NAITH
Naith Bo-Offriad hurried down the main thoroughfare of Afon. Of all places.
How had it come to this? The High Priest of the Tirian Empire skulking down the cobblestoned streets of some peninsular town, praying to the stars not to be noticed by the provincials, should they still be milling about at this hour.
Cethor’s tears.
At the sound of voices, Naith slipped into a shadowed alleyway. Just in time, as two men rounded a nearby corner. One said, “Tide’s turnin’. I’m tellin’ you. Won’t be long afore Urian falls.”
Naith pressed himself against the building.
“A season ago I would’ve told you the monarchy couldn’t fall,” the other responded. “Two moons ago, I’d have sworn she and her ilk were too powerful. But Gareth fell, didn’t he? If the father can be toppled, so can the daughter.”
Naith held his breath as the men passed in front of his hiding spot.
The first man laughed. “Too right. Much too right. Usher in the new era, I say! Down with the nobility!”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m drunk on the potentials!”
“And the ale.”
Their laughter faded into the distance.
Naith’s whole body trembled. Fear, anger, dismay.
How could the Master have let this happen?
Naith slunk back onto the street and shuffled the last two blocks to another deserted alleyway. But this one backed up to the temple.
This is what it had come to—the high priest sneaking in through the back door. The Master had much to answer for, but even now, Naith dared not call the Master to account.
He felt along the wooden doorframe, and a splinter stabbed into his palm.
Blast.
He tried the doorframe again.
There it was. He slid the false piece of wood from its place and plucked the key from within the concealed compartment. He fumbled for the keyhole and then inserted the key.
The door squealed on hinges rusty from disuse.
Naith paused. Listened. But nothing stirred. He opened the door just enough to squeeze his bulk through.
The black of the room swallowed him, pulled him into its depths. He shut the door behind himself and said a silent prayer.
If there was anyone to hear it. The goddesses? Foolishness. The stars? Perhaps. Or perhaps even deeper foolishness. Naith only knew his heart longed to cry out to someone or something, now that he had seen the Master falter. The Master had always maintained perfect control. And now . . .
“Naith.”
The High Priest of the Tirian Empire gasped. “Who goes there?”
“Naith.”
And then the voice registered. He had heard it hundreds of times—cold, smooth, neither male nor female, all around him at once. “Master.”
“Come in, Naith. I have been waiting.”
Naith obeyed and moved deeper into the room. He squinted, for a moment unable to see anything. But there—in the corner, seated and shrouded in shadow thicker than midnight.
“Master.” Naith bowed low to the ground.
“Yes.” The Master paused. “You do not look well, Naith.”
“No.” He wondered how the Master could see in the darkness. “I have come at your beckoning, Master. Please tell me how I might serve.”
The plea tasted sour on Naith’s tongue. It might not have a moon ago. But now that all was falling apart, how could Naith be expected to grovel as in the days when the Master’s power seemed unmatched?
“Yes, you have come.” The Master paused. Naith could practically feel a dagger-sharp gaze upon him. “And I shall give you your new orders.”
Naith’s hopes quickened. “New orders? You have a plan, Master?”
“Always.”
“I live to serve you.” He bowed again.
“Gareth is dead.”
Naith’s body went cold. “Dead?”
“As of an hour ago.”
“It . . .” Naith fought to find his voice. “It must have been the rebels, or perhaps Braith’s operatives.”
“No. It was I.”
Naith blinked.
“Come, Naith. Are you truly surprised?”
“Master, why? Gareth was your most loyal servant, aside from the one who stands before you.”
A soft chuckle emanated through the room. “Gareth was only useful because he was king. As he was no longer that, he was no longer useful. And a Gareth who is no longer useful is a dangerous liability.”
Unease sprouted in Naith’s stomach.
“I see your hesitation, Naith,” the Master murmured. “You are still High Priest of the Tirian Empire, are you not?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then I can still use you.”
Naith swallowed. “But without Gareth, how shall we proceed?”
“You must return to Urian.”
“Urian?” Naith wrung his hands. “But I’ve barely made it out alive. The rioters are calling for Braith’s head. When news of Gareth’s death spreads, it will only foment more unrest.”
“Yes. And you shall use that unrest to our advantage.”
“Master?”
“In due time, the plan will be revealed to you, Naith. For now, you will obey me and return to Urian.”
Naith paused for a long moment, then lowered himself in a bow. “Yes, Master.”