That night, Eryian rode. Leirn was the farthest northern outpost of the Daath, and he rode past it when the moon had reached its zenith. There were small glimmers of fire in hearths from a few of the huddled houses, but most were dark. Dogs bayed as he crossed one field, and the owner of the cottage burst through the door, axe in hand, but Eryian moved unseen.
He didn’t follow the narrow wagon road beyond Leirn, but kept far to the right of it. The country beyond was mostly flat and offered only an occasional tree or scrub as a barrier. There were sand-swept crescent dunes and far to the right were skeletal buttes.
Eryian’s horse flew, low, sleek, the hooves steady but well trained and in the soft dirt almost silent.
He guessed it was near to dawn when he spotted riders—four, riding in formation toward him. Eryian slowed and studied them as they closed straight on, dark shapes against the deep purple hue of sky.
They began to gallop. He saw a broadsword lifted from its scabbard. One unlatched a heavy, double-bladed axe. Unchurian. He sensed they had actually come from the sea, for he knew any that had crossed Hericlon had been killed and there was no logical reason for them to have come this far south. Perhaps they had taken a Pelegasian merchantman. It bothered him thinking they were seaborne more than it bothered him he would have to kill them. Eryian galloped directly for them. The assassins spread out.
He drew his sword only in the last moment, just as they were about to clash, Eryian pulled up on the reins and turned the horse sharply. It danced sideways into them. He opened the throat of the lead axeman as the Unchurian veered to keep from colliding with Eryian’s horse. Eryian then dropped off his mount and crouched.
The other three circled. Eryian took the reins of the fallen warrior’s mount and pulled it close to his own. One of them closed, sword drawn, and Eryian slipped beneath the belly of the assassin’s horse, then behind the flanks where he grabbed a wad of dark cloak, and wrenched the warrior out the saddle, thrusting his sword in and out of the backplate. It was heavy armor and penetrating it had taken more strength than he would have guessed.
The other two realized they had chosen a wrong mark. Just as they turned, Eryian dropped one with a dagger through the neck. For the other he had to unsheathe his bow from the saddle, string it, then steady his aim due to the distance, but to make it difficult, he put the shaft directly through the base of the man’s skull. The Unchurian dropped backward and it seemed a long time before he stopped rolling.
Eryian unstrung the bow and shoved it into the saddle sheath, troubled that there were four relatively minor assassins moving on Terith-Aire from the south. Their mission was probably meant to spread as much unease and terror as possible. Staring at one of the bodies, he was sure of it; they had meant to secret themselves in the city, killing from city streets at night, leaving grizzly offerings until they were finally trapped and killed. He kicked the body over. The side of the dead assasin’s forehead was branded, as were all of the warriors from Du’ldu. The brand was a tightening swirl, the flesh pressed outward, making it look like something glued on. The swirl was an ancient mark of the angels, representing the whirlers, the angel eyes. It could be found in caves and ancient rock. He mounted and paused a moment, his horse dancing restless.
Something else was in the wind, not close, but Eryian sensed it. This one was different, skilled. Even the warlord was going to have to watch his back now. It irritated him. He did not wish to waste time killing hunters from Du’ldu.
As Eryian rode, the arid plains of the north were quiet. Odd, but he felt Azazel watching, not as if the angel were at all close, but watching from far. Eryian watched back, defiant, letting him know by thought he wasn’t fooled by the eyes that followed. If ever they met, angel or not, Eryian would leave a mark not easily forgotten. In response he heard a whispering chuckle. Why did he know this one? What was the history? Eryian tried once more, in vain, for the next few degrees of the night, to pierce the muddied veil of his past. It was real, images that moved like they were painted by some poorly skilled artist, but nothing he could make out clearly.
There were men who prayed. The seers, some of them, claimed to learn from Elyon, through a whispered voice, truths and warnings and even found comfort in knowing their Creator, but Eryian had never prayed. He was tempted. If seers could speak with Elyon, why should he not be able to, as he had done nothing in his life but follow the charges given him. He could ask that this fog be lifted, allowing him to remember his past. It had never bothered him this way before, so why was it getting to him now?
When dawn came, he rode until he found a small group of palms. He tied off the horse and stretched out for a light, troubled sleep. When the dreams came, he tried to pull out of them, tried to awaken, but they sucked him inward as if he had been caught in a net, dragged into them, and once more he was riding down a shadowy road that soon focused. It was washed in a hot, white sun and Eryian was with the king’s hunting party once again. There was laughter, murmuring, the clatter of horse gear and weapons.
Eryian rode point, possibly the only one in the entire party that was not drunk. They rode in loose formation. These were all of the King’s Guard, the first cohort of the Shadow Walkers, deft and able, but on this day they laughed, and there were women with them, some held in the saddles of the Walkers, others riding beside them. As they approached a wooded stretch of road east of a plodder’s farm, Eryian pulled up on the reins, slowing. Something he didn’t like, something hiding from him possibly, but if it was, it was doing an excellent job. Eryian tried to sense anything, any true danger, but the woods ahead were quiet. Perhaps that was all that bothered him, how they were so quiet. No birds, no animals, no wind in the leaves. It was a small clot of yew and oak, and it did not stretch far. To either side was high wheat grass. Eryian raised his fist and the column came to a halt.
Tillantus pulled up beside him, the big man concerned at the pause. He had a girl in his saddle. He dwarfed her, his big arm about her waist. She looked like a child clutched against his sweated tunic. He frowned at Eryian.
“Something wrong? Or you just pausing to sniff the air?” He was almost drunk enough to fall off his horse, and he shoved his special black leather wineskin at Eryian forcefully. “We will be at the castle in short time and you have not taken a single drink all afternoon. Love of Elyon, this was to be an easy day. It is at the king’s command we drink.”
“You know I do not drink, Tillantus.”
“Damned odd for it, too. Why anyone would choose not to drink the whole of their lives?” The thought troubled Tillantus enough that he took a long drink himself to compensate.
“I want you to ride back; keep close to Argolis. Keep your shield ready.”
Tillantus searched the trees. “For what? It is still daylight half a league from the city. Are we afraid we might be robbed?”
The girl chuckled. She couldn’t have been more than ten and seven, Tillantus forty and six. He had always had this taste for young ones. He once told Eryian it was why he chose not to marry. The freedom of having whomever he wished without being bothered about it was well worth having to cook his own food.
“Give me five men, Tillantus, Rownan among them. Put some able shieldbearers behind the king … some at his flanks, as well.” “What is it? You see something?” Eryian shook his head.
“Smell something? God’s blood, if that stand of wood gives you a problem we can ride east and around it, though I cannot imagine why we should.”
“We can do that, Captain, but I do not think it is necessary. Just taking precautions is all. Humor me.”
“Aye.” Tillantus turned his horse and shouted commands. “We are all of us going to humor the captain now!” he shouted. “Rownan, you and four men ride ahead into that stretch of wood at Eryian’s flank. Ergon, you take some shieldbearers and stay close to the king. You women, you take the flanks here in the center.”
There was considerable laughter over that.
Eryian turned in the saddle to look back to Argolis. He was in the rear. There were two women at his side, and the warrior king who was feared beyond any man alive was chuckling with them, curling his fingers through one’s rich blond hair.
As Eryian rode forward with five of his guard, the dreaded Rownan at his right, he at least felt better about shadows. There had been a growing ill ease in him all through the hunt, but the king and the others had sensed nothing. Earlier, when Argolis had trapped a boar in a rock cleft and closed on foot with a single dagger for the kill, Eryian had suddenly dropped the animal with a crossbow bolt. Argolis turned with a baffled look on his face.
“Something about that boar did not look right,” Eryian said, drawing heavy laughter from all of them.
“Assassin boar!” one of the Walkers had shouted.
Midway through the trees, Eryian began to wonder of himself. There was no movement; nothing stirred. Then he heard the low whisper of arrows, and it cut through him like a blade. He turned in the saddle, sword drawn, but anything he could possibly do was going to be too late. He could not have sensed these shadows even if he had ridden over one—they had trained their whole lives for this one, single moment. The arrows came thick, humming like insects, boring into the staggered line of warriors and their women. Tillantus’s horse reared as darts sunk into its flanks and sides. The big man was thrown, and the only one to take the hits was the girl with him. She screamed, twisting in midair as shafts ripped through her. Eryian dropped from his horse and ran for the king with his shield over his right shoulder. “Argolis!” he screamed.
Those men not hit by arrows turned their mounts and attacked, ripping into the trees without command. The Walkers about the king were slaughtered; the rain of darts was heavy, almost a solid mass. Tillantus vaulted onto a horse and set off at hard gallop into the trees, his heavy broadsword in his huge hand.
When the Shadow Walkers reached them, which took mere seconds, the Unchurian assassins made no attempt to fight back; they had already accomplished their mission. Dying meant nothing to them.
Eryian ran, dodging the last of the arrows. The shieldbearers that lay about Argolis were literally feathered in dark shafts, like the quills of porcupines. Argolis was on his side. Eryian dropped to his knees, cast aside his shield. It was over; the slaughter in the woods had ended, though the Shadow Walkers continued to search.
Eryian and Argolis had been through many years together, all they had lived, the blood, the kinship they had shared … it had ended without ceremony. Argolis was dead, his eyes open, but empty. No last words, nothing. Eryian moaned and began to pull a shaft from Argolis’s chest as though it might have mattered.
Eryian woke suddenly with quick breaths. He cursed the dreams. They had come almost every time he fell asleep since the king’s death, except for the sleep of the little witch’s poison. He knelt for a moment, trying to calm himself, letting the white sun of midday wake him.
He looked up. Something in the distance had moved. It was far, and the horizon was an unsteady image of heat simmering. It had only been a flicker of movement, but he knew he was no longer alone. He sensed nothing and though he could feel nothing at the moment, he knew. It was an assassin, but one deeply skilled at stealth. The assassin had vanished, even as Eryian had caught a glimpse of the movement.
“Come ahead, then,” Eryian whispered, still angry from the dream. He would welcome killing another assassin—a skilled one. It might make it easer to sleep when next he did. He gathered his gear and mounted.
Eryian kept a steady pace through the dunes. At one point he noticed a curl of sand that had drifted to twenty feet and looked so much like a wave it could easily have broken into foam. Eryian rode calmly, occasionally checking his flank. Whatever followed, it knew shadows as well as he did, an expert, which gave him comfort. Though he had not much farther to go, at least he had something to help time pass.
Eryian rode through the night, keeping the horse at an easy lope, but nothing closed on him. The rider kept back, and it was close to dawn when Eryian reached the end of the dunes. At the top of a hillock thick in cedar and foxtail grass he tied his horse, out of sight and smell. He found a vantage point that offered a good view. He had time to wait. He planned to catch the legions at the river Ithen before they turned east for Hericlon, but he had been making good time, and he could waste a bit now. Eryian sat back against a tree and drew his cloak about his shoulder, then faded into the shadow. Someone could have been four feet away and not have noticed him. For a long time nothing stirred—only a small gathering of gazelle that wandered slowly and gracefully out near the sea. It was beautiful country. If a man rode to the tops of the higher hills not far to the east, and from there, he could see the tip of Mount Ammon on a clear day.
The sun was nearly midpoint in the sky when he finally caught movement. The rider seemed to come out of the heat waves as though he had simply materialized—excellent, he was amazingly hard to follow. He moved carefully, weaving in and out of sight in the distance. He was good, too good to have been an ordinary warrior. Eryian guessed him to be first generation, which meant he may have lived as much as seven hundred years. He wondered what a life lived that long would be like. Were there still memories from the first days? His first woman, his first child? He rode with gifted stealth, silent and steady, never leaving himself open for long. The hood of his gray-black cloak was dropped back and only occasionally did he glance to the ground to track. He most probably tracked best by smell, but the wind was against Eryian right now, and he wasn’t that far from his last bath. Long, straight hair fell across the Unchurian’s broad shoulders, night-black but for a streak of silver to one edge. He remembered now, the streak of silver. All of the elite had it, the first-and second-born. It was their mark, like the silver band of a Shadow Walker, only this was natural, not dyed, but given of the angel by breeding to those who were gifted with the death lord’s blessing. Azazel might even know this one’s name. The Unchurian’s careful movements, his secrecy—he was easily the equal of a Daathan Walker. If not by whatever accident that had alerted Eryian, he might have been a problem.
As he drew nearer, Eryian could smell the blood of the angel in him. It was a pure-blood. It seemed almost touched with heaven’s light. Whatever the light of Elyon was, it had strange ways. Eryian had more than once sensed the light in a Nephilim. Though the creatures had turned long ago, though their hearts were evil, the light often still burned in them, a distant memory left in their blood from their father’s lineage.
At one point, the Unchurian turned against the sun and Eryian caught a glimpse of his skin. It was reddish, as were all Unchurian, but this one had for some reason chosen to become a blood drinker. It left his skin a darker sheen. That explained his being so far south and tracking Eryian. He was a loner, a wanderer, and probably had been to sea. He hunted humans, and he did so alone or, at times, with Etlantians. The firstborn of such a high lord of the angels such as Azazel were only blood drinkers by choice; they were still able to resist the curse of Enoch if they chose to because their blood was pure enough to resist. Eventually, all of them, all the children of the angels would fall to Enoch’s curse, but this one had done so by choice.
At one point the Unchurian paused and seemed to look directly at Eryian. He remained like that, perfectly still, the waves of heat occasionally blurring his image. A human, even an ordinary Daath, could sit where Eryian was and search for all he was worth and still not spot the rider. But for all his talent, the Unchurian still failed to sense Eryian. It was because Eryian had been here so long, moving not a single muscle but to breathe or blink, that he had blended into the tree he leaned against. The Unchurian chose to move on, closing. In that moment the contest was over—if ever a contest it had been. There remained only the kill. Eryian noticed a bow, already strung, strapped over one shoulder and a scabbard against the rider’s left thigh. There was a small axe lashed to the saddle blanket, hanging over the flank and a row of daggers in a dagger sheath across his chest. Eryian wondered how many this one had killed. Far more than he. Could it have been thousands?
The Unchurian began to ascend the hillock, weaving in and out of the few trees here. He rode calm, eased back, one hand resting on his thigh and the other holding the reins loosely. Once or twice the rider’s eyes would drop to the ground, scanning tracks, but mostly they searched the trees about him carefully. Again he looked directly at Eryian, but still missed him, even this close.
Finally, when the Unchurian was within range, Eryian slowly stood, his cloak falling open. He knew that to the Unchurian he had just appeared out of pure, thin air. The Unchurian instantly froze, hand near his throwing axe, the fingers touching the hilt. Eryian was certain he could move fast, he could fling that small axe in a second’s breath, and anyone but Eryian would be already dead, no matter the surprise of the sudden appearance. Eryian met his gaze, but the Unchurian watched back with steeled, dark eyes—no emotion, just a calm acceptance. Perhaps after living so many years, death offered an allure.
Eryian dropped swiftly to a crouch. The rider twisted, rearing his horse. His axe flung, but Eryian twisted sideways, feeling the wind of it as it passed. The Unchurian dropped over the saddle as the spooked horse ran. The assassin pulled himself across the ground and propped his back against a cedar trunk, watching Eryian. There was a slight gurgling sound with each labored breath. Eryian’s dagger was in his throat, just to the side of his larynx, but in the back of his throat it had pierced his spine. Most of his body was paralyzed.
“You are good,” the Unchurian said. “The best I have ever seen.”
Eryian nodded, crouching eye level, not far from the Unchurian. “Did he send you, or did you pick up the scent on your own?”
The Unchurian stared back a moment, drew what was a difficult breath. “I ride alone. I feel him sometimes, but I have not been there for many centuries. He wants you. He wants you badly. Tell me, Daath, why such interest in you?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Blood spilled in a slow line from the corner of the Unchurian’s lip. “If you would be kind, out of respect, a clean kill? I have no desire to die slow.” “How many more follow me?” Eryian asked. “Nothing living follows you now.”
Eryian nodded. He walked forward. When he was close he studied the dark eyes a moment longer. They watched back fearless, waiting. “How many years have you walked this Earth?” Eryian asked. “Six hundred seventy.”
Eryian lifted his boot and set it against the hilt. He pressed his weight forward slowly, until the pressure sheared the windpipe with a pop. The Unchurian struggled only briefly before his eyes stilled.
As streamers of morning cut the sky, Eryian reached the sea. He pulled the horse up on a black rock ridge, the sea crashing below. He stared across waters, to the west. She was there, far against the horizon—the ice peaks of Etlantis’s mountains brushing the far sky, shrouded in mist, the tallest of the Ammon. He turned the horse and slowly made his way down the hillside, then rode along the white sand toward the village. It was untouched, in all this time. Etlantis, war, famine, and fear, all had passed this village by as if it were on another planet. Elyon protected them; perhaps they were far more favored by heaven than any Daath.
This was Eryian’s first known memory, reaching this shore. Just out to sea was a spire of black rock, barely visible from here. It was from that rock that Eryian had first come. He remembered clearly gliding in a shallow craft for this very shore. He remembered the villagers, and he remembered how he had a distinct sense of purpose—he came without fear, understanding, even though he came without memories. He knew the land about him. He knew that south along the coast lay a city of Daath, their first city, their capital. He also knew of the ancient forest whose trees had once beheld the face of Elyon. He remembered that day clearly, and he thought it odd now, watching as the small village grew closer, how he had come so unafraid, so certain of himself. It was not until later in his life that he became disturbed and searched for reasons why, tried to understand. The day he had first touched this shore it was possible he knew things he did not know now. Though all that had gone before was lost to him, he still remembered the day with clarity, and coming back was somewhat like returning to an old home, as if a mother waited somewhere to welcome him. The spire out to sea beyond this shore was a part of the veil that covered his past. It was only through the knowing that he understood to come here. It had called. He was still not sure why, but he had answered, and he had returned. He did know that the spire was linked somehow to the homeland, one far and distant for the rock that lay out to sea was not of this Earth.
There were girls working on the beach, bringing in fishnets, and when they saw Eryian ride toward them and dismount, their nets were dropped and cries and laughter went up as they ran for him.
Eryian soon found himself encircled by giggling young girls. They wore wraps of white weft about their waists, slit up their thighs. Their breasts were bare. Certainly they did not know who he was, but riders occasionally came through here, and strangers were always welcomed. Somehow, Elyon protected them from blood drinkers. That was a kindness, Eryian thought, for Etlantis and the rogue warships that often left her shores to hunt flesh seemed ignorant of the small village less than a day’s journey from the island.
Eyrian stood taller then any of them by a head and shoulder. He smiled. Eryian had never learned the tongue—he had no idea what they were saying.
A party of warriors approached from the village huts that curled about the emerald lagoon. It seemed almost otherworldly here. The tall cliffs that ringed the village were black, stained with vine and moss, but the sand was as white as milk. He noticed a fat woman of impossible proportions gazing down from a village wicker tower with what seemed to be savage intent.
The leader, Danaoi, Eryian knew from before, and the look on his face left no doubt that Danaoi remembered him as well, though they had known each other only one day. There were probably tales of Eryian’s coming still left in this village. Danaoi was flanked by his warriors; his once-proud dark hair was now gray, but still flowing in braids that fell over his shoulders. Eryian lifted his hand in the sign of the word and the king returned the same. The king then gestured to an old woman who had hurried out of one of the huts. When Eryian turned to her, she bowed.
“Well-come,” she offered, toothless, in careful Daathan.
Eryian snapped the shoulder buckles of his darkened silver breastplate, then lifted it and the accompanying back plate in the air.
“For Danaoi,” he shouted for all to hear and handed it to the king. The king stared at the breastplate as if it were a priceless treasure. He traced the silver eagle, then nodded and let one of his warriors hold it, walking about, circling to display it for the others who marveled in whispers of awe.
“I seek passage,” Eryian then told the old woman. He motioned to the far finger of dark rock that could be seen where the edge of the ocean curled over the horizon.
“The forbidden place,” the old woman whispered. “The place they say you once came from, they speak it still, the sacred spire.” “Yes,” Eryian answered.
She studied him carefully. “Passage is yours, Silver Eagle.” She then motioned, speaking quickly. Danaoi held up a fist, shouting commands, and instantly runners were sprinting to the beach. A girl took Eryian’s hand and led him down the white sand to a narrow, painted reed ship that was being shoved into the warm waters. Before she left him she spoke words Eryian truly wished he could have understood.
Five rowers were soon propelling him swiftly across blue-green waters, oars sweeping the sea quick and strong. Beside him, Danoi grinned and stood proud as the prow cut the blue waters.
Here the sea was different than it was off the shores off the city. It was emerald and at times clear as glass crystal. Gazing over the side, Eryian could see fish gliding sleek among the coral. Danaoi spoke to him, pointing, and Eryian turned to see the humps of dolphins arch, then disappear below the water.
The reed boat was moving quickly, the rowers were strong, but it was half a day before the crystal spire lifted into the sky and the circle of black stone at its base began to emerge from the sea.
Seeing it, Eryian felt the shiver of the knowing. If he could peel it back, he would remember this place, he would remember who had anchored it here in the coral blue of the ocean. The knowing was always close, whispering, but never did it speak all truth, only parts of truth. He had come here twice before. Both times the crystal spire had called him, and he had answered. He knew this time was to be its final call. He had felt its pulse shortly after Argolis had died.
The villagers did not know how to dock the craft, and they stared at the high spire in awe. It was black from the shore, but closer, it was crystalline, and slightly transparent. He knew they would never have ventured this close without him. Even if they had, they would not have found it. Eryian had heard stories of Etlantian ships, skilled seamen, who had tried to close on the spire, and though it seemed almost within reach, always it would vanish. The closer they came, the more it would seem to recede until they would find themselves lost in ocean and sky and it would take days to find their way home. Over the years, seamen had learned to avoid the spire; it was whispered to be the sea’s illusion, witchery.
“Stop here,” Eryian said quietly.
The villagers nodded, finding a shallow ramp cut into the rock. The crystal did not reflect sunlight, but rather swallowed it. The ocean about its edge stilled, perfectly calm, leaving a glasslike surface, and the villagers stared amazed at the reflection of themselves and their small boat on the water.
Eryian stepped over the gunwale onto the crystal surface. His boots made no sound as he walked, for the rock, though it appeared hard and black, was actually soft to the touch. It was the touch of aganon, the same stone that was found in the pommel of sunblades. Aganon overlaid the spire like a skin. There was no doorway, but as Eryian approached, the skin of the spire opened, soundless. Without the sensation of passing through a portal or doorway, he found himself inside. Though he did not allow himself to ponder it—even briefly—he knew this was no rock, no island. It was a ship—a star ship, once his own—and its name was Righel Seven.
The world of the ocean and clouds vanished and stars opened like a flower unfolding, spilling the rich, glittering milk of the star stream that moved like waters above him. Part of him was overcome with wonder, but another part, the deeper part, where the knowing lived, felt the gentle kiss of home and with it, sadness and longing. Eryian remembered something, how each time he came here, he had felt sadness. The floor was a perfect mirrored crystal. It reminded him of the blade of Argolis’s sword, and he thought now how once, kneeling to touch it, his finger against the stone had caused a shiver of light to spill through it.
In the center of the crystal was a black pedestal that held a polished, silvery-black container. It could have been a child’s casket. As Eryian walked toward it, the area about the pedestal spilled with blue light, welcoming him. As he touched the lid there was a song, a far, distant song, a choir that whispered him calm. He had not come for the sword during the gathering wars. The wars had been against their own blood and it had not yet been time. He never thought of it being here, resting here, and he had never believed it would call him. But the storm that came against them was the reason the sword had rested here so long. Not just in the years of Eryian’s memory, but far beyond. It had been here centuries. He knew, in fact, it had rested in this place since the time of Yered.
He opened the lid. Lying within what seemed to be living tissue was a sunblade. Like the Arsayalalyur, it was able to harness the fires of a distant star. Though his memories were fogged, he knew this blade well. It was the sword of Righel, the firstborn son of the mother star that was the mirror, Daath, and the archangel Uriel. Like the Arsayalalyur, the pommel, hilt, and cross guards were entwined with serpents laced with the purple stone of the pommel—the philosopher’s stone, the egg, or pelican as it was sometimes called. The blade was aganon, the same metal that formed the skin of the spire. It was smooth, unblemished glass. As he reached in and touched the hilt, purified light spilled through the room, not blinding, merely lighting it in a soft glow. The touch moved through him and he felt the connection, a touch from the light of the mothering star, Dannu, the Light Whose Name Is Splendor.
Eryian reverently lifted the blade from the coffinlike container. He lifted it high, pointed its crystal tip toward the sky dome, directly at the cluster of Blue Stars, the seven sisters. Home. Eryian let the blade drink his blood, and as he watched it swirl through the crystal, remembering the image of Loch’s blood reaching the flange. He had always known how a sunblade drew the blood of its user; he had just never guessed that Lochlain was the one. He had thought the blade would be no different for Loch than it had been for his father. Eryian’s blood turned the blade a dark, silvery red.
“Amon-Omen-Diamon,” Eryian commanded—words he knew, though their meaning he kept almost on purpose from his consciousness. The blade responded with a sharp thunder crack as a pure silver pulse focused and streamed from the tip of the sword into the sky dome, into the stars, into the sky. The dome was no illusion; it focused on the sky, seeing it far from Earth, but the bolt that left the tip of Righel’s sword soared through the heavens until it struck the seventh star of the Pleiades.
It was the signet: the signal. Though Eryian did not fully understand who was listening, he felt them answer. His call was heard. They had waited five hundred years—now they would come. Unnamed memories threatened, and suddenly he understood the veil, why it was there. He had brought it upon himself. It was spellbound, and Eryian had spoken the words of its binding. He slowly knelt, lowering the sword, bowing his head. For a moment he remained still, breathing carefully. He remembered without remembering, without seeing or touching the light that swam about him, but he wept knowing it would never be again, knowing that the end of the sadness he felt in this moment would soon become the end of all he knew.
When the villagers had seen the burst of light from the spire, the pulse that shattered sound with an eagle’s scream and soared to vanish into the sky, they had fallen to their knees. Most had covered their eyes, but Danaoi stared breathless at the sky above them and watched as the bolt opened a pathway through to heaven. Though it was daylight, for an instant, stars spilled through and seemed somehow closer to the Earth than the night sky had ever been. With a blink, the opening closed and Danaoi knew the hush that followed was sacred. The villagers gasped, for the Silver Warrior was standing before them. He had vanished into the dark spire and now he had returned the same way, without a door or opening of any kind. He carried something he did not have when he entered, a magnificent scabbard and a hilt of dark ivory laced with veins of diamond. Danaoi had never seen anything like it, and he stared, amazed, even drawn to touch it though never would he have done so.
The Silver Warrior stepped into the boat.
“Row for home, Danaoi,” he said.