood of his cloak, and, when he did, both of of the two remaining Sword Priests took a step away from him. That step was the only movement they were allowed, however – Atraxos, with nothing but a thought, and with hardly any effort, summoned a suspension field and placed it around them, encasing them so tightly that the only thing they could still do was breathe. “Look into my eyes,” Atraxos said, addressing both Sword Priests. “Look! See the flames, there, and know me for what I am! Already, I command powers neither of you have even dreamed of, and, once we go to Eltara and I seize the Amulet of Adarion, nothing will be able to stand in my way. I will be the Hidden King's instrument made flesh, and I will make worlds tremble. Do you still doubt me? Do you?”

“No, my Lord,” the two Sword Priests said in unison once Atraxos had relaxed the suspension field enough for them to speak.

Atraxos grinned. “Excellent.” He dismissed the suspension field and once again drew up the hood of his cloak. “We are ready to depart, then.”

“One other thing, my Lord,” Velatrax said. “If I may?”

“Speak.”

“What of the escaped Knight?”

The escaped Knight – Atraxos had learned that his name was Thaddeus Alvarem, and that he had quite an interesting history – had become a vexation that, until then, Atraxos had been trying to avoid thinking about. For hours, now, the escaped Knight had been hidden from Atraxos's senses, his trail coming to an end at the very foot of the Ivory Spires. Not only that, the sense Atraxos had had of the creature whom he was certain was the Knight's quarry – the elusive samaritan known as the Wanderer – had been lost to him, as well. If the finer details of the Knight's history could be believed, and the things the Hidden King had told Atraxos about him could be trusted, he and the Wanderer shared a single, divided soul. The Hidden King had seemed apprehensive when discussing the potential reunification of that divided soul, and Atraxos was sure he knew why – if the Knight and the Wanderer were reunited back into a single person, that person would likely go on to be the first Battlemage the world had seen since Solanas the Elder. Solanas had defeated Atraxos, once, and the existence of a new Battlemage meant there was a chance he would be defeated, again. I'm not the weakling necromancer I was, then, however. This time, I'm one of them, and not even a Battlemage of Solanas's ilk will be able to stand against me.

“We will find him,” Atraxos said. “And he will die.”

“As you say, my Lord,” Velatrax said.

Atraxos moved to turn away from the Sword Priests, but stopped short as he suddenly remembered something. Turning back toward Velatrax, he stepped up to him, raised his hand, and slapped him, the sound of the blow echoing throughout the courtyard. “You are no longer one of the True, Velatrax,” Atraxos hissed. “The True are our enemy. Never forget that.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Velatrax said as he recovered from the slap and drew himself back up to his full height. “Forgive me.”

Atraxos looked at him and said nothing. Then, he turned and spoke the spell that was inscribed on the stone platform. The lines that made up the seven-pointed star began to glow and there was a sudden roar as flames sprang up all around Atraxos and his Sword Priests. Though none of them was touched by the fire, it seemed to engulf them, and, when it died away a few moments later, they were gone – traveling by flame on their way to Eltara.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Sixteen

Garrold came awake with a start. At the same time, lightning flashed outside the window of his bed chamber, accompanied a few moments later by a vicious crack of thunder.

The dream had been a bad one, this time, the worst Garrold had had in months. In it, he had stood before the headsman's block in the courtyard of the royal palace, listening as King Lyrian read off a series of charges from somewhere behind him. The charges had been oathbreaking and treason, the two most serious offenses in the entire kingdom, and the only offenses for which the accused was not permitted to plea for mercy from the King. Once the charges had been read, the King had ordered the accused to kneel, and it was only when he'd felt the headsman's boot in his back that Garrold had realized the accused was him. Having no choice, Garrold had knelt, turning his head to the side and lowering it until it rested against the cold stone of the block.

Once Garrold had in been in place, King Lyrian had proclaimed his sentence, and there had been a ring of steel as the headsman lifted his sword. Garrold had attended two executions in his lifetime – experiences he hoped, one day, he would figure out how to forget – and, in each instance, once the King had proclaimed his sentence and the headsman had made ready to strike the blow, the crowd in attendance had roared. This had not happened in Garrold's dream, however, and there had been no sound at all until the split second before the headsman's sword touched his neck. The sound that had come, then, hadn't been the roar of a crowd – it had been cruel, echoing laughter.

Garrold turned on his side, watching as another flash of lightning illuminated the unused pillows on the other side of the bed. Therese, along with the baby she had been carrying, had been gone almost a year, now. Garrold always missed her the worst after one of his dreams, missed her arms and the soothing words she would whisper in his ear to help him fall back to sleep. I wonder what kind of child we would have had? Garrold wondered, not for the first time. Would it have been a boy? Would he have made a good duke?

Getting out of bed, Garrold went over to the window, staring out at the storm-lashed night. For so early in the season, the storm seemed a powerful one, and Garrold was sure that, somewhere out there, a farmer was losing his life or livelihood to a whirlwind. Garrold would hear from that farmer, or from his widow, sometime in the next few days, pleading for help so that their children wouldn't go hungry. Garrold would give them money, of course – as much as he could spare – but that wouldn't restore what had been lost. Would that I could have prevented the loss in the first place, he mused.

A mage could have prevented that loss. Not a mage like the ones who had belonged to the Conclave – they had all been full of themselves, imperious and self-serving creatures who looked down on the world around them, never lifting a finger to help those who really needed it – but a mage like the ones from the stories, a mage who truly served the people and never asked for anything in return. If the stories could be believed, all mages had been like that once, even the ones who'd ruled, and Garrold was sure that he would never have feared a mage like that. There were no mages like that, anymore, if there ever even had been. There were no longer any mages, at all.

Garrold's thoughts turned once again to his dream. He knew what it all meant, of course, as, in the days to come, he fully intended to begin implementing his plan to defy King Lyrian's decree calling for the destruction of the Order of Catharzen. Garrold intended for Telvany to become a stronghold for the Order, a place where they would be safe from the depredations of Lyrian's King's Guard, and where, once everything was ready, a counter strike against the King could be mounted. Doing this would make Garrold an oathbreaker and a traitor – it would make him a rebel – and, if he wasn't successful, it would mean the loss of his head. And, if he lost his head, he was sure Atraxos the Black would revel in it, becoming a whirlwind that would destroy not just a single farm, but the entire world. I can't allow that to happen. But I don't know what to do.

“You'd know what to do, Resey,” Garrold whispered as rain and wind beat against the glass of the window.

“You are not alone in your fight, my love.”

Garrold turned away from the window with a start, his eyes going wide at the sight of the spectral form he found floating in the air between him and the bed. It was Therese. She was wearing the gown she had been buried in, and was lit from within by a soft, blue glow. It was the first time Garrold had ever seen a ghost – up until now, he'd never really believed they existed – and, while shocked at who it was, he found he was not afraid. “Resey?”

Therese smiled. “Hello, my love.”

“But, how can you be here?”

“I have always been with you, my love. Don't you remember how I told you that not even the grave could keep us apart?”

Garrold remembered her telling him that very well – it had been the last thing she'd ever said, right before her eyes had drifted closed and her hand had slipped from his. And, now that he thought about it, hadn't he always felt that, even though she was gone, he had never been truly alone? Hadn't there even been a couple of occasions when he'd thought he'd felt her touch? But why hadn't he seen her, before? Why had she waited until now to reveal herself to him?

“You know . . . you know of the troubles I am facing?” Garrold asked.

“Of course I do. They are troubles that threaten everyone, even the souls in the Spirit Realm. Atraxos the Black has always been a powerful necromancer with strong ties to the Lords of the Damned, but now, it seems he has somehow strengthened those ties to make himself even stronger. But, as I said, you are not alone in your fight, my love. Even now, the first Battlemage in three thousand years has arisen, and he is accompanied by a Priestess of Adarion. They will be the ones to bring the fight to Atraxos directly. All you need do, my love, is become what you have always been meant to be and remake that which was destroyed.”

“I . . . I don't understand, Resey. What do you mean, become what I have always been meant to be?”

Therese drifted toward Garrold, reaching up and brushing his cheek with her fingers. Her touch was not cold – Garrold had always heard that a ghost's touch was as cold as ice – but it did cause a feeling not unlike an electric shock to pass through him. As the feeling passed, new sensations replaced it, a sixth sense that, for the first time, allowed him to see the connection he shared with Therese's spirit – a connection that originated from him, and not from her. Magic! It's magic, and the spell connecting me to her is one I created!

Therese was smiling at him. “For too long, you have allowed your fear to blind you to the truth. It's a truth I always knew, though. I sensed it in you when I first met you – I was always sensitive to magic, though I had no skill of my own – and I always hoped you would someday open your eyes to it. My only wish is that I was still alive so that I could share your gift with you. You will do well, my love, so long as you never again let fear cloud your vision.” Therese's expression grew solemn. “And now you must sever our connection.”

“What? Why? I want you to stay, Resey. I need you to.”

“It has become too dangerous for me to stay, my love. If I stay, Atraxos will find me, and if he finds me, I will never again be free.”

“Surely there must be some way I can protect you from him.”

Therese reached up, again, cupping Garrold's cheek in her hand. Though she was only a ghost, Garrold thought he saw tears in her eyes. “You are strong, my love, but you aren't that strong. Not even the Battlemage is that strong, for he, himself, is not yet all he must be, despite his being in the presence of a Priestess. Let me go, Garrold. But never forget me. I will always love you. Always. And, one day, our souls will be reunited.”

“Our child, Resey,” Garrold said. “Before I let you go, tell me of our child.”

“He would have made a good duke,” Therese said. “Just like his father.”

Garrold knew how to sever the spell that connected him to Therese. It was like he had always known. All he had to do was speak the words. “Goodbye, Resey.”

As soon as the words had been spoken, Therese's spectral form drifted away from him and began to fade. “Farewell, my love,” she said. And then she was gone.

There was a chair near the window, and Garrold made his way over to it. Sitting down, he put his head in his hands and wept harder than he had since Therese's funeral. The storm of tears ended at almost the same time as the storm outside, but, when it was over, instead of feeling drained, Garrold felt full of a new – and quite unexpected – resolve. Therese had come to him just when he'd needed her the most, and right when he he'd been most likely to accept her presence. And, because of her, Garrold now knew what he needed to do, what he needed to be. I will be like the mages in the stories, he thought. I must be!

Garrold stood and left the bed chamber. He needed to find his brother and tell him what he'd learned. Would Wilem be surprised when he told him? With a laugh, Garrold realized he doubted very much his brother would be.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Fifteen

The Wanderer had been an unwilling guest in the Guardian's dwelling for more than a week, now. In other circumstances, he would have thought himself a prisoner, but the Guardian did not treat him as a gaoler would have. During his stay in the construct's dwelling, the Wanderer had been well fed, had been provided a comfortable bed on which to sleep, and had even been treated on most evenings to engaging – and, sometimes, even enlightening – conversation. Despite all of that, however, the Wanderer had been forbidden to leave, and that rankled at him – not once in the last twenty years had the Wanderer ever stayed in one place more than a few days, and the longer the Guardian forced him to stay here, the more restless he became. Why doesn't he just let me answer the challenge and be done with it? Even if I fail, death would be a better alternative to just staying here and doing nothing.

Not for the first time, the Wanderer found himself wondering why he had agreed to go on the ridiculous quest the idiot monks at the abbey had given him. Was he really that desperate to be reunited with his other half? In fact, hadn't he told Zoe once that, if he ever ran into the man who had been allowed to use his true name, he'd kill him? And now I can't even do that. Not as long as I'm a “guest” under the roof of a construct who has outlived his own usefulness.

“Your food is growing cold.”

The Guardian did not live in his dwelling alone. A number of Sprites – the Wanderer was positive there was more than one, though he couldn't be certain since, as long as he remained under the Guardian's roof, he could neither sense nor wield magic – lived with him, and it seemed that they were the ones who had the actual responsibility of taking care of anyone else who happened to spend time there.

“I'm not hungry,” the Wanderer said to the Sprite. He turned his head to look at it. “When will your master be returning? He's been gone an awfully long time.”

“He will return when he returns,” the Sprite said. “Please, you must eat.”

The Wanderer smiled. “I said I wasn't hungry. Tell me, Sprite, why is it your master chose to go out this evening? Surely there aren't any travelers foolhardy enough to be coming this way.”

The Sprite twitched a bit in agitation. “I'm sorry, sir, but I've been forbidden from answering questions like that one.”

The Wanderer raised an eyebrow. “Forbidden, eh? Interesting. And I'm sure your master will punish you severely if you do answer. Am I correct in that assessment?”

The Sprite said nothing, though it continued to twitch.

The Wanderer laughed and shook his head, lifting his mug off the table he sat at and taking a swig of Telvan brandy. “You Sprites are useless creatures. Too smart for your own good, but also too weak and eager to please. It's no wonder the Torvarans forbade their mages from making contact with you. You would have infested their council like a plague of rats.”

“We would have done no such thing!”

The Wanderer grinned at the indignation in the creature's tinny voice. “What would you have done, then?”

“What we have always done. Taught. Counseled. Nurtured.”

“I'm sure.” The Wanderer took another drink. “And it would have worked just as well with them as it did with the Eltarans.”

“It would have been better. It would have!”

Deep down, a part of the Wanderer knew that it was wrong to wind the poor creature up like he was. Sprites were, after all, mostly harmless, and nothing the Wanderer had ever read or heard supported the stories that it was them who had led the Eltarans to their final doom. But who was he to ever listen to the better angels of his nature? Doing that would only make him weak and indecisive, not to mention take the fun out of everything. If the Wanderer ever did meet his other self, he would have to ask him what it was like to have a conscience. It had to be a miserable existence – one the Wanderer would have no qualms about ending.

“You look sad.”

The Wanderer looked up from his mug of brandy and scowled at the Sprite. “Get out of my sight,” he growled.

The Sprite twitched one final time, then vanished, leaving a brief afterimage in its wake. The Wanderer stared at where it had been for a few moments, then shook his head and downed the rest of his brandy. What could a Sprite, a being of magic that was hardly sentient at all, possibly know about how he felt? What could anyone?

A short time later, the Wanderer heard the scraping sounds that announced the door into the Guardian's dwelling was being opened. He immediately stood and went into the other room, coming up short when he saw the two people who stepped inside ahead of the Guardian's massive form. The auburn-haired woman, dressed in plain traveling clothes but still, somehow, looking to him like the most beautiful woman in the entire universe, was Zoe. The man at her side, who was a good foot taller than she was, and wore a blue tabard with the symbol of the True emblazoned on its front, caused the Wanderer's lips to draw up in a snarl.

“What are you doing here?” the Wanderer asked, addressing Zoe. He pointed at Thaddeus. “And why is he with you?”

“You will not address anyone under my roof with an uncivil tongue, Wanderer,” the Guardian said, the door of the dwelling scraping closed behind him. “They are here to answer my challenge. Just as you are. And, like you, if they answer it to my satisfaction, they will be allowed passage into the Elder Land.”

“You were told he would be coming,” Zoe said. “And I told you he might not be alone.”

“All right, then. Fine.” The Wanderer lowered himself into the nearest chair, which, like everything else in the dwelling, was made of stone. “Let's get this over with so that we can be on our way.”

“You are not being civil, Wanderer,” the Guardian rumbled. He gestured at Zoe and Thaddeus. “You will treat them with the same respect that they will treat you. OR YOU WILL CONSIDER THE CHALLENGE FORFEIT!”

It was the first time the Guardian had raised his voice since bringing the Wanderer into the dwelling, and it made the ground shake. The blue glow in the construct's eyes grew brighter, and it seemed he grew taller, the top of his head nearly making contact with the dwelling's ceiling. Curiously, the Wanderer was aware that only he could see these changes, that, illusion or not, they were meant solely for him. And, for reasons he couldn't fathom, that fact frightened him.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” the Wanderer said. “I will do as you say. I will treat them with respect so long as they treat me the same.”

“THEY WILL.” Abruptly, the Guardian returned to its normal appearance. “You have not eaten, have you?”

All at once, the Wanderer realized he was famished. “No.”

“Good. You shall all share a meal together, then.” The Guardian started toward the room the Wanderer had just come out of. “Come.”

The three of them ate in silence. From time to time during the meal, the Wanderer would look across the table at Thaddeus, hoping not to be seen, but always finding Thaddeus looking back at him. The first couple of times this happened, the Wanderer felt his anger threaten to boil over, his memory of the Guardian's admonishment the only thing that kept it from doing so. After those first couple of times, however, he felt his anger start to lessen, its place being taken by a budding curiosity. How truly different from him was Thaddeus? Had the hatred the Wanderer had felt toward him these last twenty years been truly justified? And where – where – had Thaddeus gotten the Eltaran sword he wore strapped across his back?

“That sword you have,” the Wanderer said after a Sprite – was it the same one he had spoken with, earlier? – had come and cleared away their plates. “How did you come by it?”

Thaddeus stared at him for a moment before answering. “It was given to me,” he said.

“Really? By whom?”

Thaddeus said nothing, his face – a mirror image of the Wanderer's – expressionless.

The Wanderer smiled crookedly. “Did you know that it's a Scourger? Those were always rare, even back when Eltaran Blades were fairly common.”

“He knows,” Zoe said, nervousness in her voice.

“The stories I've heard about you say you help people,” Thaddeus said, his tone doubtful.

The Wanderer's smile grew even more lopsided. “Oh, I've helped a few here and there. Poor sots who got lost in places people with any sense at all would know they never should have been. They're lucky I'm a generous soul, or I would have charged them for the trouble.”

“You wouldn't have done that,” Zoe said.

The Wanderer turned his smile toward her. “Oh, wouldn't I?”

“No. It's not in your nature. I know that, and so do you.”

“You don't know anything about me, Zoe. Not anymore.”

Zoe's expression hardened, and, for the first time since she had entered the Guardian's dwelling, the Wanderer noticed that there was something . . . different . . . about her. “I know everything about you,” she said. She rested her hand on Thaddeus's arm. “Just as I know everything about him. I made you, remember? Both of you.”

“Oh, I remember. I also remember the damnable hex you put on me afterward. The one that makes it so I can't even use my own name! I used to love you, Zoe! Gods Above curse me, I still do! Why would you do such a thing? Why?”

“He has a point, Zoe,” Thaddeus said, looking at her. “He has just as much right to my name as I do.”

Zoe looked back at Thaddeus, and, suddenly, her expression was no longer so hard. “But he isn't you!” she said. “Can't you see that?”

“But he is me,” Thaddeus said, and the Wanderer could hardly believe what he was hearing. “And I am him. He is the parts of me I lost when you created us, and I am the parts of him he lost.”

“What did you lose from him? You're kind. You're rational. You're sense of humor isn't cruel, and you don't revel in violence. You're a better person without him, Thaddeus!”

“No, Zoe,” Thaddeus said, giving her a sad smile, “I'm not. Without him, I sometimes doubt myself, and I'm sometimes indecisive about what actions I should take. That doesn't happen often, but, when it does – like it did when the Conclave was destroyed – people die. If I had been whole back then, none of what has happened since would have. I could have killed Garris Galgana before he ever had the chance to be subsumed by Atraxos the Black.”

“Atraxos the Black?” the Wanderer said, but no one else seemed to hear him.

“You don't know that, Thaddeus,” Zoe said.

“Yes, I do, Zoe,” Thaddeus said. “And I think you do, too. If you don't, then the Abbott inside of you does.”

“The Abbott?” the Wanderer said, but, again, no one else seemed to hear him.

“But he's . . . he's . . . he's so vile,” Zoe said.

“Vile he may be, Healer,” the Guardian said, “but the Knight speaks the truth. Their divided soul must be made whole, once again, if you are to succeed in your task. Thus is the challenge I put forth. Not for the Wanderer. Not for the Knight. For you. Unite what is divided, and passage to the Elder Land will be granted.”

A stunned silence fell in the room. The Wanderer shared a look with Thaddeus, who then looked to Zoe. When Zoe's eyes met the Wanderer's, he felt a thrill at the determination he saw there. But what could she actually do? What the Guardian had just asked of her was impossible, a fact the Wanderer was sure Zoe was well aware of.

“Zoe,” the Wanderer said, “you know as well as I do why the spell you used to divide us was forbidden. It can't be reversed.”

“Conventional thinking, Wanderer,” the Guardian said. “I suggest you let her try. Lady Zoe is no longer a simple cleric.”

“She isn't,” Thaddeus said. “She carries the powers of the Abbott within her, now, and they've already allowed her to do things normal clerics wouldn't be able to. Right now, I think it's safe to say that all bets are off when it comes to things that should or should not be possible.”

The Wanderer looked at Zoe for a moment, considering. “There's a lot about what's happening I don't understand,” he said at last. “I don't like not understanding things. There's one thing, though, that seems pretty clear to me. The nature of the quest you gave me has changed, hasn't it?”

“Not really changed,” Zoe said, “though it has become what we hoped and prayed it wouldn't. Atraxos the Black has reemerged, and he knows the location of the Amulet of Adarion – the well of power we sent you to secure. We have to try and get to it before he does, which means I have to be able to reunite you and Thaddeus. And not just because doing so will satisfy the Guardian's challenge. Having you whole and in control of the full extent of your abilities will make you the most powerful mage since Solanas the Elder, and there is a possibility you could be even more powerful than he was.”

“She speaks truthfully,” the Guardian said. He turned his blue gaze on Zoe, his voice taking on a note of regret. “I have placed the fate of worlds on your shoulders with my challenge, Healer. Please forgive me. I had no choice.”

Zoe returned the Guardian's gaze. “There is nothing to forgive. Each of us must play the parts that are given to us.” She turned her head away and closed her eyes.

Almost as soon as Zoe closed her eyes, a glowing, yellow nimbus of radiant energy appeared around her. Abruptly, the Wanderer could sense magic, again, though when he tried to reach out for it and craft a spell, he felt it being pulled away from him, siphoned from him and into Zoe like water being drawn from a well. It was also being drawn from Thaddeus, he noticed, and from the Guardian's dwelling – it was even being drawn from the Guardian, himself, a fact announced when the construct's eyes winked out. As Zoe drew more and more magic into herself, the nimbus around her grew brighter, and, as it grew brighter, she began to sway back and forth. At first, she only swayed slightly, but, as the moments passed, her swaying grew faster, and, as she swayed, her lips began to move.

The Wanderer knew Zoe's lips formed the words of a spell, but he could not hear them as they were spoken. A sound like roaring wind filled his ears, blocking out everything else, and he found he could no longer move, his whole body rooted to the spot as if he had become one with the stone chair he sat upon. From deep within himself, a voice tried to tell the Wanderer that he should be panicking, that he should be doing something to stop what was happening, that what was happening would change him forever and that, afterward, he would never again be who he was, but he found he could ignore it, pushing it aside until, at last, it began to quieten, smothered and beaten down by the sheer awe the Wanderer began to feel as Zoe's spell took hold.

It started with the Wanderer hearing thoughts in his head that weren't his own – they were Thaddeus's, which, he realized at once, were frantic, chaotic, and panicked. If Thaddeus couldn't be made to calm down, Zoe's spell would never work, and would no doubt wind up killing all three of them. But, at the same moment the Wanderer started hearing Thaddeus's thoughts, Thaddeus began hearing his, as well, and, all at once, Thaddeus began to grow calmer. As Thaddeus calmed, his frantic thoughts filled with the same awe the Wanderer felt, and it was that awe that became the stitching which started to knit them together. Soon, the Wanderer began having difficulty telling where his thoughts ended and Thaddeus's began, and did it seem, as he looked at him, that Thaddeus's form was beginning to grow less and less distinct, that it was beginning to fade away?

The Wanderer suddenly began to experience memories of events he had never participated in. He saw what life had been like for a Holy Knight of the Conclave, and he saw what it had been like to see the other Knights – along with the mages they had been sworn to protect – fall to the Order of the Crimson Serpent. He met with the spirit of Solanas the Elder as it set him on his journey, and he felt the anger at learning the truth about why he had been sent away from the abbey. He felt love for Zoe – pure love that, despite what he learned about her, never became tainted with resentment – and he felt the thrill of learning that love was returned, a thrill so sweet that, had he not been paralyzed, it would have made him weep. I love her, he thought. And she loves me!

Suddenly, the roar in the Wanderer's ears died down, and he found that he could once again move. Looking down at himself, he saw that he wore a blue tabard with the symbol of the True emblazoned on it. There was a sword strapped to his back, and he felt something – Aylander! – touch his thoughts from within it. He looked up, blinking – why were his cheeks wet? – and saw that the chair across the table from him, the one that had been Thaddeus's, was empty. Of course it's empty. I'm Thaddeus, now. We're Thaddeus, now.

Thaddeus looked at Zoe. “You did it.”

Zoe, who looked to be on the verge of passing out, gave him a weak smile. “Was there ever any doubt?” She pitched forward, but was stopped from hitting the table by the Guardian, who reached out and caught her.

“The Priestess needs sleep, now,” the Guardian said, lifting Zoe in his arms as he moved to stand. “As do you, Battlemage.”

Battlemage. Thaddeus found he liked the sound of that. “Priestess?” he asked. Gods Above, he was exhausted.

“Rest, now. I will answer your questions once you have rested.” The Guardian left the room.

There had been a single bed in the room the Guardian took Zoe to. It had been a comfortable bed, one Thaddeus both had and had not slept in for more than a week, but it had only been large enough for one person. No matter, he thought. There's probably another one in there, now. And, if there isn't, I'm sure Zoe wouldn't mind snuggling a little.

I never thought I'd hear such a thought coming from you, Thaddeus, Aylander said.

Thaddeus chuckled. “Maybe not from the old me,” he said, “but, from the new me, I'd say anything's possible.”

Indeed.

Thaddeus stood and left the room.