The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Six

Zoe and Thaddeus had taken refuge in a cave not far from the ruined Eltaran village. A pack of drakes – at least five of the creatures, and probably more – stalked the night outside, their intermittent shrieks and screeches, coupled with the inherent sense of wrongness that emanated from them, making Zoe's skin crawl. She was sure that, if they had to stay in the cave much longer, she'd eventually lose her mind and run, screaming, outside, where one of the drakes would make a meal of her soul – the myths all said they fed on souls instead of flesh, and Zoe, right now, had no reason to discount them. At least it wasn't dark, as Thaddeus had been able to conjure a faint ball of mage light and set it between them without drawing attention from outside. Apparently, the drakes weren't just immune to magic – they couldn't sense it, either.

“What are we going to do, Thaddeus?” Zoe asked, her voice hardly louder than a whisper.

“I don't know,” Thaddeus said. “How many times are you going to ask me that?”

“I'm sorry. Those . . . those things out there are just so wrong. I need to get away from them. I need to!”

“I know. So do I. But the minute we leave this cave, we're dead.” A drake screeched outside, very close to the cave opening, and Thaddeus cast a wary glance in that direction. “If only they weren't immune to magic!”

“Do you remember how they moved when they were chasing us?”

Thaddeus looked at her. “Jerkily, you mean?”

Zoe nodded. “Their motion was blurred, too. It was almost like . . . I don't know . . . like they weren't completely in phase. Like not all of them are in this reality.”

“If they aren't, that would explain why they feel so wrong, too.” Thaddeus's eyes grew glassy they way they did when Aylander was saying something. “Aylander thinks that might also be the source of their immunity.”

“It would make sense if it is. Magic can only have an effect on things with a solid existence in this reality. That's why spirits are immune, too.”

“Do you think there might be a way to draw the drakes fully into our reality?”

“There might be. I don't see how it would be possible to kill them, otherwise. And the myths all agree that they can be killed.”

Thaddeus's eyes glazed over, again, then he frowned.

“What did he say?” Zoe asked.

Instead of answering, Thaddeus spoke the spell – learned from her – that conjured Aylander. The Eltaran appeared at the edge of the mage light, back where the cave started to extend further into the mountain, his spectral form just barely visible.

“Though I am loathe to speak about it,” Aylander said, “the answers to many of our questions may lie deeper within this cave. If memory serves, we are in a shaft that leads down to one of the Vaults.”

“What's a Vault?” Zoe asked.

“It's a prison,” Thaddeus said. “A prison built for Sprites.”

“What?”

“Thaddeus speaks truthfully, if a bit crudely,” Aylander said. “Vaults were large chambers lined with iron where Sprites were kept so they could be studied. My people understood the Sprites no better than your own, and attempting to learn about them outside of a controlled environment proved to be a fruitless endeavor. When it was found that Sprites reacted in very specific ways when exposed to iron, we constructed the Vaults.” He paused. “The Vaults taught us much. They were largely responsible for making us what we were. In the end, however, they failed and, when they did, the Sprites betrayed us.”

“They betrayed you,” Thaddeus said, his tone full of bitter irony. “You built your empire on them. They were your slaves. They owed you nothing!”

Aylander looked at Thaddeus for a long time. “Perhaps you're right,” he said at last. “Perhaps we did misuse them, and, in so doing, brought about our own doom. My people have a long history of arrogance and hubris, and, one way or the other, it caught up to us. Still, the Vault this shaft leads to might provide us with what we need to escape the creatures outside. Is that not worth overlooking the misdeeds of the past?”

“In this case, I'd say it is,” Zoe said before Thaddeus could answer. Then she looked at him. “Isn't it?”

“I suppose,” Thaddeus said. He glared at Aylander. “This won't be the last time we speak about those 'misdeeds', though.”

“Indeed,” Aylander said, voice stiff. “I hardly dared hope it would be.”

Thaddeus rose, summoning the ball of mage light until it floated in the air above his head. Zoe – startled about the revelation concerning the Sprites, but feeling less indignant toward Aylander than it seemed Thaddeus did – came to her feet, as well.

“You know where we need to go,” Thaddeus said to Aylander. “Lead the way.”

They set off deeper into the mountain. Behind them, a drake shrieked.

“How many of these Vaults were there?” Zoe asked, surprised when her voice failed to echo off the massive chamber's iron-lined walls.

“The exact number was never disclosed,” Aylander said. “The only reason I was aware of this one was because it was the closest to my home village, and would have been where I was assigned had I not been made one of Atraxos's tomb guards.”

“Your people were ashamed of these places, weren't they?” Thaddeus asked. “They knew they were wrong, and that was why they didn't want to disclose how many there were.” He sneered. “And I used to think Eltarans were so noble.”

“Thaddeus,” Zoe warned.

“My people were just that, Thaddeus,” Aylander said. “People. We were neither more noble, nor less noble, than your own, though we sometimes tried to convince ourselves otherwise. We made mistakes, and I will freely admit that these Vaults may have been one of the worst. It is beyond my ability, however, to atone for it, and that is not why we are are here. Do you wish to say anything else?”

“No,” Thaddeus said. “Not right now, anyway.”

Zoe suddenly understood why Thaddeus was so angry. He knew – or thought he knew – more about the Sprites than Aylander did, and, for some reason, that knowledge made him feel like he had some kind of moral superiority over the Eltaran. And maybe he did. Zoe remembered the conversation Thaddeus had had with the Sprite back in the Guardian's dwelling. Were the Sprites manifestations of the souls of fallen Eltarans? And, if they were, had the other Eltarans known and carried out their “studies” anyway? It was a sickening thought, but, when she looked at Aylander, when she read the sense her abilities gave her of his soul, she couldn't imagine him being a willing participant in such an atrocity. He has been cleansed by a Scourger, however, she thought. Maybe it scoured that from his soul, too.

Aylander lead them deeper into the Vault. It was unnerving how silent their footfalls were as they walked, and Zoe, despite the room's cavernous nature, began to feel a growing closeness around her, as if, at any moment, something would happen that would leave her trapped here, hundreds of feet beneath the earth, with no hope of ever escaping. A glance at Thaddeus showed her he felt it, too, his eyes and head shifting from side to side, his hands clenching and unclenching as he no doubt itched to draw his sword – which was something that Aylander had warned them would elicit an immediate and fatal response from the wards protecting the Vault. Whatever Aylander hoped to find here, Zoe prayed it wouldn't take him too long – being in this place, she was finding, was worse than being in close proximity to the drakes.

“There,” Aylander said, pointing a finger that, in the sickly green glow that filled this place, Zoe thought looked more solid than it should have at the Vault's far wall. As soon as he did, a light began to flash inside one of the alcoves that had been built into the wall, the flashes alternating rapidly in color from white, to gold, to blue, to red. “How I had hoped, though it would have doomed us, to find them all empty.”

“Gods Above,” Thaddeus said, “there's a Sprite in there!”

“Indeed there is,” Aylander said, the dread in his voice unmistakable. “And, in order for it to help us, we must let it out.”

“How long has it been in there?” Zoe asked.

“At least four centuries.”

“Why is it still here?” Thaddeus asked.

“That is a question I have no answer for.”

“You're afraid of it,” Zoe said. “Why?”

Aylander glanced at her, then looked again at the alcove. The flashes were coming faster, now, and there was a twitchy agitation to them. The Sprite that made them was clearly not happy. “Because, in the time it's been sealed in that alcove, forgotten and alone, there is a high likelihood it has gone mad.”

“That's all right, though, isn't it?” Thaddeus said. “I mean, we've still got all this iron to protect us, don't we? Or doesn't it work on mad Sprites?”

Aylander gave him a flat look. “I don't know,” he said. “And the only people who would are, unfortunately, dead.”

“Pity.”

“Stop it, Thaddeus!” Zoe snapped. “If Aylander's afraid, he has a good reason to be. Of all people, I thought you'd be the one who understood that best. Constantly taunting him won't help any of us. Especially if we release that Sprite and it turns out to be unmanageable.”

“Zoe, why in Hel's name do you keep defending him? His people are the reason that Sprite is in that alcove. If it's gone mad, it's their fault, which makes him guilty by association. If he weren't already dead, I'd give him what he deserves.”

“I see. So, you'd execute him, would you? Kill him for the crimes of his ancestors? What makes you think you have that right?”

“Zoe, don't you see? When they locked the Sprites away in here, the Eltarans took away whatever freedom they had. They used them. They made them into things they weren't ever supposed to be. And then they forgot about them. Someone needs to be made to answer for that! Someone!”

“You mean someone needs to be made to answer for what happened to you,” Aylander said.

“Shut up!” Thaddeus snarled, turning on the Eltaran. “This isn't about me! This is about you! And what you did to your own ancestors!”

“But I did nothing to them. I regret what was done, and sorely wish there was a way I could undo it, but there isn't. Just as there was no way for Lady Zoe to undo all that was done to you. She was able to do more for you than I can for them, however. Did that not make it right, at least in part?”

Thaddeus looked like he wanted to say more – there was even a brief moment when he started to go for his sword – but then he relaxed, his shoulders slumping as he looked down at the floor. Before he could start weeping – which Zoe was sure would be coming next – Zoe reached over and placed her hand on his arm, sending him a small pulse of healing energy. Zoe wasn't surprised Thaddeus still had some resentment about what had happened to him – the Wanderer had been full of it, and that was still a part of him, even if it had been subsumed since he had been made whole – and found she wasn't hurt by it, either. Thaddeus was grateful to be whole, again, and Zoe knew the love he had for her was genuine and unchanged. Any outbursts he might have could be forgiven, provided he didn't take them too far. Which the prophecy states I must not allow.

“Is he all right?” Aylander asked.

“He will be,” Zoe said. She looked at him. “How do we free that Sprite?”

“I will attend to it.” He started to move away, no longer seeming so afraid.

“Aylander,” Thaddeus said, opening his eyes and raising his head.

Aylander paused and looked back.

“You don't deny they're your ancestors anymore, do you?”

“No. There is no point any longer. Why continue to deny something that's been known for thousands of years?”

“I'm sorry, Aylander.”

The Eltaran gave a sad smile. “So am I. For this, and for a great many other things, besides.”

Zoe couldn't help but wonder what else Aylander was apologizing for. Probably best I don't know, she thought. Some people's secrets should remain their own.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Five

Garrold emerged from the flames on a platform surrounded by trees. The platform had not been a part of the larger network connected by transit spells, but Garrold had somehow been able to find it – he'd been drawn to it, in fact, almost as if it had been a platform left specifically for him to find. He suspected part of his finding it had to do with his being a Spellbinder, but he also a had the sense there was something else behind it, as well. Had the Spellbreaker who had broken the transit spell back at the castle known a Spellbinder would follow in her wake and then done something to mask the platform he was now on from the rest of the network without disrupting it, something that would call to him the moment he remade and utilized the spell she had broken? Garrold strongly suspected that that was the case. Who were you? he wondered. What were you trying to do?

The platform Garrold had emerged onto was in a stretch of forest just to the east of where King Lyrian's forces had made camp for the night. Garrold began to head in their direction, then stopped, looking down at himself. Luckily, he was no longer dressed in his bedclothes from the night before, but the simple clothes he wore, now – cloak, tunic, breeches, and boots – were not clothes that were meant for battle. Plus, he had failed to bring his sword, or any other weapon of any kind. What would Garrold do when he confronted the king's forces? How would he face down the creature that lead them? He was fairly certain harsh language wouldn't work.

You're a mage, idiot! he thought. Do you really need a physical weapon when you can use magic?

But how much magic would Garrold be able to wield using nothing but intuition? While it was true that he had already done several impressive things – not the least of which was create a spell which had summoned the spirit of his dead wife – how much more could he do without really knowing what he could do? Taking a deep breath, Garrold decided that none of that mattered. He was the Duke of Telvany, and his people were in danger. Stalling here in the forest and worrying about what he could do to protect them would not serve them. He set off.

It took Garrold about an hour to leave the forest and step out onto the plain where the king's forces had camped. The night was clear and cold, the moon a sliver in the western sky, just above the line of the trees. The King's Guard, whose forces probably numbered between five hundred and a thousand, had set up their tents in a fairly standard military fashion, and had lit only what torches were absolutely necessary. From where Garrold stood, he was able to see two sentries standing outside the nearest tent, and sensed the spell that had been placed on them that would keep them awake and alert. Drawing himself up to his full height – deciding that, to start with, anyway, he would approach his enemies with every bit of ducal air that he could muster – Garrold started toward the tent.

“Halt!” one of the sentries shouted. “Who goes there?”

“Garrold Hilstren, Duke of Telvany!” Garrold shouted back. “What is the meaning of this incursion into my lands?”

“These are the king's lands as much as yours, Your Grace,” the sentry said. “Something our commander feels you may have forgotten.”

“Does he, indeed? Fetch your commander for me, then. I wish to speak to him.”

Garrold sensed the sentry's nervousness – his fear – as he answered. “The commander is not to be disturbed,” he said. “If you wish to speak to him, it will have to wait until morning.”

Garrold stepped closer, summoning more of his magic – enough, he knew, to make his eyes start to glow. “I don't think it would be very wise of you, son, to make me wait until morning to speak to your commander,” he said. “Get him for me. Now.”

From deeper within the camp came a blur of motion. It streaked over to where the sentry stood, and, when it stopped, a tall, pale creature, with upswept, pointed ears and wearing black, leather armor had joined him. The creature, whose armor was emblazoned with the symbol of a blood red serpent, reeked of magic, and, as Garrold watched, it pulled an enormous, rune-covered sword from a hilt it had strapped to its back. “You wished to speak to me, Your Grace?” the creature said, derision dripping from its hissing, raspy voice.

Garrold summoned enough magic to make his eyes blaze with blue light. “Only to tell you that you, and the force you command, are not welcome on my lands. From this day forward, these lands are protected, and no one holds sway over them but myself, and my heirs.” Garrold used his magic to enhance and amplify his words. “Leave Telvany, creature, or you, and any who follow you, will die.”

“So, you are a mage,” the creature – who had to be some kind of twisted, evil form of Eltaran – said. “But you are a mage who knows not what he can do. Your powers will not save you from the bite of my blade, Duke, and, when I kill you, your people will be helpless before what is to come.”

“That may be so, but they are my people, and I will not sacrifice them without a fight.”

“Then die, fool!”

Multiple things seemed to happen at once. First, Garrold became aware that, hidden within the trees he had just come out of, a large group of people – maybe as many as fifty, and all giving off a faint magical signature which was all but identical to that given off by his brother – waited for the signal that would tell them to emerge and attack. Before Garrold could wonder why he hadn't noticed them earlier, that signal came, an ululating cry, amplified by magic, splitting the night. The cry was followed by a throng of figures in dark robes, each of them carrying a staff carved from ash, rushing out of the trees at a dead sprint. Except for the sounds of their bare feet striking the ground, they came toward the camp soundlessly, and, as the seconds passed, their speed increased until they became blurs that streaked passed Garrold and into the camp, the two sentries having no time to react before being knocked to the ground.

The creature Garrold faced, who had been momentarily distracted by the monks' sudden appearance, turned back to Garrold, snarling as he raised his sword to strike. Garrold dodged to the side, then launched himself into the air, hurtling his opponent and landing behind him before he had even finished his first swing. Targeting the sentries – and only having the barest idea of what he wanted to do – Garrold flung his hands out to his sides, twin balls of blue light streaking out toward the two men. When the spells struck, the sentries sprang up as if the monks had never knocked them down, then turned and hurried into the chaos the camp had become. If everything worked the way Garrold hoped, those two soldiers, as they fought alongside the monks, would free other members of the King's Guard from whatever spell their commander had put them under to make them follow him.

There was a red flash as the commander's sword made contact with the shield Garrold had thrown up around himself. Spinning around, Garrold conjured a fireball and flung it at the Eltaran, narrowly missing him as, hissing, he ducked out of the way. In a flash, the Eltaran was back on his feet and attacking, hacking and slashing wildly with his sword, each blow rebounding off Garrold's shield with flashes of red light that came so fast it was as if Garrold had acquired a flickering halo the color of blood. Garrold knew the flashes for what they were – rents in the fabric of reality – and he felt the power within him starting to swell, feeding off the energy that was being unleashed. He's making me stronger, and he refuses to attack me with his own magic. Doesn't he realize he can't beat me this way?

Before his opponent's next blow landed, Garrold unleashed a torrent of radiant energy – a blast made of nothing but pure force – at him, throwing him backward and causing him to lose his grip on his sword. Garrold summoned the sword into his hands, then, using nothing more than his own force of will and the power surging within him, snapped it in half across his knee. Now, he'll attack me with magic.

Except the Eltaran didn't. Instead, he started begging for his life.

“Please, my Lord,” the Eltaran said as Garrold stood over him, the two halves of his sword still in Garrold's hands, “spare me. Allow me to leave, and I swear I will never return.”

Garrold was puzzled by the Eltaran's behavior – didn't he understand that, if he just used magic, he might stand a chance of winning? – but decided not to let it show. “I doubt your master will give you that luxury,” he said. “He'll send you back, and, when he does, you'll die, anyway. But, you see, I want you to go back. And take this message with you.” Garrold waved his hand and there was a hiss as the crimson serpent on the Eltaran's armor was burned away. “Tell your master that Garrold Hilstren, Magister of the Torvaran Empire, has declared the days of the Crimson Serpent over. This time, they will be dealt with once and for all, and never again will their filth be allowed to blight the world. Now go!”

Once the Eltaran was gone, skittering off into the night like a whipped dog, Garrold turned toward the camp. The fighting had started to quiet down, and, as Garrold watched, a soldier and one of the monks emerged and walked toward him. They stopped a short distance from him, the soldier giving a respectful bow, the monk resting on his staff and smiling one of those damnably serene smiles Garrold so often saw on his brother's own face.

“You have something to report?” Garrold asked. He had released his hold on most of his magic and, with it gone, was beginning to feel exhausted.

“Just to let you know that, with the exception of a few holdouts, we're yours, Your Grace,” the soldier – who, Garrold suddenly realized, had been the sentry that had challenged him when he'd first approached the camp – said.

“Well,” Garrold said, feeling woozy, “that's good news, isn't it?”

He never felt the soldier and the monk catch him as he collapsed.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Four

Thaddeus stood on the edge of the platform, looking out toward the east. For some reason, he wasn't surprised to not be looking out on row after row of towering, snow-capped mountains – the Guardian's dwelling apparently stretched almost the entire breadth of the Ivory Spires, its eastern end opening out on where the mountains began to descend before disappearing all together at the point where they bled into the gently rolling rills that comprised the western plains of Eltara. From the lore the Wanderer had known, Thaddeus understood enough to realize that the view he looked out on hadn't always been so gray and barren – Eltara had been green and full of life, once, an idyllic paradise where no one had wanted for anything. So much for thinking there might be something left, Thaddeus thought. If only Zoe hadn't disrupted the transit spell!

If she hadn't, Atraxos might have had his prize by now, Aylander said, his soul once again inside Thaddeus's sword. And you're forgetting the new powers she received from the Abbott. He took us from the ruins of Athelden to his abbey without using a transit spell. It stands to reason that Zoe can do something similar.

It stands to reason. Thaddeus chuckled and shook his head. You already know she can, Aylander. I can sense that you do. What aren't you telling me about what she's become? What does it mean for her to be a Priestess of Adarion?

It means many things, most of which you will simply have to experience to learn. What I can tell you, however, is that she is now one of the most powerful magic users in existence. Women like her were once called Sorceresses, and were considered by some to be goddesses made flesh. They weren't, of course – Sorceresses are just as mortal as any of us – but their power was never to be questioned. And Battlmages, like yourself, had no greater allies.

Because they can augment our powers, like she did when we faced that Sword Priest.

Precisely. And that was no Sword Priest, Thaddeus. Based on how Zoe dealt with him, he was even more Twisted than I was. Or less, as the case may have been.

Thaddeus didn't need to ask Aylander what he meant about their latest foe being less Twisted than Aylander, himself, had been. That creature had embraced his Twisted nature completely – had reveled in it, in fact – and showing him mercy of any kind would have been unthinkable. That was ruthless reasoning, Thaddeus knew, but ruthlessness was something that had become a part of him since being made whole.

“You're brooding,” Zoe said, walking up to stand beside him. “I'm not sure how well it suits you.”

“You might have to get used to it,” Thaddeus said, looking at her and smirking. “I am a whole man, again, after all.”

Zoe smiled. “You are that.” The smile turned wicked. “Too bad I couldn't have left you as two whole men. That could have been . . . interesting.”

Zoe's wicked smile, coupled with her words and the tone she'd spoken them in, made Thaddeus's blood grow warm, and he had to fight to keep from taking her right then and there. It wasn't the time for that. Not yet, anyway. “I'm sure one of me will be more than enough.”

Zoe winked. “So am I. Now, what were you looking so stormy about?”

“I was thinking about how we were going to get out of here without the transit spell. At least, I was until Aylander reminded me about your new powers. Then I got to thinking about that . . . thing . . . Aylander and I fought, and how ruthless I was in deciding it was right that we showed it no mercy.” Thaddeus looked out toward Eltara, again. “I'm finding this new, darker side to myself a little hard to get used to, still.”

“And yet you don't doubt the rightness of the decision, do you?”

“No,” Thaddeus said. “I don't.”

“Good. Because it was the right thing to do. Some souls are beyond saving, and it's best they be done away with before they can do any more harm than they already have. Demons are born, otherwise.”

“Demons.” Demons were the worst of the Abominations, and were the only kind that could appear independent of a Necromancer's spell. Despite that, however, there had been no substantiated reports of demons since before the founding of the Torvaran Empire. “Atraxos has become one, hasn't he?”

“No. He's become something worse.”

Thaddeus looked at her. “What could be worse than a demon?”

“One of their lords,” Zoe said.

“Atraxos has become one of the Lords of Darkness?”

“I'm almost certain of it.”

“That would mean he has some sort of direct contact with the Sundered Halls!”

His book, Aylander said. Not only was it his prison, it is also the source of his power. And, if he combines its power with that of the Amulet of Adarion, he could open the Sundered Halls.

“Which would free the Lords of Darkness,” Thaddeus said. “Gods Above!”

“I don't know what Aylander just told you,” Zoe said, “but I suspect he has an inkling of how Atraxos was able to contact the Sundered Halls, and that whatever power it has, coupled with the power of what he seeks, would be a very bad thing for everybody. We need to get moving.” Zoe closed her eyes and turned her head, then, as if suddenly remembering something, opened one eye and glanced back at Thaddeus. “You know, why don't you do it?”

Thaddeus frowned. “Do what?”

Zoe looked at him with both eyes. “Take us where we need to go.”

“But, I don't know how. Remember? That's your area, not mine.”

“You can do it, too. And we don't need to ride the wind, either. Light would get us there much faster.”

“But, I don't know the spell!”

That's because there is none, Aylander said. Not for someone like you, or like her. Magic will obey your thoughts, no matter how complex the thing you want it to do is. Your power is truly unfettered. And you have no idea how envious that makes me.

Thaddeus grinned. Oh, don't I?

“What did he say?” Zoe asked.

“That you and I make him envious. Now, where should I take us?”

“Anywhere. After Atraxos. But it'll have to be in small jumps. What we can do doesn't have the range of the transit spell.”

Make for the Plateau of Leng, Aylander said. I will help guide the journey.

Thaddeus closed his eyes. An image of where they would emerge from their first jump – a village that, in Aylander's memory, was pristine in every detail, even having a fountain in its square around which Eltaran children laughed and played – appeared in his mind, and with it came an impulse to go. Thaddeus fed that impulse with light, drawing it seemingly from the very day, itself, and, all at once, he was moving. Zoe came trailing after – it was like they were caught up in a wave of some sort – and then, almost as soon as they'd left, they had arrived at the village from Aylander's memory.

Except the village was nothing like how Aylander remembered it. Its stone buildings, so white and unblemished, before, were now gray and broken. The fountain in the village square was dry, and had crumbled into a barely recognizable ruin. There were no children, either, or any other people of any kind.

This was your village, wasn't it? Thaddeus asked Aylander.

It was, Aylander said. A very long time ago, it was.

Something nearby – something that had to be alive even though Thaddeus couldn't sense it – screeched. And then a black thing, with small, leathery wings and a snout like a river lizard, emerged from one of the ruins. Thaddeus knew what it was – there were few who wouldn't, though the creature was commonly thought of as mythical – and seeing it turned his insides to ice with terror.

“Gods Above, that's a drake, isn't it?” Zoe asked.

It was, and, according to myth, where there was one drake, there were more. And drakes, just like their larger kin, which included wyverns and dragons, were immune to all forms of magic. “Run!” Thaddeus shouted.

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.