13: THE SHELTER OF DEVORS

Kihrin’s story Inside Vol Karoth’s prison

Just after Qown’s vision of Relos Var and Galen’s deal

The vision took us off guard, I think. We hadn’t been expecting it. I initially assumed Vol Karoth was somehow responsible, but it didn’t feel like something he’d show me. It wasn’t dark enough—and he wasn’t gloating.

That was when I realized that when we’d been sending the memories we’d pulled from my friends to each other, we must have been sending them to everyone trapped in the Lighthouse as well.

So they’d sent something back.

I was so stunned I almost didn’t notice when Vol Karoth resumed his attack. I blocked his strike, but his sword still danced across my shoulder, a sharp, jagged splash of agony. I hissed as I fell backward, feeling that curious jarring slide as reality shifted around me and put me … somewhere else. My blood splattered against the dusty gray rocks.

Damn it, I thought, there has to be something …

Why do you keep hiding? If we’re truly not enemies …

“Why do you keep stabbing me, then?” I shouted. “I’ll stop hiding when you stop stabbing!”

I hadn’t traveled far that time. I still felt him. Presumably, he still felt me. An aching dread crawled along my spine, settled down in the pit of my stomach.

I feel you.

I dove to the side in time to avoid the sword blow slamming down into the ground where I’d sat a moment before.

“I’ll repeat myself,” I said, staring at the silhouette that was … nothing. “You’re not my enemy. Rev’arric is.”

I had to admit it was growing increasingly difficult to say those words and mean it. Veils, I’d fucked up.

You live in a universe of illusion and lies, and you refuse to see the truth. I am your enemy. Everyone is your enemy. Just as everyone is mine.

“So no luck visiting on birthdays, huh?” Even if Vol Karoth had a visible expression, that wouldn’t have made him smile. No sense of humor. “Look, how can you say that when you’ve seen how these people care about each other? If Teraeth was despondent, it’s because he cares about me.” I pressed back against him with my sword and then kicked him back. It wasn’t anything that would damage him, but better than nothing.

You want me to show you how evil—

“No,” I said. “I know how evil people can be. I’m not claiming evil doesn’t exist. But you’re trying to tell me only evil exists. Only selfishness exists. That’s a lie.”

Vol Karoth backed up, lowered his weapon, cocked his head in a way that made me quite certain I knew the expression on his face—eyebrow raised, eyes narrowed, mouth quirked in one corner. It was unnerving as hell whenever he did something that reminded me of how we’d once been the same person.

You think they love you.

“I know they love me,” I said.

He scoffed. I’ll prove you wrong.

Fear gripped me. “No, no, you don’t need to—”

Deljari. Deljari vanis.

The words echoed through the air, spiraling out across the wasteland. I knew that they hadn’t been said to me.

“What have you done?” I said.

You’ve brought them here. Let’s bring them closer. And while we’re at it—

“No, don’t do anything else!”

Why don’t we say hello to our twelfth guest? The one you don’t want to admit is in the room.

I could both feel and hear his laughter, a cold shock traveling across my skin.

The world changed.

Qown’s reaction The Lighthouse at Shadrag Gor

Just after Qown’s memory of Relos Var and Galen’s deal

The world returned, if somehow colder than previously.

Galen raised an eyebrow at Thurvishar. “Was that what you planned?”

“Yes,” Thurvishar said, “and it worked.”

“Did you have to show everything?” Qown drew himself up, glaring at Thurvishar.

He knew it could have been worse. Later events had been more embarrassing on a personal level. But even so …

Thurvishar seemed amused, probably because it wasn’t difficult to guess why Qown might be upset. “Yes, I did.”

Galen’s eyes were still narrowed, his expression angry. He hadn’t forgiven Qown yet, which was incredibly unfair considering … well. Fine.

Qown could admit it was fair.

Qown exhaled. “I really didn’t—”

Deljari. Deljari vanis.

“What was that?” Sheloran asked. They’d all heard the sound, or rather felt it, a whisper in their minds.

Qown didn’t recognize the voice. It was male and smooth and ever so faintly desperate. But the language …

“That was voral,” Senera said.

“That was Kihrin,” Kalindra said.

Talon shrugged. “I guess he knows we’re here too.”

“That wasn’t Kihrin,” Janel corrected, her voice quiet and grief-stricken. “That was S’arric.”

Galen frowned. “Every time you say that name, I keep wondering if you’re talking about my great-uncle.”

Janel stared at him, blinking, before she turned back to Thurvishar. “Someone needs to bring him up to speed.”

“Oh, I can—” Qown swallowed the rest of his sentence. It seemed unlikely he would be allowed to explain anything, since Galen still wasn’t looking at him.

“Fine,” Galen said. “I’ll assume that wasn’t my great-something uncle Saric. But what did he say?”

“Send reinforcements,” Janel translated.

“You wanted communication,” Qown told Thurvishar. “I think we have it.”

Sheloran said, “‘Send reinforcements’ seems a lot to ask when we can’t reach where the help is needed.”

“We can,” Thurvishar corrected.

“You said you didn’t know if you could come back,” Senera snapped. “Don’t do something stupid. Especially don’t do something stupid when we know it’s a trap.”

“Send me,” Janel said.

“Janel—” Thurvishar started to protest.

“No, send me,” she repeated. “I make the most sense. My souls are already untethered. You just need to push me in the right direction. I’ve done similar things before.”

“Every night when you go to sleep,” Qown said.

Janel twisted to look over her shoulder at him. “Yes, but this time, I’m going someplace a whole lot scarier than the Afterlife.”

Galen made a face.

Sheloran’s smile was wan and thin. “Yes, that really was one of those sentences you just never think you’re going to hear until … there it is.”

“Would you like more tea before you go?” Talea offered Janel a cup. “It’s cold, but you can fix that.”

Qown frowned. It couldn’t be cold; he’d just made it.

“It’s a nice gesture, but I don’t know how long I’m going to be unconscious,” Janel said as she refused it. “I don’t want a full bladder.”

“You did hear me say this is a trap, didn’t you?” Senera said. “Because this is a trap.”

Janel snorted.

“It could be—” Thurvishar started to say.

Senera gestured. “No vision has interrupted us. Vol Karoth’s waiting for us to respond to that call before he sends something else. The only reason to do that is to set a trap.”

“Or Kihrin’s genuinely in trouble,” Janel answered back. Then she sighed. “Yes, fine. It’s a trap. But that’s why I’m not rescuing Kihrin.”

Thurvishar blinked. “You’re not?”

“No,” she said. “Because if what I find is anything like what I think is going to be there, then I know where Vol Karoth is keeping Teraeth. That’s who I’m going after.” She pointed to his body. “If he is being used as a hostage, let’s stop that.”

Thurvishar pursed his lips. “All right. I agree.”

Janel lay back on one of the couches. Qown wasn’t sure what Thurvishar did. The exact details of the spell weren’t visible to the naked eye. After a few minutes, Janel’s chest stopped moving. She was, much like Teraeth, dead to the world.

Qown could only hope not literally so.

It must have done something in any event, because shortly thereafter, another vision struck. The world changed.

Kalindra’s memory

The Monastery on Devors Later in the evening after Jarith Milligreest’s funeral

It was nighttime when the Gatestone flared to life, spiraled into a circle, and disgorged two people before shutting down.

Three people, but no one noticed the third.

An austere, prim man wearing tan robes waited for Kalindra Milligreest’s arrival. His expression suggested her presence was a personal insult. No one else was present, however, so she stepped toward him. “This isn’t the reception I expected.”

He studied her, eyes narrowed, chin up. “You’re Kalindra Milligreest?”

“Who else would I be?”

He turned red, somehow even angrier. “Confirm your identity, now.”

Kalindra stared, her expression disbelieving. “You thought the guards on the other side weren’t checking before they let people through? Yes, I’m Kalindra Milligreest.”

“You were supposed to be here earlier.”

Kalindra shifted her child on her hip, who was sleepy-eyed from having been kept up past his bedtime. “So someone made a mistake. Fine. In the meantime, why don’t you show me to my rooms?”

The monk narrowed his eyes and considered her. “No weapons allowed.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kalindra said, then grimaced at her son. “You didn’t hear that, sweetheart.” She glared at the man. “Do you really think I’m going to slaughter all the librarians with a dagger?¹ Why don’t you just show us to a room where we can sleep, and we will sort this all out in the morning.”

The monk ground his teeth a few more times before answering, “Follow me. You’re too late for meals. The wake-up bell rings an hour before dawn, and it is already past curfew. You will not socialize with or distract the priests—”

“Are women not allowed in monastery?” Kalindra interrupted.

The priest paused, frowning, as if Kalindra had broken a rule by asking questions. “Of course they are. They are kept separate from the men.”

“Great,” Kalindra said. “This is going to be fantastic. I already love it here. I feel so safe.” She shifted Nikali in her arms and started walking. “Where’s my room?”

The priest hurried after her. “Wait. There are rules.”

“I’m sure there are,” Kalindra muttered as she looked around. “I can’t wait to hear them.”

The island of Devors was two islands, treated as one. A lush swath of jungle green painted the windward side, while the leeward side sheltered temperate fields of grain and scrub brush. The islands were home to farmers and craftsmen, most of whom had never left their home.

But that wasn’t what everyone thought of when someone mentioned Devors. What people thought of was this: the monastery at the edge of the great Pajanya Cliffs, old and hoary, built up over centuries until it resembled a collection of clamshells stacked up in messy columns. The currents that had once brought rains to Khorvesh now broke storms on the island chain, smashed against picturesque rocks, and sent ocean spray hurtling up into the air. Only a single safe harbor for hundreds of miles in any direction, the monastery itself could only be reached by that port, a narrow strip of land, or by Gatestone. The magical protections around those buildings had been carved into the foundations. They had never fallen—not to demons, god-kings, or dragons. Legends said Ompher himself had created them. The monastery served as home to the largest library in the world² and to several thousand men and women who had dedicated their lives to one singular mission: recording and interpreting the prophecies that had become synonymous with their island’s name.

“Milligreest!” the man called out behind Kalindra, his voice sharp and angry.

She turned around.

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t cause trouble.”

Kalindra regarded the man coolly. “What’s your name?”

That brought him short. He was unused to this idea of women asking questions, wanting to know information, existing.

“Oliyuan,” he offered grudgingly.

“Fine. Oliyuan,” Kalindra said, bouncing her son on her hip. Nikali was, for the moment, in a good mood, if a bit squirmy because he wanted to look at the waves. “I don’t want to cause any trouble,” she said, “but you need to understand that I have the high general’s grandson here. And the high general is going to have his way, even if you don’t want me here, and even if I don’t want to be here. But what will make this worse for both of us is if any harm should befall this child”—she hiked up Nikali at this, who giggled—“because you insisted on making me follow rules that were never meant to meet the needs of mothers and their children. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

A tic developed under Oliyuan’s left eye. “Is that a threat?”

Kalindra smiled. “Yes.”

Oliyuan raised his lip in a sneer, quickly suppressed. “I’ll take you to your room.”

---

Her room was a cell.

That might well have been true for most monks who lived there. The main purpose of the Devors monastery was to protect and shelter pieces of paper, not people. This was a thick-slabbed, six-foot-by-eight-foot room just large enough for a pallet on the floor and a washbasin. A lonely window high up on the wall would allow for some insignificant quantity of light during daytime, and overall, the entire room felt designed for punishment more than rest.

Nikali started crying immediately.

Before Kalindra could turn back to the door, it slammed shut. And locked.

“Hey! Hey!”

“Wait here,” the man said.

Then he walked away.

Kalindra banged against the metal door, which echoed, hollow and loud, like a drum. No one responded, and after a few minutes, she stopped to wipe the tears from her son’s eyes and hold him close.

She never noticed a sliver of shadow disconnecting from her body, sliding away and passing through the door as though it were made of smoke.

Jarith’s memory

The shadow left the cell. It was simplicity itself to do so.

They hadn’t been able to sense him earlier, when he’d hidden, crouched and lurking in the dark spaces of his widow’s souls. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done—to stay quiet and still and soft, applying no pressure, causing no injury. Her fire was right there, her heat so close all he had to do was reach out … But no. He could not.

His name was Jarith Milligreest. He was a man. His wife’s name was Kalindra. His son’s name was Nikali. He loved them both. It was wrong to hurt people he loved.

He had a list. It was a small list, but he held on to it tightly. It was all he had left of himself, this vow that there were people he would not hurt, would not kill.

Oliyuan wasn’t on that list.

The man was returning to the barracks where he’d left Kalindra, but he wasn’t alone. There were two other men with him. Not monks.

More importantly: not on his list.

Soldiers. Quuros soldiers, who wore good armor under their dark sallí cloaks. Both had the aura of sorcerers and the studious demeanor of men who had spent a great many years stationed on the island. Long enough to become believers to a religion formed not of gods but of lines on paper and the promise of saving the world from a foretold apocalypse.

Their expressions suggested they were about to perform an unpleasant task—for example, murdering a mother and her child. Unpleasant, but necessary. There were prophecies about Kalindra. By their conviction, killing her would save so many lives that there could be no question that it was worth doing.

Jarith felt differently. Kalindra could not be allowed to die. She was on his list.

None of the men noticed the literal shadow pulling itself into cohesion just behind them.

Jarith formed a rough body for himself. Then he crafted blades, stabbed them through the necks of the two men, and ripped outward, away. A bright red line of hot blood splattered against the carved-stone floor. Oliyuan barely had a chance to notice before he met the same fate, this time with Jarith crossing both swords over the man’s neck and slicing down hard.

The rage already boiled in his veins by then, though, so he didn’t stop. Jarith stabbed and sliced long after the men were dead, then graduated to ripping and tearing. By the time he’d finished stealing their fire, what was left was a pile of cold meat that could never be mistaken for human beings.

The demon left the bodies at the base of the Founders statue.

The world changed.