The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Three

Atraxos the Black found himself in a position he had no longer thought was possible – standing before the Hidden King, his ability to use magic stripped from him. Atraxos had no memory of how he had arrived here – his last clear memory was of some violent, external force disrupting his journey from the platform outside the Guardian's dwelling to its twin outside the Gates of Eclipse, the disruption hurling him, screaming, toward some unfathomable, black abyss – and it troubled him that it seemed he had arrived alone. What had happened to the Sword Priest who had accompanied him? Had he been flung into the abyss and left there, falling forever in that endless nowhere between worlds? The thought was enough to make Atraxos shudder.

“He will have no knowledge of where he is or what is happening to him,” the Hidden King suddenly said. Then he chuckled. “Not after the first few millennia, anyway.”

“Great One,” Atraxos said, “why am I here? What has happened?”

“You are here because I decided to take pity on you. As for what has happened, the most direct answer would be that, once again, you failed me.”

“Failed you? Great One, how did I fail? What disrupted my journey?”

“A Spellbreaker disrupted your journey, fool. More than that, a Priestess of Adarion disrupted it, turning the energy of the transit spell into a force that augmented the abilities of the Battlemage she is with. Why did you not stay and deal with them as you should have done?”

The cleric that had been with Thaddeus was a Priestess of Adarion? That couldn't be true. The Order of Adarion, though most of its teachings lived on through the Order of Catharzen, was as dead as the Divine Council, its only remaining vestige being the amulet Atraxos sought. How could the Hidden King – or any of the Demon Lords, for that matter – believe that a cleric who had nothing more remarkable than the rare talent of Spellbreaking was one of those holy women who had once been called Sorceresses? Are they really that afraid they might return?

“Let me go back and deal with them, then,” Atraxos said. “Even if the cleric is what you say she is, her magic can't stand on its own against the power of the Demon Lords.”

“Not even if a Nightslayer stands by her side?”

Atraxos almost laughed. “No Nightslayer stands by her side, and none ever will. The Nightslayers are all dead, and have been for thousands of years. You know as well as I do that only the Divine Council can appoint someone a Nightslayer, and the Divine Council is no more! Great One, how can one such as yourself be so afraid?”

“You think me foolish, do you?” the Hidden King asked.

Atraxos suddenly remembered who he was addressing. He said nothing.

“Answer me.”

Still, Atraxos said nothing, even though his silence was as much an admission of guilt as any word he might have spoken.

“Let me explain something to you, Atraxos the Black,” the Hidden King said, derision dripping from his words as he used Atraxos's name. He rose from his throne and moved to stand in front of Atraxos. Heat radiated from the Hidden King in waves, and the reek of sulfur was overpowering. “Since you are new to being . . . one of us . . . you need to understand that even Demon Lords have much to fear. The Nightslayers, coupled with their Priestesses, were, and are, our deadliest enemies. To think, even for a moment, that they are gone forever would be a mistake too great for any of us to allow. Do you realize what would happen if the Battlemage you allowed to survive found the Amulet of Adarion before you were able to?”

“No,” Atraxos said, hating how small and afraid his voice sounded.

“He would become a Nightslayer. Just as the amulet would give you the power to free us from out prison, it would make him a foe that could destroy any of us. That must not be allowed to happen. Do you understand?”

“I . . . I understand, Great One.”

The High King returned to his throne. As soon as he sat, Atraxos felt a rush of power as, once again, his magic was back under his control. “Do not fail me again, Atraxos,” the Hidden King said.

“I will not, Great One,” Atraxos said. “I swear it.”

“It will be your death if you do. By my hand, or that of the Nightslayer.”

The Nightslayers are no more. “As you say, Great One.”

“Remember what you are, and who the enemy is. Now, begone.”

And then Atraxos was no longer in the Sundered Halls. He stood atop a great, barren plateau of gray rock that seemed to stretch forever in every direction. Clouds, low-hanging and thick, roiled in the sky overhead, blotting out the sun, and an icy wind bit at Atraxos's skin. Though it looked very different than it had the last time he'd been here, Atraxos knew where he was – the Plateau of Leng, deep within his homeland of Eltara. The Gates of Eclipse, which lay at the foot of the Mountains of the Moon, were miles to the east, and it would take days for Atraxos to reach them. Unless Aldraden still exists, he thought. If it does, there might be something there that could help me move faster.

Up above, somewhere in the clouds, something that wasn't a bird screeched. Atraxos looked up, straining his eyes and his magical senses to find out what it was, but he saw and felt nothing. There are worse things than Abominations here. Damn the Sprites and their promises!

Atraxos set off across the plateau, feeling weaker – and much more alone – than he had since being freed from his captivity.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Two

Not long after returning to Valewind and taking up his position as Loremaster to the Duke of Telvany, Wilem had begun looking into the secrets of the castle, hoping to find some evidence that might lend some credence to suspicions he'd had since he was a boy. Initially, his searches had turned up little he hadn't already known, but then he'd come across an unblocked passage that lead to levels that were below the dungeon, which meant that, like most other structures in the kingdom, Valewind was just as vast below ground as it was above. One day, Wilem hoped to take his search one step further and discover the tunnel he was sure connected Valewind to every other castle and palace in the kingdom – a tunnel he suspected might, somehow, predate recorded history – but today was not the day for thinking about such pursuits. Today, he had to get Garrold to the room with the Eltaran spell etched into the floor, and then pray that Garrold would know what to do once he got him there.

And what about after that? Wilem wondered as he lead the way down a narrow flight of stone steps. Will Garrold be able to face an Eltaran Sword Priest using nothing but instinct to guide his magic?

“You still haven't said where we're going, Brother,” Garrold said from behind him, his voice echoing off the stone walls to either side of the stairs.

“There's a room I found down here that has an old Eltaran transit spell etched into its floor,” Wilem said. “I think you might be able to use it to reach King Lyrian's forces before they arrive at Valewind.”

“Reach them? You want me to leave the castle and face them alone?”

Wilem stopped and turned back, raising the torch he held so he could see his brother's face. “There isn't time for anything else. You know that as well as I do. If we hadn't been so foolish, we might have had more time to better prepare ourselves for Lyrian's attack.”

“And if I don't go . . .”

“More people will die. Every village between here and the place where Lyrian's forces crossed into Telvany will be put to the torch.”

Garrold sighed. “Lead on, then, Brother.”

It wasn't long before they reached the bottom of the stairs. Using what little Arcane Magic he was strong enough to wield – magically, monks were even weaker than clerics, though their talents did give them flawless memories and a degree of superhuman speed – Wilem reached out and touched the door that lead into the corridor beyond. Despite being hung on heavy iron hinges, the door opened silently, and when it did, Wilem's torch went out, its light replaced by that of the others that lined the corridor beyond.

“How far below the dungeons are we?” Garrold asked as they stepped out into the corridor.

“Twenty feet,” Wilem said. “Maybe more. And there are other corridors beneath this one, all of them older than everything above.”

“Astonishing,” Garrold said. “Wilem, how come you never said anything about this, before?” He smiled. “Was this one of your pet projects?”

Wilem turned away and started down the corridor, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Wasn't he Garrold's Loremaster? Wasn't it his duty to inform Garrold about things like this? Ever the slave to my own curiosity. What foolishness! “Something like that,” he muttered.

When he reached the door of the room he was looking for, Wilem opened it – again with a touch that caused the door to swing on its hinges without a sound – then faced his brother and indicated that Garrold should go in first. Garrold hesitated a moment, frowning in puzzlement, then stepped into the room. Wilem went in behind him, with Stevan and Robert bringing up the rear. Once inside, Wilem took up a position against the wall beside the door, and watched as his brother examined the ancient design that had been etched into the floor.

The design – a seven-pointed star surrounded by words written in Eltaran script – turned the floor of the room into a large, circular platform. Garrold paced around the design, studying it with one of the most intense expressions Wilem had ever seen on his brother's face, and even knelt down to touch it a few times, closing his eyes each time he did. Wilem could feel the magic flaring inside of Garrold, stronger than it had been at any time during their conversation back in his study, and wasn't surprised at all when, the last time Garrold knelt down to touch the design, he noticed that blue light had begun to leak out from behind Garrold's eyelids. When Garrold stood and opened his eyes, however, Wilem had to suppress a gasp of surprise at just how bright Garrold's eyes had started to glow.

“I understand the purpose of this platform and the spell that surrounds it,” Garrold said. “But I can't do anything with it. The spell has been disrupted.”

Touched by a Spellbreaker! A Spellbreaker who wanted to make sure no one could sneak into the castle with magic! I wonder what happened here? “You can still sense the spell, though?” Wilem asked.

Garrold nodded. “I can. It's very faint, and I'm having to stretch my senses pretty hard to do it.” He paused, frowning and glancing again at the floor. “I get the feeling I'm not really supposed to be able to sense it, at all.”

“A normal mage, with access only to Arcane Magic, wouldn't be able to,” Wilem said, trying to keep the excitement he felt out of his voice. “A Spellbinder, however, would. Spellbinders are the natural antithesis to a Spellbreaker, and are even rarer.”

“And that's what I am?”

“It would seem so. We won't know, for sure, until you try to recreate the broken spell.”

“You knew this spell was broken before we came in here, didn't you?”

“No,” Wilem said, “but I had my suspicions. Try and recreate the spell, Garrold. If you are a Spellbinder, it shouldn't be too difficult.”

“And what if I can't?”

“Well, if that happens, I'm sure we'll think of something.”

“Sometimes, Brother, I really hate your optimism.”

Wilem smiled. “No, you don't. You'd be lost without it.”

Garrold snorted, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. For several moments, nothing happened, then Garrold began to sway back and forth. His swaying wasn't that of someone who was about to fall – it was far too rhythmic for that – and, after a time, his lips began to move. No sound accompanied the movements of Garrold's lips, but Wilem thought that, if it had, his brother would have been chanting. Spoken spells are all in Eltaran. I don't think Garrold's chant would be. And it wouldn't be in Common, either.

Garrold stopped swaying. Keeping his eyes closed and his lips moving, he raised his arms to either side, fists closed, and began to turn in a slow circle. As Garrold turned, green light rose from the edges of the design, then streaked inward toward his closed fists. Garrold cried out when the light touched him, but he did not stop turning, and it was then that, for the first time, Wilem started to hear the words of his brother's chant. As he'd suspected, the words weren't in Eltaran or Common, and hearing them, sensing the raw power they contained, made the hairs on his arms stand on end. They're ancient! Gods Above, they're ancient!

At last, Garrold stopped moving and fell silent. Opening his fists, he made a pushing motion with his arms, and the green light that had risen from the floor vanished. He opened his eyes – which still glowed, though not as brilliantly as before – and looked at Wilem. “It is done,” Garrold said, his voice not quite sounding like his own. “The spell is restored.”

“Are you . . . are you all right, Brother?” Wilem asked.

Garrold blinked, the last of the blue glow vanishing. Wilem felt Garrold's magic die down to where it had been before they'd entered the room, and wasn't surprised to see his brother slump a bit with fatigue. “I think so,” Garrold said. “That was . . . amazing. I can do that to any broken spell?”

“I don't know about any broken spell, but you should be able to recreate most of them.”

“Recreating that spell will leave the castle vulnerable. It was broken for a reason.”

“It can be broken, again. The new head of my order is a Spellbreaker, and we can employ her talents should we decide we need to. Right now, though, we need to be able to travel like the enemy does. Can you do that, Garrold?”

Garrold gave a crooked smile, and Wilem was pleased to see he didn't look as tired as he had a moment ago. “That, and a Hel of a lot more, I think.”

“One question before you go.”

“What's that?”

“That language you were chanting in. What was it?”

Garrold raised an eyebrow. “I was chanting?”

“Yes. You don't remember?”

Garrold frowned in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I remember something, but I'm not sure what. I was just doing what felt natural to do.”

According to the teachings of history, magic had first appeared in humans not long before Solanas the Elder crowned himself Magister. There were legends, however – the same legends that claimed the Eltarans had once ruled everything on both sides of the Ivory Spires, with humans as their slaves – that said the spark of magic had come much earlier, and had been what helped humans earn their freedom. I think it came even earlier than the legends claim, Wilem thought. So much has been lost to us!

“Go, now, Brother,” Wilem said. “Show King Lyrian and his master that we are not to be dealt with as easily as they hope.”

Garrold smiled, then spoke the words of the transit spell. Flames leaped up from the floor, surrounding and engulfing Garrold, and when they were gone, so was he.

“Will he be back?” Stevan asked.

Wilem looked over at the frightened sounding guard. “Oh, yes. And he'll be stronger than ever before.”

“Will he still need us?” Robert asked.

Wilem smiled. “Of course he will. Even the greatest Magisters still needed guards.”

“The Conclave had the Holy Knights,” Stevan said. “Is that what we'll be?”

“Holy is one thing you'll never be, Stevan. Not after that last night in town, anyway,” Robert jeered, which earned him a glare.

The exchange made Wilem chuckle. “The Council of Mages had no need of knights. They had the Silver Shields.”

“Silver Shields? I kinda like the sound of that,” Stevan said.

“So do I,” Robert added.

“Then, when he comes back, and if he's feeling extra charitable, maybe that's what Garrold will make you.” And I have no doubt that he will, Wilem thought. No doubt, at all.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-One

“You're certain that's what she meant?” Wilem asked. “That you're supposed to rebuild the Conclave?”

They'd been in Wilem's study for hours, discussing Garrold's revelation about what he was and what it meant for the future of the kingdom. Just as Garrold had suspected, Wilem hadn't been surprised at all when Garrold told him he was a mage. He had been relieved, however, as he – just like Therese – had known for years about the potential Garrold held within himself, and had lately begun to worry if that potential would ever get a chance to be realized. Over the course of their discussion, Wilem had tested Garrold a number of times, wanting to see just how much he could do, and Garrold had surprised himself by succeeding every time. How could he do so much when he didn't even know any spells? I don't know any, but, apparently, I can create them, he mused, thinking again about Therese.

“What else could she have meant?” Garrold asked.

“What do you know about the Conclave, Garrold? About how it functioned? About what rules it was governed by?”

Until the night before, Garrold had been frightened of mages and the powers they wielded, which, he now realized, made his knowledge of them embarrassingly poor. The Conclave had been a good thing, though, hadn't it? If it hadn't been, why had Atraxos the Black gone to so much trouble to see that it was destroyed? “I don't know very much about it, at all, I'm afraid,” Garrold said.

“As I'm sure you remember from your history lessons, the Conclave was what took the place of the Council of Mages when the Torvaran Empire fell apart during the last Mage War. Though it was meant to take the place of what had come before it, it was only ever a pale echo of what it replaced, its members little more than hermits who were afraid of their own potential. The mages of the Conclave taught that magic must be controlled at all costs, and that no one outside of themselves could ever be allowed to wield more than a trifling amount of Life Magic. Anyone outside of the Conclave who was found to have a talent for Arcane Magic was to be inducted into the Conclave's ranks, and, if they refused to join, they were hunted down and executed. Wild mages were an unacceptable danger – after all, who else could possibly become a Necromancer aside from a wild mage who hadn't been properly trained? – and Arcane Magic could only be used with the buffer of spoken spells. So, I ask you, again, Brother. Are you certain Therese meant that you are supposed to rebuild the Conclave?”

Garrold was silent for a time. “I think I'm beginning to understand why you monks and clerics always had such a hard time getting along with the mages,” he said at last. “They were afraid of you because you always did more than what they allowed, and, when their threats against you didn't stop you, they grew envious.” Garrold laughed and shook his head. “And I always thought the mages were supposed to be good guys.”

“And yet you feared them,” Wilem said.

“I did,” Garrold said. “The odd thing is, now that I think about it, I never really understood why I feared them. They never did anything to make me afraid.”

“I think maybe they did.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the last five hundred years, every living mage in the kingdom has been a member of the Conclave. As members of the Conclave, they were tasked with finding wild mages, and were constantly on the lookout for them. Garrold, you, by definition, are a wild mage, and I think it likely that your talents began to express themselves much earlier than they do with most others. I think your fear of mages and magic was an inward expression of one of the first spells you ever cast – a spell to protect yourself from the probing of anyone looking specifically for someone like you.”

Garrold lifted the mug that sat on the small table next to his chair, taking a sip of the brandy that, when his talk with Wilem had begun, had been warm. “You might be right, Brother,” he said. “You just might be.” He looked at his brother. “So, what do we do, now?”

Wilem smiled. “Rebuild, of course. But not the Conclave. No, what we need to rebuild – what you need to rebuild – is the Council of Mages. And one of the most important things a rebuilt Council of Mages needs is a Magister to lead it.”

Garrold raised his eyebrows. “A Magister? You want me to declare myself a Magister?”

“Not a Magister, Garrold. The Magister. There was always ever only one.”

“And he didn't just lead the Council,” Garrold said, his voice quiet. “He lead the whole of the Empire.”

“Indeed.”

“Gods Above, you're serious, aren't you, Wilem?”

“I am, but I leave the choice up to you, Brother. This isn't something I can force you to do.”

“What if I prove not to be strong enough to be Magister? We don't even know what in Hel's name I'm capable of, yet, save for the few tests you've thrown at me.”

“Not every Magister was strong, Garrold. Some, in fact, were little stronger than clerics. In your case, though, I think that's something we don't need to worry about. My question for you, Brother, is are you prepared to lead? You've been a good Duke – better, in some ways, than even Father was – but can you translate being a good Duke into being the face of an entire nation?”

Garrold said nothing for a long time. For fifteen years, he'd been hearing how good of a Duke he was, and he'd even seen that sentiment reflected in the faces of the other nobles who occasionally attended court at Valewind. Those other nobles, some of whom had come from duchies and baronies scattered throughout the kingdom, had respected him, and more than just what was expected of them for the sake of keeping up appearances. Would they follow him if he declared himself Magister? And what was a Magister without a Council of Mages? A tyrant no better than Atraxos the Black.

“I need mages to fill my Council if I'm going to do what you suggest, Wilem,” Garrold said.

“Which is why my fellow monks are already searching for them,” Wilem said, smiling and taking a sip of his own brandy. “I'll make sure to let them know that they are to tell those whom they find that there is nothing to fear by flocking to your banner.”

Garrold laughed. “My banner. Gods Above, I must be insane for even considering this.”

Wilem grinned. “Being insane helps if you're going to try to save the world.” He suddenly frowned, the grin vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “Something's wrong.”

Garrold stood, turning toward the door. “I sense it, too.” He focused on the feeling, stretching his new senses out toward it. An image of a burning village filled his mind, its people fleeing before the blood-stained blades of mounted soldiers. The soldiers were members of the King's Guard, and at their head was a hulking, pale creature wearing black armor emblazoned with a crimson serpent. “So, Lyrian strikes.”

“They used the same magic that allows the couriers to get here so fast,” Wilem said. “We were fools not to expect it.”

Garrold looked at him. “What do we do?”

Wilem stood. “Follow me. I have an idea.”

They left the study, Garrold's personal guards – Stevan and Robert – falling in behind them as soon as they entered the hallway beyond.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty

Most people who possessed magical talents began to manifest their abilities during late adolescence, usually around sixteen or seventeen years of age. Zoe had been no different in that regard, but, when her abilities had begun to show themselves, it had quickly been discovered that she not only had an affinity for Life Magic – the comparatively weak magic that clerics used to heal themselves and others – but also the broader powers granted by Arcane Magic. Women who could use Arcane Magic had always been rare – at least as far as recorded history was concerned – and it was even rarer when a woman who could use Arcane Magic was able to combine it with her talents in Life Magic. Zoe, as it had turned out, could do just that, and so her teachers had taken it upon themselves to not just teach her the ways of being a cleric – they had also decided to pass on what little was known about being what was called a Spellbreaker.

Spellbreakers could destroy spells that were cast by others. This was different than dispersing a spell, which, though it undid the spell, left its underlying energy behind. Spellbreaking unmade the spell entirely, making it impossible for anyone to reuse the energy that had gone into its casting. Spellbreaking is what Zoe had done to dispel the shield the Lich had used during the encounter on the hill, and though that had been the first time she'd ever done it, Zoe had found it child's play, not even taking into consideration her new abilities as Abbott of the Order of Catharzen. And then had come the moment when she'd had to put Thaddeus back together, which was when she'd learned just how much her Spellbreaking powers had changed.

No longer was Zoe confined to breaking spells. She could now take their energies into herself, using them to augment her powers and make it possible for her to do things she otherwise wouldn't have been able to. Wish I'd understood that better before allowing the static spell around the Guardian's dwelling to snap back into place, Zoe thought as she looked at the Sword Priest Atraxos had left behind to deal with her and Thaddeus. I could've broken it, instead. Which would probably have left us crushed when the dwelling came down on us.

The Sword Priest – who had been made to look so much like a Vampire that it caused Zoe's blood to run cold – drew his black-bladed sword and hissed at them. Immediately, Zoe recognized the hiss for what it was, and wasn't at all surprised by Thaddeus's curse when he found he could no longer draw his sword. Break it! She reached over and touched Thaddeus's scabbard but, at the last moment, decided to draw the spell's power into herself instead of banishing it. The resultant inrush of energy flooded Zoe with warmth, and she found herself grinning. What couldn't she do if she could augment her powers so easily?

“Draw your sword, Thaddeus!” Zoe shouted. “Now, before he can cast, again!”

Thaddeus's sword was out and in his hands before Zoe could blink. The Sword Priest – who had appeared so menacingly confident, before – had a moment to look confused, and then Thaddeus was upon him, attacking with magically-enhanced, superhuman speed that the Sword Priest was only just able to defend himself against. Zoe circled the perimeter of the fight, wincing in pain each time Thaddeus's sword met that of the Sword Priest – the clash of the blades coincided with crimson flashes that signified small rents being made in the fabric of reality – looking for any opening that would allow her to use her power.

Conjure me, Priestess! Aylander said inside Zoe's head.

She did it without thinking, speaking the words that made the dead Eltaran appear. Before when he'd appeared, Aylander's form had been ethereal, like that of a ghost. This time, however, he looked much more solid, and there was a sword – all but the twin of Thaddeus's – in his hands. A look of horror appeared on the face of the Sword Priest when he caught sight of Aylander, and then there were three people fighting, the Sword Priest retreating across the platform as he desperately tried to turn away attacks coming at him from two directions.

Satisfied that Thaddeus could now hold his own, Zoe decided to turn her attention to the stone platform. From her research at the abbey, she knew the spell etched into its circumference was an Eltaran transit spell. It was the most powerful spell she'd ever encountered – even more powerful than the static spell that had supported the Guardian and his dwelling – but, at the moment, it was dormant, and would only become active once its words were spoken. I can energize it without activating it, though! Zoe suddenly realized. How else could she have known how powerful it was? The words had no inherent power of their own. Zoe knelt down and laid her hand flat against the stone.

All at once, Zoe had access to a record of everyone who had ever used the spell. She also could see all the other, identical spells it was connected to, a network that spread out like a spider's web across her consciousness. If she had been powerful enough, Zoe knew she could have disrupted the entirety of that network, destroying every single one of the transit spells forever. Even with the Abbott's abilities, however, and even with the added augmentation provided by her absorption of the Sword Priest's spell, she wasn't quite powerful enough to do that. She could stop Atraxos from reaching his destination, though, and she did, breaking the spell, there, while unconsciously absorbing the energy of the one, here, at the same time. Zoe gasped when she felt the effects of what she'd done, her body coming alive with power.

“No, you cannot!” the Sword Priest Thaddeus and Aylander fought cried, apparently realizing for himself what Zoe had just done. “YOU MUST NOT!”

Zoe came to her feet. “Nevertheless, it is done. And, now, you shall die.”

Zoe unleashed her power, but didn't direct it at the Sword Priest. Instead, she directed it at Thaddeus and Aylander, and found herself watching in awe as they absorbed it all. Things happened too fast for her to see, then, punctuated by a horrible, high-pitched shriek from the Sword Priest as Thaddeus ran him through with his sword. Thaddeus could have decapitated him, then, and taken his soul – his sword, at the moment, was empty – but, before that could happen, Zoe banished it, never once thinking to offer the same mercy she had offered the Lich. Not Twisted enough! Not even close!

Silence fell. Abruptly, Zoe became aware that Thaddeus and Aylander had turned toward her and were staring. Zoe felt drained, but not so bad that she was afraid she might pass out. Aylander looks like a ghost, again, she thought, and giggled giddily.

“What did you do, Zoe?” Thaddeus asked. “That last surge came from you. It was incredible!”

Zoe didn't fully understand everything she'd done, which made her feel like giggling even more. “I helped save your gorgeous arse,” she said. “And made it a lot harder for friend Atraxos to get where he wants to go.” She giggled, again, and grinned. “I fucked shit up.”

Thaddeus's eyebrows shot up.

“Such language!” Aylander said, sounding more amused than shocked.

Zoe started laughing. And, before long, Thaddeus and Aylander were laughing, too.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Nineteen

In hindsight, Thaddeus should have seen it coming. The newness of being whole, however, coupled with how incredibly powerful he now seemed to have become, made him forget two very important things. The first was the fact that, before Zoe had stitched him and the Wanderer back together, the Wanderer had been unable to use or sense magic. The second had been how Zoe, when casting the spell that had made Thaddeus whole, had drawn all the power around her – the power that Thaddeus now understood had been something called a static spell, which was a spell that was meant to remain in effect without direct influence from its initial caster, and which had been what had kept the Guardian animated all these years – into herself, which had amplified her abilities and, ultimately, had disrupted the original spell.

That original spell had snapped back into place almost immediately after Zoe had finished, but Thaddeus had at first been too tired, and then too distracted, to realize how much her actions had changed it. His ability to sense magic after waking back up should have been the first clue, and, had he acted on it, then, he'd have given himself more of a chance to do something before the Guardian destroyed the door to the sleeping chamber and flung he and Zoe across the room. Maybe, if he'd acted when he should have, Thaddeus could have kept Zoe from hitting the wall so hard – no matter how long he lived, he was sure he would never forget seeing how hard Zoe's head struck the stone, and the memory of it would haunt him even more if she didn't survive – or, perhaps, he could have kept the Guardian out of the room entirely. More powerful, but still a fool, Thaddeus thought as he lay against the wall, feigning unconsciousness as he waited to see what the Guardian would do next.

Tromping into the sleeping chamber, his great, stone feet scraping against the floor with each step, the Guardian came over to them and looked down, studying them with eyes that no longer glowed blue – there were flames, there, now, and Thaddeus didn't need magic to understand that that meant the construct had fallen under the sway of Atraxos the Black. Seeming to have made a decision, the Guardian reached out for them with both hands, meaning, Thaddeus sensed, to grab them by their throats and squeeze until their heads popped off from the pressure. And so Thaddeus moved, flinging one of his hands out toward the Guardian and hurling a ball of energy at him. The ball of energy struck the Guardian square in the chest and caused him to stumble backward, and Thaddeus grinned when he saw some the Guardian's rocky skin flake off and crumble to the floor.

“YOUR ACTIONS DO NOTHING BUT POSTPONE YOUR DEATH, BATTLEMAGE!” the Guardian roared, starting forward once again.

“You're probably right,” Thaddeus said, springing to his feet and hurling energy at the Guardian with both hands, the twin balls of light striking with resounding cracks that caused more of the construct's skin to fall away. “I mean, everyone dies eventually, don't they? I just don't plan to fall at the hands of a rock too stupid to think for itself.”

“YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME! I AM AS ETERNAL AS THE MOUNTAINS THEMSELVES!”

The Guardian had held back during the taunt, giving away his fear and showing that, no matter how much control Atraxos had, the Guardian couldn't be forced into risking his own existence. Thaddeus picked up his sword from where it had fallen to the floor and unsheathed it, not even thinking twice when he saw the blue glow that now surrounded it. Gods Above, Thaddeus! Aylander said. You are powerful!

I know, Thaddeus said. I think I might even be powerful enough to free you. And then bring you back.

Bring me back? That's impossible!

“Nothing's impossible, anymore, my friend,” Thaddeus said out loud, and then lunged at the Guardian.

The Guardian attempted to block Thaddeus's lunge with his arm, but, when Thaddeus's sword made contact with the stone, it sliced clean through, the Guardian bellowing as his hand fell to the floor in a pile of dust. Thaddeus charged forward, swinging wildly with the sword, hacking and slicing at the rock that made up the ancient Eltaran construct. After a time, Thaddeus realized he was laughing – a mad, cackling laugh that rang throughout the Guardian's dwelling. Killing the Guardian was turning out to be easy, but, not only that, it was also turning out to be fun. A thousand years the Guardian had done its duty – a thousand years that, aside from being made out of stone, the Guardian had been just as alive, just as much an individual, as anyone else – and Thaddeus was putting an end to it in a matter of minutes. When at last the Guardian was no more, Thaddeus returned to the sleeping chamber, still tittering to himself as he sheathed his sword and strapped it to his back. And then he looked at Zoe, still crumpled unconscious against the wall.

All at once, Thaddeus realized what he had just done. Had he really thought taking the life of another being had been fun? Had he really laughed like a madman while hacking the Guardian to pieces? What was wrong with him? Zoe groaned – Thaddeus had never heard a more welcome sound in his life – stirring as she regained consciousness. Thaddeus helped her to sit up, wincing with her as she tried to clear her head by shaking it, then found he couldn't look at her when she opened her eyes. He was too ashamed of himself to meet her gaze, too horrified by what he'd done, even if it had saved their lives.

“Thaddeus?” Zoe said. “What happened?”

“The Guardian tried to kill us,” Thaddeus said, still not looking at her. “There was a spell of protection around this place that must have gotten changed when you put me back together, and when that change happened, Atraxos was able to gain control of the Guardian.”

“So, what happened to the Guardian?”

“I . . .” Thaddeus finally looked at her. “Zoe, I killed him. I hacked him to pieces with my sword. And I enjoyed doing it.”

Zoe looked at him in silence for a long time. At first, Thaddeus almost looked away from her gaze, but then he saw there was no judgement there, no condemnation – not even any fear. There was only love, mixed with what he thought might have been a small bit of sadness. Thaddeus's eyes suddenly overflowed with tears, and he squeezed them shut, swallowing hard to keep from sobbing. Not by any of the Gods Above was he worthy of the love of someone like Zoe. Not by any of them.

Suddenly, Zoe was touching him, both of her hands on either side of Thaddeus's head. Warmth radiated into him through her hands, and, as it spread, he felt the anguish at what he'd done begin to recede. In place of the anguish, he felt her love for him, and he heard her voice in his head, soft and soothing, telling him that he was worthy, and reminding him that what he'd done, despite the pleasure he'd taken in it, had saved their lives. Thaddeus opened his eyes – his tears were gone, soothed away and dried by Zoe's touch – and found himself looking at what had to be the most beautiful sight he'd ever laid eyes upon: Zoe, surrounded by a halo of golden light, and smiling at him.

“I told you I'd help you,” Zoe said.

“What . . . what if I do something worse?” Thaddeus asked. “What if the next thing I destroy is something made of flesh and blood, and not a construct made out of rock?”

“If it's evil, is taking pleasure in destroying it a bad thing?”

“No. No, I suppose it isn't. But what if I lose control?”

Zoe leaned forward and kissed Thaddeus's forehead. “I guess we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen,” she said, sitting back and letting go of his head. When she let go of him, the halo surrounding her vanished.

“You killed my master.”

Thaddeus and Zoe turned their heads in unison at the sound of the Sprite's voice. Thaddeus was surprised to see the Sprite's color hadn't changed, and it didn't look agitated, at all. Was it possible that Sprites were somehow immune to the touch of someone like Atraxos the Black? Since he had been an Eltaran Sword Priest, and since the Eltarans had had far more dealings with Sprites than humans, Thaddeus tried asking Aylander about it, but all he got back in response was an apprehension-filled silence. Did that mean that Aylander was afraid of the Sprite?

“Only because your master was trying to kill us,” Zoe said.

“I know,” the Sprite said. “I saw it happen, and sensed everything behind it, as well. I would have stopped him if I had been able to, but my powers have no effect on creatures under the influence of others.” The Sprite shifted a bit, and Thaddeus suddenly had the sense that it was looking right at him. “My master would never have been the same after being touched by a creature like Atraxos the Black. What you did not only saved yourself and Lady Zoe, it also gave my master a humane end. I thank you for that.”

“You Sprites aren't as simple as you seem, are you?” Thaddeus asked.

“We are what we are because we can never again be what we were. Thaddeus, there is something I must ask of you before I go, and before this place begins to collapse. If you can free the soul within your sword, and, if it is possible for you to bring him back, to make him again as he once was, please do not hesitate to do so. And, if you cannot bring him back, I trust that, when the time comes, you will know what to do to set him truly free. Not just from the sword, but from everything.”

Thaddeus understood, and, in that moment of understanding, knew all he needed to about what Sprites were. “By all the Gods Above, I swear it,” he said.

“Thank you,” the Sprite said. And then, “Farewell.” The Sprite seemed to flicker, and then was gone.

Mad as all of them, Aylander said. Pay what it said no mind, Thaddeus. Listening to a Sprite leads to nothing but ruin.

And I thought Eltarans venerated their ancestors, Thaddeus said.

That was not one of my ancestors! Nor that of any Eltaran!

“You know I know better than that, Aylander,” Thaddeus said aloud. “And I know you know it, too.”

“What's going on, Thaddeus?” Zoe asked.

Before he could answer, the floor started to shake and a deep rumbling filled the room. Dust began to rain down on them, and when Thaddeus looked up, he saw cracks starting to spiderweb their way across the ceiling. The Guardian's dwelling was starting to collapse.

“No time,” Thaddeus said, standing. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Grabbing Zoe's hand, Thaddeus pulled her to her feet, then hurried them out of the sleeping chamber. Initially, he thought to leave the way they'd come in, but, looking in that direction, he saw that most of the ceiling had already come down, blocking their way. Turning the other way, Thaddeus lead them what seemed to be deeper into the Guardian's dwelling, but, by reaching out with his magical senses, he knew there was another exit – and that there was something very powerful on the other side of it.

As they came to the rear exit of the dwelling – which looked more like just another blank wall than a way out – Thaddeus barked out a spell. The wall seemed to shimmer and dissolve, and, when enough of it was gone, he pushed Zoe out ahead of him, leaping through beside her just as a large part of the ceiling broke off and fell to the floor. Once he was outside and the dust from the collapse of the Guardian's dwelling had cleared, Thaddeus found that he and Zoe were standing on a circular platform with a large, seven-pointed star carved into it. There were words all along the outer edge of the platform, and Thaddeus recognized them at once as an Eltaran spell of transit.

Once, back during the height of the Torvaran Empire, platforms like the one Thaddeus and Zoe were on had been commonplace. Borrowed from the Eltarans, they had allowed all but instantaneous travel to any other point that had a matching platform. To use one, all a person had to do was stand in the center of the platform and speak the spell – which is what Thaddeus would have done, now, had the center of the platform not already been occupied.

“So, we meet, at last, Thaddeus Alvarem,” Atraxos the Black said, grinning as flames danced in his eyes. “A pity I can't stay. Fear not, however. When next we meet, I will happily give you the death you so rightly deserve. And then I will make you mine!”

Atraxos spoke the transit spell. Fire sprang up from the platform, seeming to engulf Atraxos and one of the Sword Priests who had accompanied him. The fire, along with the two figures it contained, vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a tall, spindly Eltaran who reminded Thaddeus of a Vampire – an Abomination which fed on the blood of the living. The Eltaran drew its sword – it would have been the twin of Thaddeus's own if it hadn't been black from tip to pommel – and bared its obscenely sharpened teeth, hissing in perfect imitation of the blood-red serpent emblazoned on the front of its armor.

It was only when Thaddeus went to draw his sword that he realized that the Eltaran's hiss hadn't just been a hiss – it had also been a spell, a spell meant to make it impossible for Thaddeus's sword to be pulled from its scabbard. Well, that complicates things, Thaddeus thought, sharing a glance with Zoe as the Twisted Sword Priest began to advance toward them.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Eighteen

The archway looked to have been made from a single piece of translucent marble, and it glowed from within with a soft, slowly pulsing white light. It was tall – at least twenty feet, at Zoe's best guess – and appeared to have been built directly into the wall of the cavern Zoe had woken up in. The archway was not the only unusual thing about the cavern – there were furnishings strewn about, most of which appeared to have not been used in some time, including a large bookcase that was filled to bursting with tightly packed scrolls – but it, alone, commanded Zoe's attention, drawing her toward it like a magnet. But was it truly the archway that called to her? What about the blackness that lay beyond it? The blackness that seemed to ripple like the surface of a millpond? Zoe didn't want to look at that blackness, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from it, and, the longer she stared, the more she wanted to approach it, to step through the archway and let it swallow her up.

“Mesmerizing, isn't it? I wouldn't get too close to it, though, if I were you. That blackness is alive, and it will kill anyone foolish enough to approach.”

With an effort, Zoe looked away from the archway. Standing beside her was a woman who hadn't been there just a moment before. The woman wore clothes not dissimilar from the ones Zoe herself wore, save for the red and gold sunburst that had been stitched into the shoulder of her tunic, and she was about the same height. Her hair had long since gone to white, but it was neatly groomed, and her green eyes sparkled with life despite her apparent age. When Zoe looked at her, the woman smiled, and, almost at once, Zoe felt a deep kinship with her. It was almost as if she had met some long lost relative she had always heard about, but never seen, before.

“Who are you?” Zoe asked. “What is this place?”

“In truth, I am nothing but a memory, an echo of something that has long since passed,” the woman said. “As for this place, it's real enough, though you and your companions have yet to reach it.” She glanced at the archway. “And reach it you must.”

“This is where the Amulet of Adarion is, isn't it?” Zoe asked.

“It is, though that is only one small part of what you will find here. The scrolls in the bookshelf are another, and will reveal to you much the world has forgotten. And then there is the archway, better known as the Gateway of Eternity.” The woman's voice grew somber, and she once again looked at the archway. “The Gateway that must remained sealed forever.”

“Why must it remain sealed? Does it have something to do with the blackness?”

The woman smiled at her. “The blackness is nothing but a ward, child. Malevolent to anyone who would approach the Gateway, but otherwise harmless.” Her smile vanished. “The ward is breaking down, however. It was always known that it would, someday, but there had been hope someone would have come along to restore it before now. That did not happen, though, and I fear the ward has already degraded too far. Not that that, too, was something that was totally unforeseen.”

“You must not tell her any more, Mother.” Horace Alvarem, looking just as he had on the night he'd died, had joined them, appearing out of the darkness to the woman's right. As was his custom, he had his hands folded together inside the sleeves of his robe, and he favored the woman with a look of concerned reproach as he spoke. “The Prophecy is not meant for her.”

The woman looked at him. “Isn't it? Didn't you know what would happen when you passed your abilities on to her? You knew she would be special, but you didn't stop to think just how special. Horace, there hasn't been anyone like her anywhere in existence since the day I died. If the Prophecy is not meant for her, then who, pray tell, is it meant for?”

“You know she's right, Horace,” another man, younger than either of the other two, but still advanced in years, said as he emerged from the darkness. “It would be wrong to keep it from her any longer.”

“But we all agreed to protect her, Erasmus. All of us!” Horace turned to the woman he'd called “Mother.” “Even you.”

“Don't I have a say in all of this?” Zoe asked.

The others stopped talking and looked at her. As they did, Zoe suddenly had the impression she was being looked at by far more than just three people. Of course I am, she thought. They're all the others who came before me. All the other Abbotts. And the woman – Mother – is the ultimate source of our abilities. She was the first of our Order. Or the last of the one that preceded it.

“Of course you do, child,” the woman said.

“Then tell me the Prophecy.”

And so they told her. Zoe didn't know how long she listened, but, since this had to be a dream, time didn't matter. The Prophecy turned out to be more about Thaddeus than her, though, if it came true, she would still have a very prominent role to play in the events that were to unfold. The Prophecy terrified her, and it also saddened her, and when the others were done telling it to her, they faded away into the darkness. All of them save the woman, whom Zoe had learned was once named Ilya Catharzen.

“You have a hard road ahead of you, child,” Mother Catharzen said. “However, like all prophecies, not every piece of this one may come to pass. Use what we have told you as a guide. Don't look on it as a doom that has been placed upon you.” She gave a sudden smile. “You love him very much, don't you?”

“I do, Mother,” Zoe said.

“Cherish that love, then, and never cease to show it. Love has undone prophecies in the past. There's no telling what it will do, this time.”

“I will, Mother. You're not leaving me, are you?”

Mother Catharzen reached out and put her hand on Zoe's arm. “As long as you live, I will be here, child. As will all the others.”

Zoe smiled, blinking away the tears in her eyes. And then she woke up.

Zoe opened her eyes, blinking a few times as she allowed herself to come fully awake. Turning her head to the side, she was presented with the sight of Thaddeus sitting up on the side of his bed, his eyes closed and his sword – still sheathed in its scabbard – draped across his lap. Almost as soon as Zoe's gaze fell upon him, Thaddeus opened his eyes, and when he turned them toward her, Zoe had to fight down the urge to gasp. Thaddeus's eyes were glowing.

“I was hoping you'd wake up, soon,” Thaddeus said, smiling. “There's so much I know, now. So much I remember.”

Zoe sat up, eyeing Thaddeus warily. But what was there to be wary about? The glow coming from Thaddeus's eyes was faint, and there was nothing unusual about its blue tint. Still, confronted as she was with visual proof that the man she loved could now touch – and, presumably, wield – magic, Zoe couldn't help but feel a little uneasy. “What do you remember, Thaddeus?” Zoe asked.

“Where I found this sword,” Thaddeus said, gesturing at it. “It was in my father's tomb.”

“Your father's tomb?”

“After you divided me, the part of me you sent to join the Holy Knights fell into a trance of some sort and was drawn to a location not far from the abbey. It turned out to be an Eltaran barrow, though from the outside it looked like nothing more than a somewhat out of place hill. It opened up when I approached it, and when I stepped inside, I found a sword in the hands of the effigy that had been carved on the surface of the sarcophagus. Somehow – probably part of the trance I was in – I knew the sword was meant for me, and when I took it, and saw the face of the effigy, I knew the tomb I was in was my father's.” Thaddeus looked down at the sword. “It seems that the Sword Priests who were appointed to guard the book that held Atraxos the Black were not, in fact, the last of the True. My father, however, was.”

Zoe was sure that she knew what somewhat out of place hill Thaddeus was referring to. On foot, it had been about a day north of the abbey, and Zoe remembered how, once, Horace had warned her to never go near it. Had Horace known what it was? And why had it not been a part of the Prophecy her predecessors had related to her in her dream?

“Do you remember anything else?” Zoe asked.

“No,” Thaddeus said. He looked back up at her, and when he did, his eyes had stopped glowing. “Nothing of any consequence, anyway. But, Zoe, I can do so much more, now. And it's not just because of the spells the Wanderer part of me learned. Zoe, I don't even think I really need spells, anymore. My thoughts are so much clearer than they used to be, so much more focused. It's like I've suddenly come out of a haze I wasn't even aware of before.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Thaddeus laughed and shook his head. “It's exhilarating,” he said. “But it's also bloody frightening. Zoe, I have no idea what my limits are, anymore. I'm not even sure I still have them.”

Though Zoe had never commanded the level of power Thaddeus now did, she knew how he felt. Long ago, back during her initial training as a cleric, she had been frightened herself when she'd learned how much magic she could wield with nothing but a well-focused thought. Initially, Zoe's fear of herself had made her not want to use magic, at all – or, at least, not without the buffer of a spoken spell – but, after a while, she had realized she could rely on herself to impose limits on her actions, using her own conscience, and the counsel of her teachers, as a guide. “I don't know very much about what a Battlemage can do,” Zoe said. “In fact, until I put you back together, I'd never even heard that word, before. But, I'm pretty sure I know you, and I know what kind of person you are. Let that be your limit. Let that be your guide. Do that, and you'll never have a reason to fear yourself and what you can do.”

Thaddeus was silent for a time, his gaze far away. “I'm not sure I can do that, Zoe,” he said at last. “I'm not sure how well I know myself, anymore. There are parts of me, now, that are . . . darker than they were, before.”

Zoe had been expecting Thaddeus to say something like that – the growing darkness of his nature had been very much a part of the prophecy, as had the role she was supposed to play in leavening that darkness – but it still broke her heart to hear it. Now was not the time for Thaddeus to see weakness from her, however, and so Zoe reached out and put her hand on his knee. “I can help you with that,” she said. “Do you trust me?”

Thaddeus's eyes found hers. He smiled. “Of course I do, Zoe. I love you.”

Cherish that love, then, Mother Catharzen had said, and never cease to show it. Zoe leaned across what little gap remained between them and they kissed.

And that was when the stone door that sealed their sleeping chamber off from the rest of the Guardian's dwelling exploded violently inward, the force of the blast throwing them both across the room and against the far wall. The last thing Zoe thought before she lost consciousness was that it was too soon for her to die – there was still too much of the Prophecy left to fulfill.