Chapter 23

Akh-tazi, Neron

She lay still. She couldn't remember what it felt like to move. What it was not to be in pain, tormented by the grinding of shackles against skin, against bone. By the clenching spasms that seized her back. Lying there, Essana thought she might have gone mad—but the fact that she wondered at all must mean she was still sane—mustn't it?

How long had she lain here? How long had her only companion been a single yaggol, who always sat in the room, just far enough behind her that she could feel his presence but not see him, no matter how hard she tried to look? He was always there, his cold thoughts caressing her own. He only budged to feed—tasteless gruel and warm water—or examine her, make sure the child was still healthy.

The child. She had been pregnant too long. She knew this. How many months had it been? Ten? Eleven? The swell of her belly was monstrous—no. Use another word, any word but that. Huge. Enormous. She felt her son kick: it hurt her. He might have been the size of a toddler, by the weight inside her. When would he come? Why hadn't he come yet? What was he waiting for?

The worst part, though, was the curtain, and what it concealed. He was still there. The flayed remains of Azar the Keeper still hung behind the arras: impaled, mutilated, alive. She could hear the wet sucking of his breath, the rattle of the chains from which the Brethren had hung him. Now and then he moaned, and sometimes he cried, quiet sobs of agony. He would stay there until the child came. They needed a sacrifice to Maladar. With every gasp, the Keeper paid the price for betrayal—and she paid along with him.

Days passed; weeks. The child grew stronger. She weakened. Azar's suffering never ceased. And then, one day—night? morning? who knew the difference anymore?—she heard a new sound.

It started out as a faint clamor in the distance—shouting, the ring of steel. A horn blew, somewhere in the temple's depths. She stirred, her head lolling. The yaggol was up as well, tentacles twitching, translucent lids flicking across empty eyes as it moved to stand before the door. She felt its mind leave hers, questing elsewhere, seeking answers. As it became distracted, the noise got louder, the voices more distinct. Men… and minotaurs.

Essana caught her breath. For the first time in weeks, she fought against her bonds, ignoring the pain as she ripped off scabs from previous struggles. She had to rise, had to be ready… .

BE STILL, came the yaggol's slippery voice, thrusting deep into her mind. She fell back as if a massive hand were pushing her down and stayed there, gnashing her teeth, unable to move.

The horn blew again, and her heart leaped at the sound. It was a zharka, a dragon's horn made to sound the calls of the Imperial Legions. And this call she knew. She'd heard it many times, these long years. It was the call of the Sixth.

My love, she thought. You've come… you've come for me… .

BE STILL!

The yaggol's thoughts nearly knocked her unconscious. She groaned, blackness swimming before her eyes, crimson stars exploding. She shoved back, gathering her hatred of the inhuman creature, but it did no good. She was defenseless against its power.

Then, with a thud, something hit the door, drawing the yaggol's attention away. She turned her head toward the noise—just in time to hear a second crash and see the blade of a battle-axe hack through the wood. It stayed there for an instant, then rocked back and forth before disappearing again. Someone outside bellowed and struck a third blow, even harder than before.

The door shattered, splinters flying. Essana shut her eyes and mouth as the fragments peppered her. Then there was a clatter of armor, and she looked again to see two figures in the doorway, lit orange from behind by gathering flames. One was a bull-man, tall and broad, one she knew. Grath, her husband's friend. He bared a fang-filled grin as he swept in, axe whirling, and lopped off the top of the yaggol's head. Milky ichor spattered the wall, and the thing's mind vanished as it flopped, jerking, to the ground.

She barely saw any of this, though; her eyes were on the other figure who strode into the room, sword streaked with white blood, eyes wild with vengeance.

Barreth.

She struggled all the harder, trying to reach him, heedless of the blood running down her arms and legs. He ran to her in three bounding steps, ripping the gag from her mouth and crushing her lips with his. She tasted his tears: he was laughing and crying all at once, and now so was she, even as Grath came up with his great axe and sheared the shackles away from the plinth.

Shards of obsidian flew as the minotaur chopped her free. She tried to stand but didn't have the strength; Barreth set down his sword and lifted her with ease. He kissed her again.

"You came," she croaked.

He smiled. "What did you expect? I looked for you a long time, Starlight. A long time. But I'm here now, and I'm getting you out—"

There was a sound, like a snap. Barreth blinked, confused—then his face changed, creasing with pain. He stumbled.

"Starlight… ?" he asked.

Then he fell. She went with him, landing on top of him. There was blood everywhere—all of it coming from a deep gash in his back. The Master stood above them, a dripping dagger in his hand.

"No!" Essana cried.

Grath roared with anger, swinging his axe in a wide arc. But the Master flung out his arm, pointing a single finger, and a ray of gray light shot forth, striking the minotaur full in the face. Grath froze, glowed for an instant like a star had exploded within him, then collapsed into fine dust that spilled all over the floor.

Barreth was trying to move, to get back up. But his legs wouldn't move, and blood was leaking from his mouth. It pulsed from the wound, less of it with every heartbeat. Weeping, Essana heaved herself up off her dying husband, grabbed the edge of the table—the sharp, chipped obsidian cutting her hands—and heaved herself to her feet, facing the Master.

He glared at her from the depths of his hood, and laughed. Then he flung his dagger down, impaling Barreth neatly through the throat. Essana watched, grief-torn, as her husband's back arched, one last time… and relaxed.

She gathered all her rage and spat in the Master's face. He only laughed.

"Thought you could escape, did you?" he asked. "No, lady. Not even in your dreams."

It came to her, then—she was not awake. This was a fantasy, not something real. Barreth wasn't really dead—or, at least, wasn't dead here, now. There was no rescue. And the Brethren, with the yaggol's help, wouldn't even let her think about salvation. She leaped at the Master—and slipped in Barreth's blood.

With a shriek, she fell… .

… and awoke to terrible pain, and dampness, and a faint, meaty smell that filled her nostrils. It was her smell, her own. She stiffened, feeling cold all over, and lifted her head enough to look down and see brownish fluid seeping across the surface of the table.

"Oh, gods," she groaned, leaning back. "No"

Just a heartbeat later, the first clenching pain grasped her, tightening like a serpent around her middle. It was worse, so much worse, than she'd felt in the tunnel, when she and the Keeper had tried to flee the temple. She yelled, beating her fists against the table as the life within her stirred.

The day had arrived. Her water was broken. The child was coming at last.

Wind whipped her; rain soaked her. Lightning flared bright, stinging her eyes. The crash of thunder made her cries of agony seem horribly small. Essana knew the storm was not just a coincidence; either the Brethren had summoned it, or some greater power had willed it to come. It was a part of this, part of the rite, as much as every elf the Faceless had bled here, on the temple's roof.

When they brought her up here, two short hours ago, the sky had been clear blue, with not a cloud in sight, the midday sun beating down hot and sultry on this accursed land, where winter never came. The clouds hadn't appeared until the Brethren were all gathered—only four now, with the Keeper's betrayal revealed. Another of their number, the Teacher, was said to have been killed in a land far away. Though they didn't say who had slain him, she said a silent prayer that it had been Barreth. There had to be justice somewhere in the world.

She had expected the Master to be furious that he'd lost another of his circle, but he'd only shrugged as if it were no matter. Perhaps it wasn't; Azar had told her that the Teacher's role had been to make shadows of the kender and set the empires of Taladas against one another. With the birth at hand, the Faceless had less need for him. His death was no great blow.

The storm had arisen with sudden violence, boiling up in the north like clouds of silt from the sea floor. In less than a quarter of an hour, the day had gone from bright to gruesome green-black, then opened up with rain and lightning and scouring gales. Essana lay bolted to the altar, turning her head every few breaths to cough up the rain water that poured into her nose and mouth, trying to fight back the spasms that ripped through her insides.

The statue loomed above her, its hood thrown back, water streaming down its ruined face. Its eyes flared like torches with every lightning flash. She could sense the presence within, eager and yearning. The Hooded One hungered for life inside her, hated her for being in the way. That only made her resist all the more—but it was a losing battle, and she knew it. The child would come, whether she wanted it or not… and that was the worst part, her own body betraying her, this corruption of what should have been the happiest moment of her life. She punched the altar as another contraction tore through her. Thunder roared.

Oh, Mislaxa, she thought. Take my son. Let him be stillborn. Don't leave him to this… .

The Master laughed, leaning forward. His hood, too, was thrown back—as were those of the Slayer, the Watcher, and the Speaker. They had crowded close to her; the dragon, Gloomwing, was perched behind them, staring with curled lip at what—to a creature born of an egg—was an ungodly, gruesome sight.

"Pointless prayers," said the Master. "The Hand of Healing does not hear you. No gods do. You belong to Maladar, my lady—to the Faceless Emperor, and no other. Your son will live—and I will cut him from you if you fight much longer!"

He raised his hand. In it was a long, curved knife of obsidian. The raindrops that struck the blade hissed, boiling away into puffs of steam. He displayed it above her swollen belly, turning it so light sparkled on its edge.

Essana pictured herself rising, ripping the manacles from the altar and smashing in the Master's skull. Revulsion exploded within her, but when the next contraction came, she went with it, pushing with all her might. Something happened: a new pain, sharper. The Brethren looked down, eyes gleaming as lightning struck the top of a neighboring pyramid, splitting it in half and showering red-hot stone into the jungle below.

"He comes," said the Speaker.

"He comes," the others echoed.

He comes… said another voice, dark and grim and brimming with evil. Essana cringed. She sobbed, then choked and had to spit out water again. Thunder pounded.

The pain struck again. She howled at the black, churning sky.

The Master moved in. The pain grew so hot, so fierce, she thought she would burn up from inside… and then the hurt vanished, replaced by an awful, yawning emptiness. The Faceless Brethren stirred, murmuring.

Trapped within the statue, Maladar began to laugh. How beautiful! the hateful voice rumbled, and lightning flashed in response.

A shudder shook Essana's body, and she looked down to see the Master lift her son. The boy was huge, the largest baby she had ever seen, pink and wizened and smeared with blood—but he was beautiful. The loveliest thing she had ever seen.

The Master reached to the child's mouth and cleared it. The baby began to squall as all newborns do. Nodding, the Master produced the knife and cut the umbilical cord. Then he held it up before the Hooded One, naked to the storm.

"Behold thy flesh, Sleeper Within the Stone," the Speaker intoned.

The Brethren stirred. "Behold thy flesh."

How beautiful, Maladar said again. How beautiful I will be.

"No!" screamed Essana, straining against her bonds, cutting her wrists and ankles anew. "He isn't yours! Give him to me! Let me hold him!"

They stared at her, their skinless faces unreadable. She might have been an interesting insect, caught but soon to be discarded. One by one, they turned and walked away. Only the Master remained, holding the baby close to him, sheltering him among his thick robes. He watched, eyes burning, as she wept until all her strength was gone. The child shrieked on.

"Please," Essana sobbed. "Let me touch him… ."

Had she hoped for mercy? She wondered, in the lightless days to come, why she would expect such a thing. The Master gave no compassion, of course—only turned, and nodded over her shoulder. Two yaggol came forward, their cold thoughts molesting her mind.

"Take her back to her cell. Leave her with the traitor," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "This part is finished, milady, but the rite continues. We have need of you still, before the end."

With that, he whirled and was gone. Essana did not get a second look at her son before she was swept away.