Late that night, nearly dawn the next day, the city had been secured. Everyone who still lived made their way to their quarters or to the healers’ tents that had been erected in the square in front of the keep.
Emrael and the others who ranked a room in Whitehall Keep stumbled up the front steps, stripped in the grand foyer, and handed their armor to Ire Legion and Norta servants. Now in just smallclothes soiled with sour sweat, blood, and dirt, they trudged in exhausted silence to the enormous bathhouse. Steaming hot water poured from dozens of shower heads on one side of the men’s bath chambers, and spigots filled as many large copper tubs on the other. Unlike the Citadel, Dorae’s keep had plenty of infusori to power his Craftings that heated water for his bathing chambers.
Afraid he wouldn’t stay awake in a bath, Emrael trudged over to an unoccupied shower. He stripped and scrubbed the filth from himself, finding various minor but painful cuts and bruises along the way. When he was done, a waiting servant handed him a clean bathrobe and he trudged the empty stone-walled corridors of Whitehall with Jaina, Timan, and Halrec.
They had issued the appropriate orders to delay the assault on Larreburgh by a day, just enough to give their uninjured men time to recover before the campaign. Emrael couldn’t allow the Watchers’ assault here to derail his plans—it might even enhance the element of surprise.
He tapped Jaina on the arm as they walked back to their rooms. “Why hadn’t Dorae and his men seen Malithii and soulbound until now? And why did they only bring those few hundred? Another hundred or two of those bastards and we would have been overrun.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “The Mindless are not created easily, Emrael. Each takes months to transform, and each requires an ancient soulbinder. Each of the soulbinders my Imperators recovered here is of the same design we find in the Dark Nations. Truthfully, I am surprised they had as many as they did. And that they used them here, and now.”
“So that might have been all the soulbound they had? We may not have to worry about them, at least not for a few months?”
Jaina’s short dark hair swayed as she shook her head. “I did not say that. I do not think they knew we would be here. They would have crushed Whitehall’s defenses with the numbers they brought tonight if not for our ten thousand men, and they would not have sent their alai’ahn if they had foreseen defeat. They are too smart to expend these cheaply.”
Halrec grunted his dismay. “How many soulbound could they conceivably send against us? Even with well-trained troops, it takes at least two men to take one of those things down. If they have more of these soulbinders, and people to use them on…”
Timan was the one to answer this time. “We have seen armies of soulbound in the tens of thousands before, in the Westlands. But it is rare. Very rare. I cannot believe they’ve landed that many alai on this continent. If they have, you’re doomed,” he said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
Emrael chuckled darkly. “As if being outnumbered by the Fallen-cursed Watchers wasn’t enough. We need to unite the Iraeans, all of them, and quickly. And maybe we do need to strike a deal with the Ordenans after all,” he said, watching Jaina carefully from the corner of his eye.
She frowned. “The Ordenan Imperial Army is hard-pressed just to keep the war on the far side of the Aerwyn Ocean. If there may be tens of thousands of alai’ahn to fight here, the Councils will want more resources than you presently have to give, Emrael.”
Emrael pursed his lips and shared a serious glance with Halrec. “We’ll just have to acquire more assets, then.”
They walked on in silence after that, too tired to discuss the bleak outlook further. All found their rooms to sleep as much as they could before the following day, when they’d have their hands full assessing their casualties and preparing five battalions to assault Larreburgh.
Emrael locked and chained the door to his room. Moving in the slow trance of exhaustion, he shed his robe, pulled all the infusori from the gold coil lamp to plunge the room into darkness, and collapsed on the bed.
Just as he was drifting off to sleep, however, there was a whisper of cloth rubbing against cloth nearby. His eyes snapped open, straining to see in the darkness. It could have just been his imagination, but even in his exhausted state, he knew he couldn’t afford to take chances.
He could see very little in the shadow-drenched room, even once his eyes adjusted. Heavy curtains over small square windows blocked out nearly every bit of the late-night moon.
He moved one hand slowly toward the dagger he kept under his mattress while reaching with his other hand for the dull gold coil on the table next to the bed. When his fingers found the cold metal, he pushed some infusori into the gold and sat up, dagger and glowing coil at the ready.
He froze as he saw that he was not, in fact, alone. A Malithii priest sat calmly in an armchair in the far corner of his room, a tall man with tattoos that covered every inch of skin that Emrael could see. According to Jaina, a priest with this many of their religious markings would be someone of considerable status.
The priest had a small crossbow loaded and trained directly on Emrael’s chest. He showed large white teeth in a smile and made placating motions with his free hand.
“Calm, dear Ire boy,” the priest said soothingly. “Calm. I have not come here to harm you. My master simply wishes to speak. That is all. Just speak with you.”
Emrael tensed, ready to spring, but the priest lifted his eyebrows and waggled the crossbow in his direction. “No, please. None of that. I told you once. I’ll swear on my life and hope of a Glorious rebirth. We mean no harm. Drop the knife.”
The priest waggled the crossbow again, and Emrael slowly set the dagger down next to him.
“Better,” the priest said, resting the crossbow in the crook of his arm but still keeping a cautious eye on him. Then, he bowed formally, still seated. “I am Savian, the Prophet of Glory,” he said in a deep, resonant voice.
Emrael stared for a moment, expecting the priest to continue. Savian just sat, as if expecting Emrael to recognize his name. “And what do you want from me, Savian? Why don’t I already have a crossbow bolt in my chest?”
Savian chuckled, a deep, genuine laugh. “Oh my dear boy, you do not understand at all. My master has never wished to kill you. This,” he said, nodding at the weapon, “is just insurance.”
Fear began to turn to a smoldering anger in Emrael’s chest despite the obvious danger. “Say what you’ve got to say and begone, then.”
Savian drew back a bit, as if offended. “Dear boy, I am here to help you, to bring you warning. I will prove myself to you.” He leaned forward slightly, an excited gleam in his eye. “Did you know the southern Lords Holder of Barros are ready to revolt against their governor? Hmmm? Ah, I thought not. They would answer your call more readily than these stubborn Iraeans, oh yes they will. I have made sure of it.”
It wouldn’t surprise Emrael if the southern Lords Holder of Barros were on the verge of revolt. They were ever threatening the governor in a bid to return to the old ways, when the provinces had been independent kingdoms and the Lords Holder had enjoyed much freer rein over their Holdings.
“Why are you telling me this? You and your priests are the ones who caused this entire war. You forced my own father to carve me with a knife, for Mercy’s sake. Why would I possibly trust you?” This man must have been insane, lying, or both. But then again, why would he be here, in the heart of Whitehall, talking to Emrael when he could easily have killed him already?
The Prophet licked his lips and hunched in on himself as if suddenly in pain. His eyes widened abruptly and he straightened, with a large smile plastered on his face once more. “My master tests you, Son of Glory. You should be done with the Ordenan devils and their wiles.” His gaze locked on the book Emrael had taken from the Ravan temple, which sat on his nightstand. His smile became a snarl. “They pervert the gifts of the holy God of Glory.”
Emrael sat up, suddenly curious even as he watched the priest—Prophet, he supposed, whatever that meant. “You know of this book?” he asked cautiously. “What is it?”
Savian looked at him in surprise, then narrowed his eyes. “Surely you know by now?”
When Emrael only shook his head slightly, the Prophet continued, speaking more slowly than before. “Perhaps it is best you find out for yourself, young master?”
Savian framed that last as a question, which struck Emrael as odd. Just what was this book? He’d have to make time to explore it further—if Jaina and this odd Prophet were so interested in it, it likely held something of value.
“Okay … I’ll keep that in mind,” Emrael said, trying not to offend the man who could put a bolt through his chest with the twitch of a finger. How had this man entered the keep plainly dressed as a Malithii priest and armed with a crossbow?
“Is that all you came for, Savian?”
Savian laughed again, louder this time. Emrael hoped that someone in the rooms next to his—Halrec was in one—would hear the odd laugh, clearly deeper than Emrael’s voice, and come running to his rescue. Alas, the keep remained silent.
“No, my dear Ire. My master wishes to speak with you directly. Do not be afraid,” he said, now reaching slowly toward Emrael, the crossbow in his other hand still aimed at his chest. “I don’t have any of my beautiful mindbinders, no need to worry. Just a touch, and I’ll be gone.”
Emrael could see no sure way to knock the weapon aside without risking being shot, and so prepared himself to consume Savian’s infusori, Jaina’s warnings be damned.
As soon as Emrael felt Savian’s long fingers touch him, he pulled with all the might of his considerable will, intending to snuff out the priest’s life instantly. He recoiled in shock when he found that Savian’s life source didn’t budge, not a bit. His efforts were as futile as if he had tried to push over Whitehall Keep with his bare hands.
He had just enough time for that shock to register before every muscle in his body spasmed, his back arcing backward to the point of agony. His vision spun, then turned dark, an experience similar to that of being pulled into the visions of the book.
Angular, glowing runes soon broke the darkness that filled his vision. The script glowed blue just as it had in the Ravan temple, and as in the temple, it seemed to have been inscribed into the walls of a structure. Unlike the temple, however, the script seemed to fill nearly every inch of the four triangular interior walls. Even still, the structure was large enough that the majority of the interior lay obscured in deep shadow.
A light flickered in the dim room. He peered at it, then recoiled as bright blue light burst from a huge, bald figure seated in a large stone chair—a throne, almost—near the far wall. The same runic script that covered the walls glowed fiercely on the figure’s skin. Emrael grew uneasy when he realized that the markings were very similar, possibly identical, to the scars that had been carved into his own skin.
“Come, Son of Glory,” the figure said in an impossibly deep voice that seemed to set every fiber of Emrael’s being aquiver. “Come. Attend me.”
Emrael’s mind did not seem to work correctly. Positive emotions flooded him—adoration, longing, loyalty toward this Being—and he wanted to obey. But something in the core of him resisted. Sweat beaded on his face from the effort, but he stood still despite the powerful urge to go to the immense Being. He was no pawn.
“COME,” the Being roared. Fear clenched in Emrael’s chest now, an avalanche of cold that drowned all thought.
His legs began to move of their own accord. But something inside him resisted still, and he stopped again, angry more than scared now. His emotions were obviously affected by whatever this Being was doing, whoever this Being was. But the anger was his. He owned it, enveloped himself in it, shielding himself from the artificial emotions that tried to control him.
The Being surged to its feet, obviously irate. It—he—stalked over to Emrael and loomed over him, studying him with an unblinking stare. His eyes were pure black. Emrael didn’t know whether this was an ethereal vision or whether he had actually been transported physically somehow, but either way, panic started to worm its way through his shell of anger. He didn’t look away from the Being’s gaze, though, and held tightly to his rage—his anchor in a sea of dread.
Abruptly, the Being smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth behind plump grey lips. “Good,” he purred, pacing closer. “Very good.”
Emrael was now frozen in place, helpless as the Being laid a hand on each of Emrael’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. The emotions flooding Emrael faded suddenly, leaving him weak and alone with his defiant anger—and the constant vibrating power that seemed to have settled in his soul when the Being had awoken.
“At last, a Child with promise. My Sisters have ever been silent since abandoning me to this world. Old and worn as I am, I am stuck in this place of Power. We will yet see that they share my fate, my Son.”
Emrael shot up from where he had been fast asleep atop his bed, heart racing, eyes scanning the room frantically. He was alone.
Where had Savian gone? Could it have all been an exhausted dream, an illusion?
The sun shone through the small gaps in the heavy curtains that covered his windows. His room was empty, no sign that anyone had been there. But his memory was clear, both of the odd visit from the Prophet and the vision that followed. He could still feel the Being’s vibrant power coursing through him, like a parasite wriggling its way through his soul.
Oh Absent Gods, did I really just talk to the Fallen? It was him, it had to be. Either that or I have lost my mind.
He sat on the edge of his bed, blankets in a tangle, trying to process what had just happened to him. Why had the Fallen called him his “Son”? Nothing about it made sense, but he was sure it wasn’t a good thing.
He crossed the room to unlock the door and to take a swig from the flask of brandy he had left on the table next to the entryway. He stared at the flask a moment, then drained it with three more quick gulps.
His hands were shaking. Could it have been just soldier’s madness come to haunt him after the fight yesterday? No. He could still feel the power of the Fallen’s voice reverberating through him, as if he were still deep in the vision. He thought it might drive him mad if it lasted much longer.
A knock sounded at the door. “Shit,” Emrael muttered, scrambling to find his clothes. He was supposed to have met Jaina back in the courtyard at the seventh hour, and from what he could tell by the light streaming through his window, he was late. The door handle turned and whoever was outside pushed on the door.
“Just a moment,” he croaked, tripping as he scrambled to pull his pants on. He managed to cover himself just as Jaina’s face peeked into the room.
“You are late,” she said, frowning in disapproval. “You are sleeping while your officers muster on your orders? I thought better of you, Emrael.”
Emrael felt a flush of shame, but scrambled to fasten his pants as he beckoned her into his room. “Come in and shut the door, Jaina.”
She looked him up and down, eyebrow raised as she stared at him fumbling with his pants. “Perhaps I should be flattered?”
“No … no, Jaina. Gods, not that…”
She surprised him by entering and closing the door while he mumbled, eyes locked to his. She smiled wickedly and approached, eyeing him up and down. He drew back. “Jaina, I don’t think…”
Awkwardly, he backed all the way to his bed and stumbled backward to sit, still staring at her in disbelief. She doubled over and began laughing so hard that tears dripped from the corners of her eyes. “Silent Sisters, your face! You thought I—”
She trailed off, unable to speak for laughing so hard.
Emrael drew a deep breath and set his jaw, finally securing the last of the buttons on his pants. “Very funny. Would you listen for one Fallen minute?”
Finally, she calmed and stared at him expectantly. Emrael hesitated, weighing what he could tell her safely about the visit from the Prophet of the Fallen. Jaina was … Jaina. She had proven herself loyal many times, but at the end of the day she was Ordenan. Her true loyalties undoubtedly lay with her Order. How well did he really know her?
Still, if he couldn’t trust her, now was the time to know it. And if anyone could help, it was her. And so he told her every detail of the visit from the Prophet of the Fallen, Savian, and the vision of the Fallen himself. Her laughter faded quickly.
Closing his eyes, he dipped his head, focusing on feeling his internal infusori, then met her eyes as he placed a hand on his bare chest for visual effect. “I can feel him, Jaina. It’s like my life source is still vibrating. His power was unbelievable, and he called me his son. If he can affect me, affect anyone like that without even using a mindbinder, we have a major problem. If the Fallen himself is real and involved in this war, we’re fucked.”
Jaina considered him for a long time, stone-faced. A flash of suspicion marred her expression, and she began running her hands along his arms, then his head and neck. “If that Malithii was here, he could have left you with a mindbinder or worse.”
“The Malithii priest seemed to want to help me, as odd as that sounds. I don’t think I have a mindbinder on me. Whatever the Fallen did is inside me.” He thumped his chest for emphasis, though he allowed her to continue. His skin tingled as she used minute amounts of infusori to scan his body for malicious Craftings.
After a time, she sat back, apparently satisfied that the Malithii priest—prophet, whatever—hadn’t put a mindbinder of any sort on him. “Be careful about who learns this, Emrael. Some in my Order would kill you without remorse if they knew that the Fallen had touched you, even through a dream or vision. I would like to meld to feel this. May I?”
He nodded, and she gently placed her hands on either side of his head. His skin pebbled as her infusori senses coursed through him, her consciousness examining his. Memories and emotions flickered through his mind as she perused his inner being. The reverberation he had felt since his encounter with the Fallen swelled for a moment, then he felt an even deeper connection form, something different from what she had normally done in their training sessions. Momentarily, their emotions, their thoughts, their very beings melded. For the first time in ages, maybe ever, he felt like someone understood him. The constant struggle with the memory of his torture, his father’s death, the prospect of facing overwhelming odds against the Malithii, Iraeans, Corrande, Barros, Elle, everything. And he felt her in return. He was astonished at the depth of the loyalty and fondness she felt for him. He had never stopped to consider that she seemed to have nobody else in her life, no purpose beside that of her Order—except for him, now. As their connection lingered, he felt some of the pain, some of the anxiety of the Fallen’s influence bleed from him.
She released him and sank to the bed beside him, drawing in a shaky breath. “That was … significant,” she said finally, a slight rasp to her voice. “I had never thought the Fallen One’s residuals would feel so … pure. Chaotic, overwhelming, but pure. I suppose we should have known that he had awoken, but to know it for certain is…”
She shook herself, then leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. “I have taken as much of the Fallen’s effects onto myself as I can handle, and the rest should subside in time. Just … just be careful. Tell no one but those you trust with your life. And for Mercy’s sake, let me post an Imperator at your door. The Fallen and his Malithii obviously have a particular interest in you. Which means that I do as well.”
He hung his head, tears falling from his eyes. He had not expected so profound a reaction to their connection. He hadn’t felt much emotion other than anger since the battle for the Citadel, just … empty. The torture and death of his father had numbed him, hardened him. He still hadn’t told anyone the truth of what had happened there, not even Ban. Especially not Ban.
Something about knowing that Jaina understood, had felt what he felt … he felt human again. Almost.
“It was really the Fallen then? You believe me?”
Jaina gripped the back of his head, turned his tear-filled gaze to meet hers. “I believe you. I don’t know how the Fallen could possibly affect you without being here himself. But I believe you. What I just felt could not have come from anything—anyone—else.”
Her eyes grew unfocused for a moment as she thought, then she nodded to herself. “I am with you, Emrael. If you are with me, we will fight him together.”
He nodded, and put an arm around her shoulders as he would have done with Ban. “Together, then.”
Finally, he didn’t feel alone.