Shroud of Eternity

CHAPTER 75

It should have been a night of excitement and anticipation.

Like a warrior girding herself with armor to fight for the future of Ildakar, Sovrena Thora went to the ruling tower to make her final preparations. But after hearing initial reports about the disturbances, she felt that madness had descended upon her beloved city, a madness more impenetrable than the shroud of eternity itself.

Vicious animals rampaged through the streets, trained to kill in the arena but now pursuing noblemen, traders, even the lower classes who got in their way. The slave warriors had been released from their cells, and now they fought beside the rabble, killing many members of the city guard. Much blood had already been spilled … and wasted, when fresh blood could have been used to good effect.

Such ill-advised uprisings were directed at the very underpinnings of her beautiful, perfect city. Mirrormask and his traitorous rebels did not deserve to live in Ildakar! Enraged, Thora wanted to use her own magic to turn them all to stone—slowly, so they could feel their muscles freeze, their bones crystallize, their minds petrify.

But she couldn’t just massacre them all. If the shroud remained in place, the city had no way to obtain new slaves, and breeding would take time. She needed them, and she hated it. Nevertheless, she had to crush their spirit, destroy the leaders, and break the gullible rebels so they would never, ever attempt such foolishness again.

Still not accustomed to the responsibilities of leading the city guard in place of Avery, a harried High Captain Stuart raced into the empty chamber. He gave her a brisk bent knee in a gesture of respect. His face was sweating and red, and his movements were jerky. “I can only give you a sketchy report, Sovrena. The battles are still raging, and my guards are reacting. I will have more information after we put down the flash points and quell this unrest.”

He nervously glanced at the tall windows. The flickering lights from the city below seemed more orange than usual, a sign of spreading fires.

“It better not take long, Captain,” Thora snapped. “The bloodworking is scheduled for midnight. Hundreds of slaves await their fate—as does our beloved city.”

Stuart wiped at a crawling trickle of sweat on the left side of his cheek. “We’re doing everything we can, Sovrena, but … it is more difficult than expected.”

“Because of all the animals and warriors released? Surely they can be confined to the area around the combat arena.” She rose from her ruling chair. Her clinging blue gown rippled, and the strips of ornamental fur stood out, like raised hackles.

The high captain nodded. “Slaves throughout the city are setting fires, attacking their masters. They are savages. Some gifted nobles are fighting back, trying to control the mobs and extinguish the fires, but they’re outmatched.”

“How can that be? Mirrormask has only a handful of deluded followers.”

Stuart remained on his knee and bowed more deeply, perhaps to avoid her sea-green gaze. “It is more than a handful, I’m afraid. The movement has swept through the lower levels of the city. Countless slaves have been killed, but some managed to assassinate their owners. We don’t know how many are dead.”

Thora was deeply troubled as the realization sank in. “With inflammatory rhetoric, Mirrormask and that maddening Nicci could have swayed hundreds to their cause.”

Now Stuart looked up blinking. “Hundreds, Sovrena? There are many thousands rising up to overthrow Ildakar.”

With a gasp, she turned away so he wouldn’t see her porcelain expression grow even paler. Pink pinpricks of flush crept up her cheeks. “I refuse to believe that.”

Stuart remained bowed. “Nevertheless, it is true. There have been fierce battles down in the training tunnels. Many morazeth are dead.”

Thora reeled. “Impossible! The morazeth are…”

“The morazeth are dead. At least five of them. It seems they trained their own fighters too well.” He squirmed, looking sickened and nervous. “And Sovrena … there is more.”

She huffed. “More? Haven’t you told me quite enough appalling news, Captain?”

He looked away, then turned back, squared his shoulders. “I’m afraid not. The disturbances are widespread, and there have even been incidents in the silk yaxen dachas. Your son … one of the silk yaxen … she—she—” He couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“What about Amos?” she demanded. “We don’t have time for this.”

“He’s been killed, Sovrena. One of the women slashed his throat.”

Thora reeled. Her knees felt weak, and she reached out to hold the arm of the chair on the dais.

“I believe he … may have abused her,” Stuart continued.

“What difference does that make? They are mindless toys. Amos … Amos—” She sucked in a breath, feeling shock rather than grief. The boy had always been unruly and arrogant, and even his mother had not seen much potential in him. But still, Amos was her son. “I want them all killed! All of the silk yaxen!”

Stuart bowed. “It will be done, Sovrena. But first we must quell the uprisings, stop the fires, bring the people under control.”

“Enough of this!” She had already sent word to the duma members, demanding that they gather at the ruling tower to prepare for the great sacrifice. Now she needed them more than ever. “I expected Andre, Quentin, Damon, and Elsa to meet here half an hour ago. And where is the wizard commander? We’re all essential now. As in times past, the wizards of Ildakar must combine our magic and defeat the enemy—even if that enemy is inside our walls.”

As if hearing their names, Quentin and Damon both bustled in, unkempt and harried. “We are here, Sovrena. We were preparing, but…”

“Fleshmancer Andre is dead,” Quentin blurted out when Damon hesitated, nervously stroking the long droopy mustaches on either side of his mouth.

Thora took a hesitant step away from the dais, as if afraid she might tread on a poisonous serpent. “Dead? How is he dead? What did that fool do now?”

“Someone unleashed one of the Ixax warriors,” said Quentin, his dusky face drawn and concerned.

Thora gasped. “But the Ixax were never meant to be—”

“Someone awakened it,” Damon said, standing straight. “It killed Andre, destroyed his mansion, then went on the rampage. Elsa was there, along with the wizard Nathan. They barely escaped.”

Thora’s thoughts spun. An Ixax warrior was nearly invincible, a living weapon designed to battle hundreds, if not thousands of enemies at a time. “That is … not possible.”

“Not only possible, but true, Sovrena,” Quentin said.

She did not know what orders to issue, how even to suggest they might defeat such a monster. Fleshmancer Andre had created the trio of Ixax fifteen centuries ago, and if one of the terrible titans had already killed him, she had no idea how to stop the thing. “Where is Wizard Commander Maxim? We must all fight together! This is a tremendous threat—”

Damon shook his head in disbelief. “It is already finished, Sovrena. The wizard Nathan Rahl destroyed it. Single-handedly.”

Thora just blinked at him. How many more astonishing things was she supposed to accept in one night? Amos murdered, slaves rising up, an Ixax unleashed, and now Nathan Rahl releasing enough magic, alone, to destroy one of the great warriors? “But he is powerless, useless.”

“His gift is restored,” said Quentin. “He annihilated the Ixax warrior. He and Elsa are safe.”

Thora didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. “We must act now! We need not stand on ceremony. The sacrificial slaves are ready. We must go to the pyramid and shed the blood now, work the spells to put the shroud in place forever before it’s too late.”

High Captain Stuart stood, uncertain. He looked toward the windows again, swallowed hard at seeing the dull orange glow.

Damon fidgeted, and finally Quentin said, after rubbing the back of his hand across his dry lips, “But isn’t the duma too weak to accomplish such an all-encompassing spell, Sovrena? Andre is dead; Chief Handler Ivan is dead; Renn is gone in search of the Cliffwall archive. We don’t have sufficient numbers.”

“We will have enough. I’ll do it myself if I have to!” Thora felt the crackle of magic within her. She barked orders. “Get Elsa and find my husband. Meet me at the pyramid as soon as possible. If we do not shed enough of the slaves’ blood tonight, then our own blood may be forfeit.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hope that gives you enough incentive. Now go!” As they all scattered, she shouted after them, “Drag Maxim here if necessary.”

When the chamber fell silent again after their fading footsteps down the stairs, she could hear the distant murmuring uproar through the high open windows, the shouts in the streets, the tumult of battle. She went to stare out at the great gulf to the city below. Spreading fires moved from house to house down in the lower levels near the warehouses and the yaxen slaughter yards. Unruly brutes, she thought. How could such people set fire to their own homes, as if freedom meant more than their lives, their shelter, their possessions?

Thora clenched her pale fist to pull the threads of her magic tight, like garrote wires.

She heard a rustling sound and looked up to see a figure emerge from the side passageway, near the frozen statue of Lani. “Sending out a search party is always a wasted effort, my dear.” She recognized Maxim’s voice. “I am already here.” He stepped out wearing scuffed and rumpled gray robes, unlike his usual black pantaloons and colorful silk shirt.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “Ildakar needs you. I need you!”

When he emerged into the light, she saw that his face was lined with red scabs, deep cuts that were quickly but sloppily healed with magic, leaving a webwork like shattered glass.

“What have you done to yourself? Have you been out in the fighting? And why are you wearing…”

Then Thora saw what he held in his hand: an oval mirror shaped like a featureless mask. It, too, was cracked in several places—a pattern of lines that matched the cuts on his face.

“Oh, I have been busy, my dear. Can’t you hear the fruits of my handiwork? Thanks to Nicci, this response is far more exuberant than I had hoped for. Far more entertaining!”

Cold dread seeped into her. “You? It’s not possible! You are Mirrormask?”

“That’s my other identity.” As Maxim stepped closer he couldn’t stop himself from grinning, which made him wince from the half-healed cuts on his face. “For a thousand years, as sovrena you held on to the power in this city. You and I were supposed to rule together, as partners, as equals, but you rapidly dominated me. I didn’t care for the longest time, and when I did care, it was too late.”

His grin widened. “Then I found another great source of power in Ildakar, an unexpected army that was all too willing to do anything I asked, so long as I promised them pretty-sounding rewards like freedom and equality.” He held up his cracked reflective mask. “Ah, it was amazing! I understand why you relish power so much. I didn’t expect that I would enjoy the experience so much when I directed my followers to kill your dear lover Avery.”

Her eyes flashed, and heat rushed to her cheeks. The words caught in her throat, as if they turned to ice, unspoken.

“We needed to make a statement, another guard to be killed, and the high captain’s death had such an impact.” He drew a breath. “You should have seen your face!”

She wanted to claw his eyes out, but when she lunged, he knocked her back with a blow of magic. He raised his voice. “Yes, just like you fought back against the sorceress Nicci, showing us all your power. It was most impressive—and I’m sure you will be glad to know that I am the one who healed her. My followers found her, nursed her back to health. She plays a key role in what is happening now.”

Fury surged within her, but Maxim seemed aloof and unconcerned. “After tonight, my dear wife, I will have it all—or there won’t be any city left.” He shrugged. “I can live with either outcome. If Ildakar falls … well, I have been curious about the outside world for some time.”

Finally, Thora lunged forward, hatred boiling within her. “You did this! You’re trying to destroy my city, my perfect city!”

“Yes.” He laughed. “Marvelous and diverting, isn’t it?”

She flung her hand without even thinking, hurling her anger and her gift in a crackling ball of thorny lightning. It blazed toward him, swelling in the air, but Maxim blasted back, slapping her with a wall of sound that nearly deafened her, made her entire skull ring.

With a second gesture, he made a shock wave rumble through the blue marble tiles at her feet, cracking them like spiderwebs, creating a wide fissure in the floor. Thora nearly lost her footing, but she sprang back to the steps of the dais. She hurled fire at him, which he sent tumbling into the stone statue of Lani before it ricocheted out through the windows.

“I will destroy you!” she screamed.

Maxim screwed up his expression, sent a wave of magic, and she felt her hands harden, her fingers stiffen. When she tried to bend her arms, she looked down in horror to see a hard powdery grayness seeping through her skin.

“Damn you!” she shouted, and focused all of her gift on fighting back, pushing the petrification out of her body. That gave Maxim—Mirrormask—just long enough to dance away.

He shouted as he fled, “Ildakar will fall, Thora, but I was done with the city anyway. I’ll leave now.” He threw his cracked mirror mask on the floor, smashing it. The curved pieces shattered into large sharp fragments that shattered again and again into increasingly smaller bits that rose upward in a gush of reflective, sparkling steam. Enhanced by his magic, it filled the room with a glittery, obfuscating cloud.

Thora used her gift to purge the stone spell from her flesh. When the shimmering mist faded away, she saw that Maxim had escaped.

Alone in the ruling tower, she screamed.