The Veiled Prophet

VII

Uldyssian had no notion where he stumbled or even how he had gotten there in the first place. He only knew that he had to keep going. His explosive effort against Malic, with what he had already suffered at the hands of Zorun Tzin, had left him like one of Mendeln’s walking dead.

He was not even certain where he was anymore. Vaguely, Uldyssian noted others on the streets through which he wended. Mostly dark of skin, not light like home. Toraja? Hashir? No…those were in the past. Where was this? Kehjan? Yes, that was it. The capital.

The capital. Who was it he had needed to see here? Not mages. Uldyssian dared not put himself in the hands of mages. At the moment, they were to him as treacherous a lot as the Triune or the Cathedral.

Who else, then? There had been someone. Master Fahin. He had mentioned someone. Who—

A prince. Uldyssian recalled a prince. Amrin? No. Emrad? Ehmad.

“Ehmad,” he gasped. “I need Ehmad. The prince…”

He weaved past shops and places where raw foodstuffs were sold, occasionally blundering into someone. Most of the Kehjani tried to pretend he did not exist, although a couple muttered something in a vile tone as Uldyssian brushed past.

To one who merely glanced at the ragged figure as he traversed the capital’s high-walled, narrow avenues, Uldyssian appeared to be wandering aimlessly. He staggered into one area, then another. Yet even though he himself did not realize it, he headed exactly where he needed to.

The two white horses reared when the stranger stepped out of the shadows before them. Trained not only for the task of pulling a chariot but also to defend the ones riding it, they sent their hooves crashing down at Uldyssian.

But somehow, not one hit. As the son of Diomedes registered the animals’ presence, the horses grew oddly quiet. They stepped back, then waited.

The charioteer, who had been shouting at the beasts, grunted in approval of himself, in the mistaken belief that it had been his efforts that had enabled him to regain control. Behind the soldier, standing with one hand on the rim of the golden chariot, a young, handsome figure in equally resplendent breastplate and metal kilt peered at the cause of the near collision. Rich, dark brown eyes focused on the Ascenian in the path.

Less interested, the charioteer raised his whip to ward off what he no doubt thought a beggar or madman. However, his master grabbed his wrist.

“Prince…Prince Ehmad…” Uldyssian uttered, weaving to and fro at the same time.

“Yes, that is who I am.” The voice was strong and full of the confidence of youth.

“Master Fahin…he said to find you…” Mentally, Uldyssian began to feel more himself, but physically he was exhausted.

“Master Fahin.” The prince’s expression grew calculating. “Sehkar. Help him onto the chariot.”

“My lord,” growled the charioteer. “It was ill advised enough to take this ride without escort, but to bring this—whatever he may be—so near your person—”

“Do as I command, Sehkar.”

With much grumbling, the driver handed the reins to his master, then leapt out to deal with Uldyssian. The son of Diomedes eyed the man warily but then glanced again at the prince. Ehmad gave him a polite nod that somehow put him at ease.

“Come, you!” Sehkar commanded, grabbing for Uldyssian’s arm. Around them, a crowd had begun forming.

The soldier’s arrogant attitude drew Uldyssian’s sudden ire. He glared at the man, instinctively summoning his power.

At that moment, Prince Ehmad called out, “Treat him with respect, Sehkar!”

The charioteer relaxed his hold. Uldyssian fought down his anger and, with it, the potentially explosive repercussions.

With Sehkar guiding, the pair joined Ehmad. The prince himself assisted Uldyssian up.

“Thank you,” Uldyssian managed wearily.

Ehmad inspected him. “You are no beggar. Your bruises, they seem the eager work of someone. You mention Master Fahin. You knew him?”

It suddenly felt as if the entire world sat upon Uldyssian’s shoulders. “I was there when he…when he died.”

“You—” The noble gave him a tight-lipped smile. “It seems good fortune smiles upon me today to have run across you so accidentally.”

“It wasn’t good fortune. I wanted to find you.”

Prince Ehmad looked around them. “Indeed! I think it best we talk more at my palace. Take us there, Sehkar.”

“Gladly, and with haste,” muttered the charioteer. He cracked the whip and, as the horses started running, tugged hard on the reins in order to make them turn.

The crowds pushed back as the prince’s chariot shifted around. Prince Ehmad waved to the people, who cheered him. Uldyssian could see that their enthusiasm was real. They truly liked the young man.

He wondered how they would feel if they knew who their prince had in the chariot with him.

Sehkar cracked the whip again, then gave out a yell. The horses picked up the pace. The chariot and its riders swiftly left the crowd behind.

But not before Uldyssian caught an ever so brief glimpse of a familiar face among them, a face he had not expected to see.

The brooding face of Zorun Tzin.

HE…

HE…

Inarius had sat in utter darkness in the chambers that he used as the Prophet, sat in the silken chair staring beyond the walls. Staring at a place he had ceased calling home centuries ago.

HE…THAT VERMIN THAT SHE SEDUCED…

He did not wear the guise of the Prophet now, but more or less had resumed his true form. Inarius had no fear of discovery; an army of his acolytes could not have breached the doors, and no one with even the hearing of a bat could have noted a sound within.

ULDYSSIAN…SPAWN OF A FOOL NAMED DIOMEDES…HE DARED DO IT…

Inarius had not moved since his return from invading the mortal’s dream, but now he leapt up, wings spread in glorious fury and arms outstretched in righteous anger at this latest sin.

HE…ULDYSSIAN…HE DARED BRING ME PAIN!

It should not have been possible, but it had happened. During his intrusion into the human’s dreams, Inarius had easily manipulated the mortal’s mind, letting him believe that his powers were no more. He had done it to give Uldyssian the chance to beg for forgiveness, beg for the chance to be one of the angel’s flock again.

But instead of seeing sense, the sinner had dared strike him! Indeed, although Uldyssian imagined that his attack had failed miserably, it had, in truth, seared through Inarius, disrupting for the slightest of moments his very resonance.

For just that brief moment, the angel had been, by mortal standards, dead.

And while Inarius was not mortal, he had experienced the emptiness of a universe without him, and that had shaken his very foundation. Not even in the battles against the Burning Hells had he come so close to such a fate. Oh, he had felt pain before, especially during battles against the demons, but this had been something far different—and the work of a mere human, yet!

Uldyssian ul-Diomed had to be punished for his grave sin. His life had to be crushed, his very existence cursed by all, then, finally, all knowledge of his abilities erased from the memories of the rest of the mortals. It was the least he should suffer for all he had done.

And with him had to go the edyrem. Inarius had considered one method or another of bringing the rest back into the flock once Uldyssian was pacified, but they were tainted with the same filthy traits as Linarian, worse even. Whatever alteration on the Worldstone Lilith had done had created a thing more foul than their son.

Indeed, Uldyssian himself had also altered the Worldstone, and in a manner impossible. Inarius hesitated as he recalled that. One reason he had wanted to turn the mortal to his cause was that he wanted to make Uldyssian reverse the change in the artifact’s crystalline structure. He needed the fool to do it, because every attempt by the angel, who was not only bound to the artifact but drew upon it for his tremendous might, had gone for nothing.

NO…HE MUST DIE… THERE MUST BE ANOTHER WAY TO HEAL THE STONE… EVEN IF I MUST START WITH ONLY IT AND NOTHING ELSE IN ALL OF SANCTUARY…

A thousand methods by which to punish the human properly for his transgressions coursed through Inarius’s mind, but each had a fault. They all required the angel to confront Uldyssian directly. He saw no reason for that. Uldyssian was beneath him, not even as worthy as a worm crawling in the ground. There was no need for Inarius to debase himself by such close contact again, no need. It had nothing to do with the unexpected pain; it was merely unworthy of the angel.

But…if it was a task unworthy of him…

Inarius stared at the sealed doorway, then suddenly gestured.

The doors flung open.

GAMUEL, I WOULD SPEAK WITH YOU, MY CHERISHED SERVANT…

The powerfully built priest dropped the scroll from which he had been reading and quickly abandoned his private quarters. He had been doing his best to monitor matters concerning the capital since his conversation with Oris, feeling that the Prophet would expect it of him.

To his further astonishment, he arrived to find the doorway wide open. The guards saluted him sharply as he neared, their spirits revived by their master’s “awakening.”

“Gamuel!” Oris came charging from another corridor. “I was just alerted by a guard. When did—”

“I can’t speak now. The Prophet has summoned me!”

She looked disconcerted. “Summoned you? What about me? I heard nothing from him!”

“I only know that he summoned me, and the summons was urgent,” Gamuel responded with as much patience as he could muster. “Really, Oris, I must go to him!”

The female priest did not argue that point, but neither did she slow. Clearly, it was her intention to join the audience, and Gamuel would not stop her. The Prophet would bid her to leave if he did not wish her there.

Gamuel reached the entrance. Oris followed at his heels and then halted as if striking an invisible wall. She tried to step forward but instead moved back.

The male priest eyed her sympathetically as he continued on. The Prophet had made his will known. This audience was for Gamuel only.

The doors shut on Oris’s disbelieving face. Gamuel forced her from his thoughts. He doubted that she had offended the Prophet in some manner; the master merely had some thought that he believed Gamuel could better discuss alone with him.

What it was, the priest could not fathom.

The golden-haired youth awaited him not on the long, elegant couch where he often rested but in the very center of the chamber. The Prophet stood not in repose but in what Gamuel would have taken for—had it been any other person—pensiveness. The Prophet’s hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes watched with impatience the priest’s swift steps.

Gamuel went down on one knee before him. Bowing his head low, he muttered, “Forgive my sloth, great Prophet! I sought to be as the wind but fell short…”

“We all have our failings, my child,” the glorious figure declared. “And so when we fall to them, we do seek to quickly make amends, do we not?”

“In whatever manner I can, I shall! I swear!”

The Prophet touched him lightly on the shoulder, causing Gamuel to look up. “You are a man of many skills, Gamuel. You are one who has also lived so many aspects of life, however short human life is.”

“I’ve gone down…several paths,” the priest agreed. He did not like to talk about his past endeavors, especially those related to his years as a soldier and, on occasion, mercenary.

“And if some paths led you astray from the light, they did also teach you much that helped make you who you are today.”

The master’s words touched Gamuel, who still retained some guilt for events in his past. Each day, he tried to live as the Prophet preached, using the Prophet’s own life as his example.

“Rise, my child.”

The priest obeyed.

The Prophet proudly looked him over. “Good Gamuel, you were once well skilled in the arts of war, especially.”

“A sorry time for me. I try to forget—”

His answer brought a reproving glance from his master. As Gamuel let his head drop, the Prophet quietly remarked, “Lies ill become you. You still practice moves in your private quarters, then pray for my forgiveness. You are yet every bit the warrior that you were when first I found you.”

“I…am…sorry!”

“Why? The Cathedral has its Inquisitors. Are they so different?”

Trying to look dignified, the broad-shouldered priest returned, “Master, you know what I did as a…a fighter. My sins are as great as those of all the Inquisitor guards and officers put together!”

“And yet you stand at my hand, do you not?”

“A miracle of which I feel unworthy.”

The Prophet granted him the glory of a smile. “Would you seek to feel more worthy? Would you wish to prove yourself as none other can to me?”

Gamuel now understood why he alone had been summoned. The Prophet had a special task for him! The priest’s eyes brightened. He was honored beyond belief. “I would give my life and soul, if it must be!”

“As you should, my child, and as you might. This is no easy affair. I must trust that nothing will deter you from seeing it through.”

“I swear, nothing will! Nothing! Just tell me what I must do!”

Steepling his fingers, the Prophet calmly said, “I grant you the glory of personally removing from life the sinner Uldyssian ul-Diomed.”

Despite the bluntness with which the words were said, it took Gamuel several seconds to understand them. Then, as realization struck him, he put on an expression of fanatic determination. “I shall bring his head to you!”

“His death shall be enough. You have the skills, both with the spells I have taught you and, more important, the training of your life.”

Beaming, Gamuel stood straight. “Consider it done, master!” Then a brief hesitation came over him. “Forgive this one question…but for so long, Oris and I urged something to this effect, and you forbade it—”

The eternal youth nodded. “And now I do not.”

It was enough of an answer for one so devoted as the priest. He bent low again, kissing the Prophet’s hand.

“It shall be done, master.”

And because he kept his head low, Gamuel did not see the hardening of the young face. “Yes, I shall make certain of it, Gamuel. I shall…”

Mendeln assisted Serenthia in leading the edyrem as they marched on the city, but he knew that if it came to it, hers would be the orders they would follow. That suited him, for he felt uncomfortable leading armies.

They met with no resistance the first day. The villages that lay in their path emptied of people before they neared. Mendeln was glad about that, for it meant less chance that innocents would suffer. However, he knew that would soon change, for there was no chance that the capital itself might be abandoned. There, some would try their best to slaughter the edyrem.

However, it turned out that they did not have to wait until the capital for their first confrontation. The mounted patrol the edyrem encountered numbered a good hundred men and, to Mendeln’s eyes, had likely been created by combining two or three smaller patrols. The men were grim of aspect and obviously well aware that they were tremendously outnumbered, but they held their ground.

In a scene reminiscent of the encounter with Master Fahin’s guards, the chosen captain demanded that they turn away.

“We mean no harm,” Serenthia responded, her tone hinting that she found the officer’s order absurd under the circumstances. “You’d best move aside.”

The Kehjani patrol did no such thing. The captain tried one more time. “You are ordered by the august authority granted to me by the grand capital to either disperse or surrender yourself to my control!”

In the front ranks, Jonas and some of the other edyrem laughed defiantly at the officer’s demand. Serenthia herself wore a smirk.

Mendeln grew worried. Taking the forefront, he said, “There is no need for concern, captain. If I could—”

A soldier went flying off his horse. Some of the edyrem laughed as he landed hard.

The captain wasted no time in drawing his weapon. “Arrest them!”

And as quickly as that, pandemonium broke out. The mounted guards charged. Edyrem rushed up to meet them. Mendeln looked to Serenthia for assistance in curbing the violence, but she was at the head of those going into battle.

No! This should not happen! This destroys any hope of peacefully rescuing Uldyssian! But only Mendeln seemed to see that. The edyrem had given in to their emotions yet again. Like Uldyssian in the jungle that night, they let their powers control them more than they controlled their powers.

The Kehjani soldiers paid the price for that. A hundred armed men on horseback were nothing to thousands of edyrem. Mendeln did not have to see the struggle to know that the riders were being torn to ribbons without so much as landing a glancing blow against the invaders.

In desperation, he forced his way toward Serenthia. Only she could make the others listen, but first he had to make her do the same.

Only because of the edyrem’s almost-inherent unease of him did Mendeln manage to reach her quickly. He seized Serenthia by the arm and tried to pull her back.

Her fury startled him. “Mendeln, you fool! Let me go! Now!”

“Serenthia! Look what is becoming of you—of all of you!” Even as he spoke, a soldier let out a horrific shriek. Mendeln saw the head and an arm go flying through the air. “This is the work of beasts, not men!”

“They brought this on themselves! They—”

Mendeln had been surrounded by ghosts so consistently that he paid their presence little mind save when he required an answer to something. Rarely did they speak without being spoken to.

Yet now there came from more than one a sense of impending threat that made the black-robed figure not only ignore his friend’s demand to be released but instead pull her harder toward him.

The arrow did not hit her, as clearly had been intended. Instead, the angle sent it soaring into his shoulder with such velocity that Mendeln was thrown to the ground.

That alone brought Serenthia to her senses. She grabbed for him even as he fell, resulting in her dropping with him. Around them, the edyrem continued forward unchecked.

“Mendeln! Mendeln!” The merchant’s daughter used her body to protect his from the crush.

While he did not have his brother’s remarkable recuperative powers, Mendeln did have other resources upon which to call. He used the techniques that Rathma had taught him for reducing pain, managing to bring the searing agony to a dull, insistent throb. “I—I will be fine, Serenthia…”

“I’ll make the soldier who shot you pay, I promise.”

He clutched her forearm tight. “Serenthia…do not blind yourself. The bolt was not meant for me.”

“No, but it hit you because you tried to save me!” Her eyes burned with fury.

“Listen! I said not to blind yourself. I want you to gaze at the arrow, which should not have come so close to you in the first place save for one obvious reason.”

She finally looked—truly looked—and her mouth went slack. Serenthia shook her head.

Like Mendeln, she easily recognized an arrow crafted by Achilios.

“He would not—he would not try to slay me—or even you!”

“He would.” Uldyssian’s brother seized the shaft. Summoning all he knew from Rathma and the dragon, he worked to free the arrow. “He already tried with Uldyssian.”

As he freed the shaft, Serenthia quickly put her hand to the wound. It healed so quickly that even Mendeln, who knew how powerful she was, gasped in surprise.

Around them, the flow had slowed. There were few sounds of violence. It was already too late for the soldiers, and Mendeln mourned that terrible mistake. How could they peacefully approach the leaders of Kehjan now?

But that was a point of contention for later. Serenthia knelt over him, unable to believe this latest vile betrayal by her love. “He would never! Not Uldyssian!”

“He did. That night when my brother and I took the two bodies beyond the encampment—” Mendeln grimaced at the memory of what had nearly happened. “It was a miracle that Uldyssian survived.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know Achilios’s marksmanship. He would have hit your heart with ease. I was fortunate enough not to be the target and so only received this—simple wound.”

“And Uldyssian?”

“Any nearer the heart, and he would have been instantly slain. Somehow, though, Achilios just missed. He never just misses…unless he wishes to.”

This brightened Serenthia’s mood. “You see? He would’ve done the same for me!”

“Let us be grateful that we did not have to see whether that was true or not. And it does not excuse him for trying, does it?”

“But he saved our lives against that giant demon! Why would he then try to slay us?”

“Not him…another. An angel, I believe, who is not Inarius.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Not possible. There is no such being!”

“More than possible, I am afraid, especially to Rathma and Trag’Oul, who have been suspiciously absent. What they know, I would like to also.”

“Does this—does this other angel work with Inarius?”

Mendeln finally felt well enough to rise, which he did with her assistance. He eyed the arrow as he straightened. “I doubt that he does, at least directly. He is an enigma that we have little time to solve, especially now that we are at war with Kehjan.”

Serenthia glanced around, for the first time noticing the subdued atmosphere. She knew as well as he what that meant in terms of the lives of a hundred men. “It couldn’t be helped, Mendeln! It couldn’t!”

“There is so much that ‘couldn’t be helped,’” he retorted almost bitterly. “So much. What are the edyrem—what are you and Uldyssian—becoming, Serenthia? I saw his powers consume his mind, just as I saw them do the same to you and the rest here. As you grow more comfortable in them, they grow more dominating of you.”

“Ridiculous!” Her tone suddenly bordered on anger—anger at him. “Maybe you’re just a little envious, Mendeln!”

He had seen that same look just before the edyrem had rushed the soldiers. Mendeln quickly diverted Serenthia back to the other subject. “You know that Achilios would not wish to slay you, that this arrow—” He held the feathered end before her eyes. The anger at him faded, replaced by sorrow at the archer’s continued absence. “—was intended for you by another. Another angel, I am certain of that.”

“But Achilios missed!” the dark-haired woman said proudly. “He missed both of us despite that!”

“Indeed…and what do you suppose that angel will think of that, Serenthia?” Mendeln tried not to imagine the hunter at this very moment. “What do you suppose he will demand of Achilios for that failure?”

The color drained from her face.

space

Achilios was caught between relief and concern. Mendeln’s unexpected reaction had saved the archer from possibly succeeding despite every iota of his will striving for the opposite. When he had discovered that Uldyssian had survived, Achilios could only assume that it had been his own powerful determination that had made the difference. That had been his one hope when finally commanded to fire at Serenthia.

He was glad that Mendeln had made it unnecessary for him to find out if he had been right.

Once again, Achilios had fled even before the shaft neared its target. He was now deep in the jungle, although the path had been a more meandering one than last time. The edyrem were moving into more and more populated areas, which meant individual settlements in unexpected places. Neither he nor his tormentor desired him to be seen.

And even as he thought of the angel, Achilios felt his limbs slow. He came to a stumbling halt in a densely overgrown area that allowed so little light that he almost felt as if night had fallen again.

His body no longer obeyed him. Achilios wondered if he was to fall unconscious again, as had happened in the past. For one who was dead, unconsciousness was an unsettling thing. Achilios had been afraid of waking up buried or being burned.

When more than a minute passed and he still stood there, the archer finally lost his temper. He knew that it was ill advised to rail against the being but did not care. Achilios had already been forced to try to kill the two people dearest to him. What more monstrous thing could the angel expect?

Monstrous…angel, The irony of such thoughts all tied together was not lost on Achilios.

At that moment, the familiar glow erupted at his side. Despite its brightness, no one but Achilios was near enough to notice it.

“All…right! I did your damned work again…but someone outsmarted you! I saw it as I was fleeing, and I know bloody well that…that you did, too!”

THE BROTHER OF ULDYSSIAN DID NOT SAVE HER.

“What?” The words sent a sudden panic through the undead hunter. “No! I saw the shaft…the shaft miss her! She’s alive! She’s got to be—”

The ethereal warrior formed in the light. Somehow the blazing energy that radiated where his eyes were supposed to be seemed to hint at pity for Achilios. YOU MISUNDERSTAND. SHE LIVES, BUT IT WAS NOT HE WHO SAVED THE FEMALE. THAT WAS YOU, ARCHER, JUST AS BEFORE.

He could not have given the blond hunter a better answer. Achilios grinned wide—an image that would have frightened any mortal seeing him—then gestured defiantly at the winged figure. “I did it? I beat you then! Kill them…kill them both…you commanded…but I didn’t.”

He said this expecting—nay, hoping—that the angel would grow so incensed that he would destroy Achilios on the spot. Then there would be no possibility of the archer being forced to try over.

But no celestial fire burned him to cinder. Instead, the heavenly light around the winged being dulled. The towering figure cocked his head.

NO. YOU DID NOT,…AND THAT MAY CHANGE EVERYTHING.