The Veiled Prophet

XIV

Is this death? Mendeln asked himself. Is this it?

If it was, it was far less than he had imagined. Of course, imagination and truth did not always cross paths or even travel within the same world. Still, Mendeln would have thought that there was more—considering what he had witnessed while alive—than this utter emptiness. He could see nothing, could touch nothing, and did not even know if he had anything reminiscent of his old corporeal form.

His mind raced back to the events in the tunnel. Through the guidance of the other angel, he had not only entered the city swiftly and without notice by its guardians—physical or magical—but been then able to use his own blood tie and the skills Rathma and the dragon had taught him to find his brother. Unfortunately, retrieving Uldyssian had not been as simple a matter as he had hoped.

What had brought about the situation in which he had found himself when finally locating his brother, Mendeln knew better than most. The ghosts had come to him, of course, the ghosts of dead spellcasters and guild leaders. More than usual, these spirits had been eager to impart upon him the cause of their murder. Mendeln knew the details as well as if he had been there himself, and he knew without a doubt that the woman, Amolia, was not what she seemed. Indeed, when the ghosts had verified this, they had done so in the worst possible manner.

They had revealed to him that it was by his doing that all this calamity and bloodshed had happened. They had revealed this by telling him the story Uldyssian had claimed as truth.

The dread spirit of the high priest, Malic, had been responsible for all the heinous deaths.

Somehow, he had escaped the bone fragment to which he had been bound by Mendeln and now, like some terrible disease, spread from one victim to the next. Worse, if Mendeln’s suspicions were correct, all the deaths caused by the specter’s continued existence were merely incidental as he pursued the one body he truly coveted: Uldyssian’s.

Filled with guilt by the horror he had unleashed upon others, only one thing had suddenly mattered to Mendeln. He had to get his brother out of the capital, where he was certain Malic still lurked. For a time, though, the search had gone nowhere. It had been as if Uldyssian did not exist at all, but in the end, Mendeln had finally managed to locate him. His mistake had been seeking above when his sibling had been below.

And sure enough, he had found Uldyssian, but in the midst of a group of vengeful hunters who would not be willing to listen to reason. There had been no hesitation on Mendeln’s part. The spell creating the wall of bone had been driven by his fear for his brother, and the results had astounded him as much as they had the mages and likely even his brother.

But then, when Uldyssian had not only refused to leave but appeared ready to strike back—and become the very evil the Kehjani thought him to be—Mendeln saw no recourse. He had abandoned the other spell and instead cast one that he hoped would take his brother from harm. That had meant sacrificing the dagger, but he had not cared.

The spell had worked. Uldyssian had vanished.

And the mages had attacked him as they had intended to attack Uldyssian.

That was the last Mendeln remembered, save for a brief spark of incredible pain. The next instant, he had discovered himself in this limbo, for lack of a better word.

If he was dead, then at least he had done what he had most desired. Uldyssian was outside the city and surely safe. That was all that mattered—

His heart jumped as a voice from nowhere and everywhere called, AWAKEN, MENDELN UL-DIOMED! AWAKEN! THOUGH FOR YOUR SINS, DEATH WOULD BE THE LEAST OF THE PUNISHMENTS YOU DESERVE, YOU HAVE BEEN SAVED.

The emptiness through which Mendeln had been floating gave way to a glorious chamber of gleaming marble. Uldyssian’s brother found himself lying on a soft, elaborate couch. Above him, a vast panorama detailing an idyllic realm populated by beautiful winged figures covered the entire ceiling.

The words, if not the voice itself, had already warned Mendeln just who had him. His wondrous surroundings informed him where that being had taken him.

He leapt to his feet, reaching for the dagger that was no longer there, and found himself standing before a towering figure with wings composed of tendrils of energy who was not the angel in the jungle.

The celestial warrior then rippled as if seen through water and became a being equally anathema to Mendeln: the Prophet.

“Mendeln ul-Diomed,” sang the master of the Cathedral of Light. “Once I spoke to your brother, seeking his redemption from his great downfall. He chose the path of sin rather than a return to the light. I pray for your soul’s sake that you do not repeat his error.”

Mendeln did not know when this supposed conversation with Uldyssian had taken place, but he could imagine that his sibling had remained defiant. He wondered why Inarius would think him different.

The Prophet gestured, and next to Mendeln materialized a figure that seemed half golden sunlight, half wind. It was neither male nor female and had no legs, but rather what seemed a stream of tendrils akin to those of the angel.

With hands that consisted of only three digits, the being held a glittering tray upon which appeared a goblet made of pure diamond. In the goblet was golden nectar.

“You would do well to refresh yourself, my child, after such a traumatic encounter.”

Without hesitation, Mendeln took the goblet from the ethereal servant. The moment he held the cup, the being dissipated. Uldyssian’s brother took a sip; nectar poorly described the astounding liquid.

He did not fear that something in the drink would make him more susceptible to Inarius’s suggestions. The angel did not need so mortal a trick. There was certainly something else to come.

“You would be dead now, you know,” the Prophet said with a solemn expression. “They were determined to slay your brother, and when you stole that chance from them, they turned their magic upon you, my child.” He steepled his fingers. “You would be dead now…if not for me.”

Despite the fact that this was an angel, Mendeln was not sure how much he should believe. He suspected that Inarius could easily manipulate any facts to serve his desires. Still, Mendeln wisely bowed his head and replied, “I thank you for that.”

The Prophet nodded approvingly at his attitude. “Your brother would do well to learn from your manners. Such sinful arrogance will only destroy him. I know that you would not wish that.”

They were coming closer to whatever it was Inarius wanted of him. Mendeln chose to play along, especially since he saw no other choice at the moment.

“You have seen into death, Mendeln ul-Diomed, in ways no other mortal has. You have begun this unique journey in great part due to the influence of my errant offspring. It is something that he should have never done.”

There were times, too, when Mendeln had thought the very same thing, yet he could not have turned back. The path upon which he had been led was now as much a part of him as breathing.

“But I do not think it the influence of him alone,” continued the angel, his youthful aspect revealing at last a hint of an emotion Mendeln would hardly have expected.

Anxiety.

“No…my son is not the fount of knowledge from which you both draw. There is another, and you know who it is.”

Mendeln tried to fight down his sudden fear. Inarius knew about Trag’Oul!

He suddenly worried that by thinking of the dragon, he had verified for Inarius the truth, but oddly, the angel gave no sign that he had sensed anything. In fact, Inarius continued to appear anxious.

The Prophet’s first words came back to him, and Mendeln realized that his captor had not actually responded to the mortal’s curiosity over whether he was dead or not but had merely started out their conversation in the most logical manner the situation warranted. Anyone in Mendeln’s state would have wondered if he had been slain and Inarius had used that to press his point about how much the son of Diomedes owed him.

But not even his life was worth betraying the dragon, for Mendeln knew that Trag’Oul’s efforts to protect Sanctuary far outweighed whatever contribution the human had made. Certain that Inarius would punish him severely for defying him, Mendeln nonetheless kept silent before the robed figure.

Yet, while there was some discernible anger, the Prophet did not strike him down. Mendeln observed with morbid fascination that Inarius more and more displayed human emotions. So long among men, the angel could not help picking up some of their ways, even if he himself perhaps did not acknowledge it.

There was now clearly tension in the angel’s manner as he proclaimed, “Denial of the truth is also a sin, my child. Do you wish to condemn yourself by not stating what we both know? Such foolishness!”

The last vestiges of uncertainty concerning whether or not Inarius could read his thoughts vanished. Mendeln could only assume that Trag’Oul had managed to create some mental shield that Inarius could not penetrate.

Mendeln swallowed the last of his drink as he tried not to think of what his captor might attempt in order to break that shield. Then he wondered why Inarius would even bother. After all, the Prophet already knew about the dragon.

However, Inarius continued to grow furious. With a single gesture, he sent Mendeln’s goblet the way of the servant. With a scowl, he raised Mendeln himself up into the air until the human nearly floated among the winged figures in the vast mural.

“Repent for your past misdeeds, Mendeln ul-Diomed, and admit the truth we both know. He is here! He is the one who guides you from the shadows. Speak his name! It is Tyrael. Tyrael! Admit it now!”

Tyrael! The mage’s assault had obviously left Mendeln momentarily disoriented for him to have forgotten the one who had truly instigated this particular quest. Because of the second angel, Mendeln had even willingly abandoned the edyrem, an act for which he felt little guilt. After all, it had been for his brother’s sake.

Tyrael. Of course, the Prophet would be concerned about one of his own kind in his very midst.

Inarius’s voice boomed like thunder, but it was not the only sound deafening the son of Diomedes. There was also, oddly enough, the flapping of many huge wings. In fact, the flapping grew to dominate all other sounds. The unseen wings made such noise that they drove Mendeln to tears.

Something tore at his arm. A hand, small but with sharp nails. A second ripped at his shoulder. There then came another and another…

And through his bleary eyes, Mendeln saw he was being attacked by the images from the huge mural. More than a dozen already assailed him, and others were in the process of tearing themselves free in order to join the first. They were literally as they looked in the painting, and when one turned to the side, Mendeln saw that it had no depth.

Mendeln tried to bat them away, but there were too many. They clawed at his face, tore at his breast. Despite their thinness, when he sought to punch through them, his fist met what felt like stone.

As they swarmed around him, they took up the Prophet’s demand. Speak his name! Tyrael! Speak it! Admit that he is the one!

Even then, even when it seemed so easy just to agree with Inarius, Mendeln held back. Not being certain who all his enemies were did more to disorient Rathma’s father than anything else Uldyssian’s brother could imagine. Even if that meant torture and death, Mendeln at least could hope that he gave the others a better chance.

Without warning, the winged figures suddenly pulled back. Recovering, Mendeln watched as they returned to their positions in the mural. He expected Inarius to let him fall to the floor, but instead, the Prophet brought him down gently astride the couch.

“I am so very sorry, my child,” Inarius said, his expression now piteous. “So very, very sorry that you wish to continue to sin as you do. I did what I could to try to persuade you to come back to the light, but, like your misbegotten brother, you would rather choose the darkness.” The pity transformed into condemnation. “And so, into the darkness you shall be cast.”

The vast marble chamber twisted around Mendeln as if turned fluid. The couch upon which Mendeln had landed became a vast, sucking hole. Uldyssian’s brother let out a cry of dismay as he fought in vain to keep from being drawn into it.

“A pity…” was the last he heard the Prophet speak.

It seemed to Mendeln that he was to fall forever, but then, at last, he landed hard on what seemed stone. The collision knocked the air from his lungs and the sense from his head. Mendeln had no idea where he was.

And then a woman’s voice from somewhere in the darkness stirred him to waking. “Who is it? Who’s there? Tell me! Tell me!”

The first thing out of Mendeln’s mouth was a low moan. That instigated movement from the direction of the new voice. A figure leaned over him, close but not touching.

“Who are you? How did you get here?”

Mendeln rolled over to face the shadowed woman. She wore a cloak of some sort, and what little he could see of her consisted of blond hair and what he suspected was a fairly attractive face. That, though, immediately put him in mind of Lilith, and he shoved himself away from the figure.

She, too, recoiled. “Who are you?” the woman demanded again. “Are you a mage?”

The voice did not sound at all like Lilith’s, but Mendeln knew that a demon could change voices at will. Still, it finally registered on him that Lilith was dead, killed by his brother. This was someone else and, considering that Mendeln suspected that he was again in the capital, probably one of those Master Cyrus had said the false Lylia resembled.

He steadied himself. “No. I am no mage.” There was no sense in trying to explain just what he was. “My name is Mendeln.”

There was a brief intake of breath, then a momentary silence. The woman finally murmured, “Praise be! I feared it was one of those murderous mages. They’re everywhere! They’re hunting down anyone who’s been helping a man called Uldyssian.”

“Uldyssian!” Mendeln could scarcely believe his luck, especially considering that Inarius had been the one to cast him here.

That thought immediately made him cautious again. It was probable that the angel wanted Uldyssian’s brother caught up in the mages’ sweep, although how exactly that helped Inarius was another question.

“You sound as if you know him,” the woman said, a hint of hope in her tone. She edged closer. “I heard that he had a brother named Mendeln. Are you he?”

“Yes.” He wondered if the Prophet had erred when he had cast his prisoner here. This looked more to Mendeln’s advantage. If the woman had had contact with Uldyssian, then there was perhaps a way by which he could use her link to his sibling to find him.

But that would involve explaining to her that despite not being a mage, he was still a spellcaster of sorts. The loss of his dagger would—

The dagger! Mendeln could not believe his addled thoughts. He had used the dagger to send his brother to safety. He did not even need the woman’s aid! What a fool he had been. The dagger was bound to him; all he had to do was reach out to it and, thus, to Uldyssian.

“Listen to me,” he said in his most reassuring tone. “Uldyssian is safe outside the city—”

“Outside? How can that be?”

Here he had to be careful. “You must trust me when I say that I am not part of the mage clans, but I do know a magic of sorts. I was able to send him to safety just before the mages would have attacked. There is a blade I use that was able to send him beyond the city walls.”

“And this blade…you have it now?”

“No. It is with him.” Mendeln began preparing himself for the effort. “It may be—I think—that I can reach Uldyssian through the blade and either have it bring us to him or perhaps have him do so. Yes, he might be able to cast such a spell also.”

She stood next to him. “All that power. Amazing!”

“I cannot promise for certain that it will work,” he was quick to add.

“But it must!”

Trying to calm his companion, Mendeln replied, “It has great hope of succeeding, I think.” He hesitated. Then, to keep her from thinking of failure, he asked, “What is your name?”

“A-Amolia.”

“I will not leave you here, have no fear of that.”

She reached a hand toward him. “I know.”

Mendeln shivered and, without at first realizing it, pulled his shoulder away from her oncoming fingers. He blinked, then stared at the shadowed woman.

“I know you!” he rasped, astounded and dismayed. “I know you!”

“Oh, yes, you do,” she replied, closing on him. Only now was it apparent that the shadows somewhat obscuring her features were stronger than natural. This close, Mendeln, whose vision was better than that of a cat, should have been able to make her out perfectly, and yet only with effort could he see a bit more. Amolia did remind him of Lylia, as he had thought, but there was one significantly different feature that marred her otherwise attractive features.

Dark lesions covered her face.

No…not her face anymore. How he could sense the truth was something that perhaps Rathma could have explained. This was not a woman called Amolia…not anymore.

This was the spirit of the high priest Malic possessing her body.

How this nightmare had come to be was impossible for him to say, but now he knew why Inarius had cast him here. That the angel would make use of a fiend such as Malic did not entirely surprise him.

The false Amolia grabbed his shoulder. “How appropriate that you should be the one to finally give your brother to me.”

Mendeln felt an emptiness press at him. It was almost as if he were being cast out of his body.

Not sure what else he could do, he muttered the first words he could think of in the ancient tongue.

Malic cried out as a white light erupted where his hand touched. As the specter pulled the appendage back, both could see that it was blackened as if burned—but by cold, not by heat.

“Impossible!” the high priest raged, his inhuman fury distorting the woman’s face further. “Impossible!”

Recovering from his own surprise, Mendeln put on a confident front. “I summoned you from the dead, Malic! You cannot touch me, but I can send you back to whatever damned pit you belong.”

The woman’s face continued to contort, but now to a different emotion. To his further astonishment, Uldyssian’s brother recognized that emotion: fear.

Malic was afraid, possibly for the first time from anyone other than his masters.

But fear alone was not enough, especially if this parasitic ghost desired to shed his current victim for Uldyssian. Mendeln thrust a hand out toward the demonic shade.

“No more!” he growled at Malic. “It is time you died again…this time forever!”

The words he needed came rushing from his lips.

With a garbled cry, Malic seized a medallion hanging from his host’s neck. Too late did Mendeln understand just what the shade intended.

Malic vanished.

“No!” The younger son of Diomedes desperately finished his incantation—which, with no target, simply ceased to happen.

Where the high priest had vanished to, he could not say. Malic had acted in panic, and that meant it was possible that even the specter did not know where he had sent himself. Mendeln wished that Malic had by sheer bad fortune cast himself among the hunting mages, the only part of his story that had sounded believable. At this point, they likely would have known him for something vile.

But he could not rely on that. Mendeln had to make amends for the monster he had unleashed upon the world. He had to find Malic and finish him.

First, though, Mendeln had to find his brother. He had to know that Uldyssian was actually all right.

The plan he had intended before discovering Malic’s presence was still sound. Mendeln refocused, seeking out the dagger with his mind. Surely, Uldyssian still had it with him. Mendeln prayed that it was so.

A heavy force bowled him to the floor. He sensed several figures begin to coalesce around him. Mendeln knew exactly who they were. The mages had no doubt noticed his magical confrontation with Malic and reacted accordingly. Now, instead of Uldyssian or the ghost, they would find themselves with a different prize.

Head pounding, Mendeln tried to finish his spell, but he could not.

Hands roughly seized him and then let go as shouts filled the shadowed chamber. A moon-silver light briefly enveloped everything.

Again, a pair of hands took hold, but this time more gently.

The silvery light momentarily blinded Mendeln, and then the sounds of the jungle prevailed.

“Be at ease,” came Rathma’s weary voice. “He is unharmed.”

At first, Mendeln believed that the Ancient spoke to him, but then came a welcome second voice. “I could’ve gotten him myself, Rathma! I could’ve!”

Mendeln’s vision cleared. He beheld Uldyssian, his brother, still clutching Mendeln’s ivory dagger. The older sibling stared with wild eyes.

“The dagger was dead,” Uldyssian muttered to Mendeln. “I thought you were dead…and then it flared to life again.”

“I was a guest of the Prophet,” the younger brother revealed. “Likely, that was why the dagger and I had no link.” Mendeln saw no need to mention having suffered through a similar situation before finding Uldyssian in the tunnels.

Uldyssian cursed. “I knew it! I told you, Rathma. I told you I should’ve been the one to go.”

“But if you had gone back,” Inarius’s son answered, “there is little doubt that my father or his so-called ally would have been waiting.”

“That’s precisely—”

“Or worse,” Mendeln interrupted, testing his balance. “Malic.”

“Malic?” Uldyssian faltered. “You saw him?”

“Her, at least at the moment. A female mage named Amolia, I think it was.”

Uldyssian nodded gravely. “I’d wondered what had caused the mage clans to turn on me without hearing me out.”

Rathma shook his head at Mendeln, a hint of disappointment in his otherwise emotionless countenance. “What I revealed to you must always be wielded with caution. The variations on your teachings that you have accomplished are to be marveled at, but in the way one would marvel at the jaws of a great beast held from ripping you apart by a thin strand of hair binding it to a wall.”

“I am brutally aware of my deficiencies,” Mendeln muttered. “I—and only I—will deal with them and him.”

His declaration did not go unchallenged. “No,” Uldyssian interjected. “Malic’s mine.”

“You are susceptible to his touch; I am not, as I have discovered.”

The argument might have gone further, but Rathma unexpectedly said, “The situation regarding the malevolent Malic just might be of no true concern, I fear. In fact, nothing that we have struggled against for so long or so hard might matter whatsoever.”

He had the brothers’ complete attention. Uldyssian it was who dared to ask the question to which neither wished to hear the answer. “Why? Why is Malic—or, more important, Inarius—no longer something to fear?”

“Because they, too, may be swept away like the most insignificant vermin by the cataclysm that even now hovers just on the horizon.” Rathma shook his head. “The celestial warriors of the High Heavens are approaching Sanctuary. They come to eliminate it and all upon it as abominations that should never have existed.” A grim smile crossed his pale features. “They will make my father seem benevolent by comparison.”

“We’ll fight them just as we’ve been fighting him,” Uldyssian immediately declared. “With or without the mage clans, we’ll fight them.”

“And very likely lose, unless we do the unthinkable.”

“What’s that?”

Rathma shivered. “Why, join forces with my father, naturally.”