Chapter 28

The Temple of Akh-tazi, Neron

The Keeper was finally dying. Essana could hear it happening, a change in his rasping breath, a weakening in the rattle of the chains from which his broken body hung. She heard him gurgle, a nasty wet sound he made when he forgot he could no longer speak. He sucked in a breath, let it out in a wet hiss… and was silent.

She lay in the dark, bound by shackles, her hands resting on the loose skin of her belly, where the baby had been. "Azar?" she whispered.

He replied with a groan and another weak, reedy breath. The chains clattered. Essana sighed and shut her eyes—death would come for the Keeper, but at its own pace. The Brethren wanted him to linger; their magic held him here.

The hours drifted by. Azar stopped breathing again and again, and each time she prayed to Mislaxa—take him, take him, finally free him from his pain—but as with her son, the goddess never answered. Every time, just when she began to hope, the breathing started again. He whimpered with frustration: he was trying to die, but it wasn't enough. He was as trapped as she was.

No, that wasn't right. He might be in constant agony, unable to move, speak, or see, but they'd done far worse to her. He hadn't carried another life for month upon month, only to have it wrested away at the moment of birth. He hadn't begged and screamed to see his child, only to be pummeled into silence by the yaggol's unfeeling minds. He didn't have to live, day after day, with the knowledge that something terrible was happening to his son… something he had no power to stop. The Keeper couldn't know that kind of anguish. Essana would have traded it for pain a hundred times worse than what he was enduring.

They had left her after the birth, spent and weak, drifting in and out of fever. They had not returned to the cell—not with food, not with water. She could sense the yaggol's thoughts, lurking at the edge of her own, observing without caring. But the Brethren didn't come. For all she knew, they had gone on to the Burning Sea, with her son and the Hooded One—but she didn't think so. There was more to be done. She and the Keeper both had a part to play, still.

Finally, after the gods knew how long, she heard movement outside. Essana raised her head as the door creaked open and cold light spilled across the floor. She stared, waiting for a black-cloaked figure to enter—the Master or one of his brothers. But the one who stepped into view was not one of the Faceless.

This figure wore no hood; just a simple cassock of colorless linen. He was short, too—no taller than a kender. With the light from the hall behind it, she couldn't make out any features—only that he was very thin, with long hair spilling down over his shoulders. But there was something in his bearing as he stepped through the doorway that was weirdly familiar. It was as if she were watching Barreth decades ago, as…

As a six-year-old boy.

Essana sat up, feeling cold all over. Ignoring the pain as the manacles tore at her wrists, she tried to reach out toward the figure, wanting to cry out his name. But she'd never given him a name. She'd never had the chance.

"My son!" she breathed.

The boy stepped back, afraid. Later, she would reflect on how frightening she must have seemed—a dirty, blood-smeared apparition, pale and gaunt, chained to the floor. To this child, who likely didn't even know the word "mother," she would be a more horrifying sight than the yaggol and the Faceless.

Now, though, his reaction made her heart ache. She reached out her hands. "Please, it's all right. I won't hurt you… ."

He shook his head, shrank back into the doorway. She begged him with her eyes. No. Don't leave me alone here… .

Then he was gone, out the door again, feet pattering down the hall, the door left ajar behind him. Essana stared at the empty opening, eyes stinging, too parched for tears. She hadn't even gotten a good look at his face. All she had were questions.

How had he grown so old? She hadn't given birth more than a few weeks ago, by her reckoning. The Brethren had done something, made him age faster.

She bowed her head, defeated. "You bastards," she breathed. "You're robbing him of his childhood. Stealing his life."

"Perceptive," said a voice from the door, thick with disdain.

Looking up, she saw him. The Master stood where her son had been, peering down at her, hands folded in his sleeves. Two yaggol lurked behind him. She felt their minds slither over hers, ready to defile her at a gesture from their lord.

"We have no use for children, you see," he said. "The Faceless Emperor will not enter this world in a brat's body. Our magic will keep aging him until he is grown… perhaps twenty years old.

"Of course, his wits will still be those of a babe, but that is little matter." The cloaked shoulders rose and fell. "He is a vessel only—the mind doesn't matter at all. Once Maladar emerges from the statue, the body will be his. And with the power of the Faceless Emperor, the boy will stop aging altogether. He may lose his childhood, but neither will he know old age. You should be glad, my lady—your son will live forever."

He bowed slightly and turned to go. Essana watched, a chasm yawning in her belly, too stunned to reply. As he laid his hand upon the door, though, he turned and glanced back at her, eyes flashing from the depths of his cowl.

"A pity that you will not be around much longer to watch him grow."

She lunged—and was met with a white-hot explosion, deep in her brain. She flopped down again, retching, her insides a twisting knot. The yaggol regarded her through the entrance, their tentacles waving; then the door thudded shut again. Darkness filled the room.

She stared toward the doorway, wishing the boy would come back—that she could behold her son again. But that time had passed. The next time she saw him, he would be older. She would never know him as a child.

Sleep came, in time. Even in dreams, her son never showed his face.

More time passed. It seemed like days. The Keeper slid toward death repeatedly, only to revive before the gods could claim him. His groans were the only human contact Essana had. She felt her sanity fraying, her thoughts dwelling on the child, wanting to hear his voice, hold him in her arms… everything the Brethren had denied her. She dreamed he might return to her, pity her, try to set her free.

It was folly. Her son wouldn't know pity. With the Master for a father, he would learn only cruelty, deceit, wickedness—and that hurt worse than anything. When the Faceless were done with him, her son would be as evil as they were.

And then Maladar would take him, and he wouldn't be anything. He would be gone, swallowed up, like the flame of a candle thrown into a bonfire. She could do nothing to stop it. She even gave up praying. Either she was beyond the gods' power or they simply didn't care. It came to the same thing.

In time, the door opened again. Essana tried to turn toward the opening. She could barely move now, her muscles atrophied by hunger, her mind fuzzy with thirst. The deprivation would have killed most by now, even the strongest minotaur; only the Brethren's magic held her here. After several excruciating attempts, she managed to face the door. She hoped it would be the boy again, but it wasn't. Six yaggol stood there, and with them was one of the Faceless, the Watcher. He stepped in, the tentacled aberrations crowding around him.

"What is it?" she asked. "What more do you want?"

The Watcher shook his head. "Not you, my lady. Not this time."

He pointed across the room, toward the curtain. Four of the yaggol walked to where the Keeper hung. The others kept their eyes on Essana, ready to seize her mind. She fought to keep her thoughts calm, not to give them a reason.

"What are you going to do with him?" she asked.

"What should have been done long ago," the Watcher answered. "He will pay the price for his treachery."

She watched him walk up to the curtain. With a swift jerk, he ripped the fabric down.

Essana cried out, trying to turn away. She was too weak, however, and though she squeezed her eyes shut, it was too late. The image of what hung in that alcove had burned into her mind. She knew she would see it for the rest of her life—however long that was.

The Keeper had rotted. His skinless flesh had mummified, pulling taut and shrinking to a black husk over his skeleton. Here and there it had split, laying bare his bones. Tarry sludge dripped from the sockets of his eyes, from the stumps of his hands and feet. His fate was monstrous, even worse than what the death-priests of Thenol inflicted on their enemies.

"Azar," she wept. "Oh, gods, Azar, I'm sorry. It's my fault—"

BE SILENT, spoke the yaggol, and she was. She didn't open her eyes, only listened to the wheezing as the Watcher regarded the shriveled thing the Keeper had become.

"You held the key to glory," the Watcher said. "All the power of Old Aurim was in your grasp—and you threw it away. Why? Not for the woman, I'm sure—no one would be that stupid. It was for some memory of virtue, wasn't it? Some vestige of nobility.

"I can sense your mind through the yaggol, Azar of Suluk. I understand now—you were never one of us. Oh, the Rainward Kings were clever, to send you into our ranks. They can cling to that cleverness when their palaces and fiefdoms burn. Perhaps, once Maladar forges his new empire, he will give me the ruins to govern.

"But you, you who were called Keeper, who were second among us, next to the Master himself… now your part in this saga must end. The Brethren await. The Slayer's knife is sharpened. You will be the last to die upon the altar before the final ritual. Your blood will bring forth the Emperor. Ironic, is it not? Your death, accomplishing the very thing you swore to—"

Even when it was done, Essana wasn't quite sure how it happened. She didn't see it, but she heard it all—the sudden gasp from the Watcher, putting an end to his gloating. The two screams that followed—one tongueless and filled with rage; the other rising and rising, breaking in pain. A hideous, wet crunch, stopping the second scream. Spattering—blood, warm on her face. A body falling to the floor.

She opened her eyes.

It shouldn't have been possible: the Keeper was a ruin of a man, and four yaggol surrounded him, their minds locked with his. Unprotected by the cha'asii's magic, he shouldn't have been able to budge, much less cast a spell. And yet, drawing on some awesome reserve, he had. The proof was the Watcher's corpse, sprawled backward on the ground. The head was a pulpy mass, crushed like a walnut in a man's fist. Bits of blood and brain flecked the walls.

It was Azar's last act of defiance. Now the yaggol moved in, an instant too late, and the hanging mummy went limp, its strength gone. They seized him and tore him down from the chains, the hooks ripping through his flesh as he tumbled to the floor. Bones broke, but he didn't notice. He had lost consciousness. Essana hoped, as they dragged him from the cell, that he would never, ever regain it.

They brought her along too, as she knew they would. She had witnessed every other sacrifice atop the temple, since the dragon bore her here. This would be no exception.

Mist, bloodied by Lunis, blanketed the jungle as the yaggol dragged her up the steps to where the remaining Brethren awaited. They were three, now: with the Watcher's body cooling in her cell, only the Master, the Slayer, and the Speaker remained. Nor was there any sign of Gloomwing, which was strange; he had been present for every bloodletting before.

She wondered about that—but not for long, for there was another figure on the rooftop, and the sight of him stole her breath away. Her son stood next to the Master—no longer dressed in the cassock he'd worn earlier, but clad in black, a hood covering his head. She felt a spike of panic, wondering if the Brethren had cut off his face—then calmed down when she saw the brown arc of his chin beneath the cowl.

He was taller, dwarf-height… perhaps eight or nine years old, still aging fast. In less than a month, at this rate, he would be grown. And then… .

She shuddered, her eyes flicking toward the altar. Azar lay upon it, looking like a thousand-year-old corpse dug out of a bog. She would never have believed he was still alive, but his limbs twitched and shivered upon the stone. Above him loomed the Hooded One. Maladar's hunger hung about the statue, like the tingling before a thunderstorm. He wanted the Keeper's life, more than any of the elves the Brethren had brought him.

"Bring her," beckoned the Master.

The yaggol shoved Essana forward—and toward her son. She stared at the boy, but his gaze fastened on the Hooded One and the pathetic thing on the altar. She wanted to rush to him, to call out to him, but the yaggol prevented her, forcing her thoughts away. She turned instead to face the Master.

"Another of your Brothers is dead," she said. "And where is your pet wyrm? You're running out of allies."

The Master regarded her from the depths of his hood. There was hate in his gaze, of course, but something else as well: a glimmer of fear. He, too, had expected Gloomwing to be here for this important ritual. The Master didn't know what had happened to the dragon, any more than she did.

"Don't let's compare allies, milady," he said. "You're about to lose the last of yours."

"You lie. There is my husband."

"Lord Forlo will not save you. I doubt he even knows where you are."

She regarded him, eyes narrowing. "Oh? Then why are you afraid?"

The Speaker and the Slayer glanced at each other, surprised. The Master glowered, then nodded to the yaggol. Essana had an instant to brace herself before a blast of nausea drove her to her knees. She heaved, trying to vomit, but her stomach was empty.

"This is the last rite you will observe, Essana of Coldhope," the Master said. "But not the last you shall attend. When the time comes, when the vessel is ready to accept the Faceless Emperor… then it will be your turn to lie upon the altar. Your blood will flow in his name." He started to turn away, then looked back at her, his voice sharp and vicious. "And it will not be the Slayer who wields the knife."

Essana stared at him, at the child by his side. The Master laid a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder and led him away.

She stayed where she was, unable to move, as the terrible ritual began. Her mind dark with horror, she watched the Brethren gather by the altar, chanting orisons in Maladar's name. Her son didn't join in, but the boy watched in fascination as the Slayer strode to the Keeper's side, the long knife glittering in his hand. A light rain began to fall; clouds swallowed the red moon.

"Come forth, Great One," proclaimed the Speaker. "Your time is at hand. Accept this offering; let it give you strength. Come forth, lord of Taladas, emperor of us all."

"Blood for the Faceless," declared the Master. "Blood for Maladar!"

The Keeper didn't struggle; the yaggol's minds gripped him tight. He lay as placid as a lamb as the Slayer raised his blade to the statue then laid it against his throat. He made no sound as the edge drew across, parting flesh, scraping bone. Essana wept as the blood flowed free. She watched Azar die.

The Slayer gathered his blood in the skull bowl and poured it at the statue's feet, as he had done so often before. This time, however, there was a difference—a blurring around the Hooded One that made her want to rub her eyes. Power seethed atop the temple, making the air swelter. Sparks burst in the air. The Slayer stepped back, and as one the Brethren bowed their heads.

And Maladar an-Desh, the Faceless Emperor, the Sleeper in the Stone, came forth.

It was only a shade of the man, a pale ghost in the exact image of the statue, bound to the black stone by ropes of gray mist, yet it was him. There was no doubting it, no mistaking the evil that poured from that spectral figure. Beside him, even the Master seemed insipid, a feeble mockery of his malevolence.

"I am risen," he spoke in a voice that rolled like distant thunder. "Now I hearken to your call, my faithful. But you are fewer than I expected. What of the rest?"

The Faceless glanced at one another, uneasy. "The Keeper lies before you, Great One," said the Master. "He betrayed us, and death on the altar was his reward—but he murdered the Watcher before we could kill him. The Teacher died at the hands of our enemies, in the vales of Marak. As for the wyrm… his fate we do not know. He flew forth some weeks ago and never returned. I fear he has been slain."

"A pity," the specter said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But you three are enough for what remains. Have you the vessel?"

The Master leaned down, speaking softly to the boy, who stepped forward. For the first time, Essana heard her son speak, and his voice wrenched her heart. The tone was flat, devoid of feeling. He had a Rainwards accent, like the rest of the Brethren.

"I am the Taker. My body shall be yours."

Maladar gazed down on the boy, his eyes flashing, then rounded on the Brethren. "A child? I cannot dwell in one so young. My power would rip him apart!"

"He will not be a child then," the Master said. "He will be grown, worthy of your presence. His father was a mighty warrior. There is strength in him."

"Hmmm," the Emperor mused. He wasn't convinced, but finally he nodded. "What you say had best be true. I shall be wroth if I cannot use him. Now, what of the sacrifice? Whose blood shall he spill at my feet?"

The Faceless parted, and the ghost's eyes fell upon Essana.

"His mother," said the Master. "Newly rid of him. She gave birth but five-and-twenty days ago and pines for him still."

At this, Maladar seemed impressed. He nodded, his eyes glinting. "That is cruel," he said. "You impress me, my thralls. The grief she feels when the blade bites will make me all the stronger. I can almost taste her life."

"I am glad you approve, Great One," said the Master. "The day will come soon. When the black moon is full, two weeks hence, we shall gather here again, and the deed shall be done."

Essana slumped, burying her face in her hands. Two weeks. Barreth, she thought, oh gods, where are you?