Chapter 36

Hall of Emperors, the Chaldar

Hult had guessed, the moment Azar took his talga, what he would do. He understood and he mourned, but he did nothing to thwart him. Azar knew what he was doing, knew it was necessary. There was no other way out, not with Maladar so close to uniting his soul. What Azar did was as noble as any sacrifice a man could make. It tore Hult apart, but he forced himself to watch as the blade went in and the blood flowed free.

Then Maladar ripped his soul from Azar’s body anyway, and the hope that had swelled in Hult’s heart began to die. He dashed forward, hands clutching. Maybe if he reached the cord, he could tear it apart.

His eyes met Maladar’s, just for a moment, and he saw Forlo, his old friend looking back at him, eyes brimming with pain. Then Forlo looked away, at something no one could see. Then his face contorted, and he made a sound like a wounded animal, a sound that hurt just to hear. It was a strange moan—of frustration, of anger, of grief beyond anything Hult had ever heard. And Forlo flung his arms wide, falling back as another spirit burst out of him, twin to the one he’d torn out of Azar.

Hult stared at the two ghosts as Forlo tumbled, senseless, against the dragon-horn throne. There they were, Maladar and Maladar, divided, weak without bodies to inhabit. They were both beginning to fade, but at the same time they were moving, dragging themselves toward each other along the cord of magic that bound them. They put all their effort into it, pulling hard, shrieking in rage as they tried to become one again.

“Cut it!” Shedara yelled. “Split the cord!”

He glared at her, over his shoulder. “I don’t have a sword!”

But one was already flying toward him—her short, elven blade, spinning end over end from her outstretched hand. If not for his warrior’s reflexes, it might have plunged straight through his chest, but instead he reached out and caught it, the hilt smacking into his palm. He spun the blade in front of him, getting the weight of it, then turned toward the two Maladars.

They were close, only a foot of air separating them. The one that had been inside Azar was so pale, so faint, he was barely visible; the one Forlo had pushed out was in little better shape, a dwindling shade of what he’d been. They struggled, inching toward each other along the cord.

Hult ran, sword held high. He saw the two ghosts turn toward him and knew they were going to try to kill him. Magic seethed in the air, pouring down from Nuvis like storm rain. He bellowed a defiant battle cry.

Jijin, he prayed. One last favor, I beg you.

He hurled himself onto the bridge, still shouting. Magic exploded around him, black fire erupting on all sides. The air grew hot, but the flames didn’t burn him, and he felt other sorcery, power drawn down from Solis and Lunis, surrounding him like a babe’s swaddles. He heard a female voice, chanting.

Shedara, he thought. I love you.

Maladar and Maladar reached for each other, only inches apart, fingers trembling as they strained to make contact. Hult leaped, the elven sword coming down in a swift arc. The blade sliced right through the cord and shattered. Hult stumbled and fell, slamming up against the dais beside Forlo. With a groan, he turned to face the ghosts, the hilt of Shedara’s weapon still clutched in his hand. An inch of jagged steel was all that remained of the blade.

The Maladars kept reaching, their fingers almost touching.

Then, in a flash of silver light, the cord snapped.

Cold wind filled the throne room, blowing outward, making the windows explode and the waters of the pool overflow. It knocked the throne over and flung vases and statuettes to shatter against the walls. Hult threw up his arm, as if that might somehow protect him from the tempest, and saw the ghosts fly away from each other, flung through the air like autumn leaves. Maladar made a terrified, helpless noise, and the half that had come out of Azar vanished, torn apart like smoke.

The other half remained only a moment longer—long enough to turn its gaze on Hult. Hate blazed in its eyes; then it, too, unraveled, torn to pieces by the magical gale. When the wind finally faltered and died, it left the throne room blasted to pieces.

Shedara lay against the far wall, stunned and bruised. “Mother… of all… the gods,” she gasped, and spat blood on the floor. “Is he gone?”

Hult looked around. Pain shot through his bruised body. Still, he managed to push himself back to his feet. The room was disturbingly quiet. He knew he was surrounded by nothing but flame and illusion, and suspected that the room’s form ought to have collapsed the moment Maladar disappeared, but it hadn’t. That baffled him.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

“All over,” she replied, and struggled to her feet. “You?”

“The same. What do we do now?”

“Get out of here—and fast.” She nodded toward Forlo, lying beside the throne. The dragon-horn seat had broken in half, smaller pieces scattered around it. “Go check on him. I’ll have a look at Azar.”

Hult staggered to where his friend lay. His knee was wrenched, and one of his ankles throbbed, probably sprained. Still, he managed to lower himself down beside Forlo’s body. He reached for the man’s throat, fingers trembling, afraid of what he might find… or not find. When he laid them over the artery, though, he felt a pulse beneath his touch.

“He’s alive!” he called. “Out cold, but… I think he may survive.”

Shedara didn’t answer. Hult turned to look, then stopped, his breath catching.

She was crouched on the wet floor by the side of the pool, among the flopping flame-fish, blown out of the water by the wind and slowly dying in the air. There, before her, was Azar. He was sitting up, water dripping off him, mixing with the blood that still flowed from the ghastly wound in his throat.

“Yagrut!” Hult swore, ignoring the various aches and pains as he rose back to his feet. He reached for his scabbard, but of course his talga wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure where the sword was; the wind had blown it away.

Azar looked around, his eyes searching the throne room. He saw Shedara, then turned to behold Hult and Forlo. Hult half expected to see Maladar’s shade glimmering in his gaze, but there was no sign of him. It was just Azar, nodding so that the gash in his throat opened and closed like a second mouth.

“You’re—” Shedara said, then stopped, shaking her head. “Why aren’t you dead?”

The old man shrugged. “I am… or as good as. I will not live much longer. But I had to hold on. I kept some of his power, you see… enough to remain here, for a time.”

“I don’t understand,” Hult said.

“I’m afraid I have one task left: to save you,” Azar said with a bare smile. “Unless you already had a plan for leaving Aurim, with the Varya gone.”

They looked at each other, understanding.

Azar gestured to them both. “Hurry! Come close. Bring my father. Quickly, now. I still have power, but it’s fading. I will not last much longer.”

Hult scowled, confused, but did as the old man bade. Grabbing Forlo under his arms, he dragged his friend across the bridge to where Shedara knelt. Forlo didn’t stir, didn’t make a sound.

“Soon this place will turn back to flame,” Azar said, looking down regretfully at Forlo’s motionless form. “No living thing could survive inside. I must send you away before that happens.”

“What about Maladar?” Shedara asked. “Did we kill him?”

“No,” Azar said.

Just then, a howl rang out, a noise of pure wrath, as if the air itself had turned to knives and venom. It came from all around, loud and shrill and utterly insane. It went on and on, for far longer than any human voice ought to have been able to last, but finally it died away into a feeble, broken croak.

“Ancestors’ bones,” Hult breathed.

Shedara swallowed. “What’s happened to him?”

“His punishment,” Azar said. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You must go at once. Death is coming for me, and it will take you as well if you delay.”

Hult looked around. The room was starting to swim, details dissolving in the living fire. The air grew warmer and warmer, baking him. The Chaldar was reclaiming itself, shedding the shape Maladar’s will had imposed upon it.

“But if Maladar isn’t dead, we’ve failed!” Shedara protested. “He has to be stopped.”

“He is stopped!” Azar said. “Death is not his fate. What awaits him is far worse. There is no more time for talk. Come near.”

Shedara still didn’t look happy, and Hult couldn’t blame her. But the edges of the throne room were gone, devoured by the inferno, which crept nearer every moment. They gathered around Azar, huddling close, trying not to look at the fatal wound gaping in his throat.

“Farewell, my friends,” Azar said. “When my mother and father ask about me…” He trailed off, lost for words.

“We will tell them you met a hero’s end,” Hult said. “Do not fear.”

The old man nodded. He looked down at Forlo, a lifetime of sadness in his eyes.

“Tell them… tell them it will be all right,” he said. “Tell them to try again, and to remember me.”

Hult looked at Shedara, who was weeping unabashedly, and felt a surge of love and sorrow. His eyes burned, tears spilling onto his cheeks as well.

The air shimmered, so hot it grew hard to breathe. Azar began to chant, calling down the moons’ power. His face swam before Hult, aging with every word, until it was a withered mass of wrinkles beneath hair so white that it fairly glowed. Then the flames caught him, and he went up like a torch. Hult recoiled, barely noticing that he wasn’t burning as well.

Then silver light surrounded him, and he was gone, rushing through darkness toward some place far away.

Maladar knew fire and little else.

Flames swirled around him, blue and gold and white: a whirlwind of them, rolling and curling and billowing in great, blooming clouds that choked the air with smoke. There was no sky above him, no ground below. In fact, there was no up or down. There was only the fire, the unending fire.

It did not burn him; there was no pain, not even warmth. No feeling at all. He couldn’t feel his own body, and as soon as that thought came to him, another followed: he had no body. Barreth Forlo had rejected him, and Azar had chosen death rather than yield up Maladar’s soul. He remembered looking out of both sets of eyes, each of them seeing the other half of his ghost, with the cord of magic snaking between. He remembered pulling himself toward himself, and the Uigan—another Hith-be-damned Uigan!—attacking with a sword, severing the cord.

Though he couldn’t feel it, the memory of the pain remained strong. Being split from his own soul was a worse agony than he’d ever known, more terrible even than the day he’d cut off his own face or when he’d died, writhing, from poison. It was like a jagged blade, ripping him in two. Then one of his twin visions had dimmed to darkness as the piece of him that had dwelt in Barreth Forlo’s son dissolved.

After that, he remembered nothing else. What became of Forlo, the Uigan, and the elf-bitch, he had no idea. Everything had gone dark and cold, and he’d awoken to the sound of his own voice screaming, surrounded by flame, with no idea where he was or what he was.

I am the fire, he thought. He couldn’t speak, for he had neither lungs to make a voice nor tongue to shape words.

The fire is me.

“Yes,” whispered a voice, very near. Maladar didn’t have to turn, just shift his attention toward the sound. And, of course, there was Hith, scarlet-skinned and black-armored, the only thing in sight besides the flames. “You and the fire are one, as you and the stone were when you dwelt within the Hooded One.”

I don’t understand, Maladar thought. How is this possible?

“Because I willed it to be so,” the god replied. “You are stupid, and you failed. This is the price of your arrogance, my servant. You are no good to me dead, with your soul trapped forever in the Abyss. But here, in the Chaldar, you remain within my reach. Here you may linger, so that one day you might serve me again.”

If I am freed, Maladar thought. It worked with the statue. It can work here too.

“In time, perhaps,” the god said, shrugging. “Though only three know you are here, and none of them is likely to tell anyone. Perhaps, one day, your soul may escape. But that day may be longer in coming than all the time you spent in the Hooded One. Or it may never come at all.”

And if it doesn’t?

“Then you will remain here until the great book of the world is closed, and time is no more.” Hith chuckled. “You should be glad, Faceless One. Your dearest dream was to live forever. Now it has come true.”

Then the god was gone, and he was alone… utterly alone, amid the boundless fire, the fire that never stopped.

Maladar screamed for centuries.