Chapter 31

Akh-tazi, Neron

Silence. Pure. Complete.

Essana had thought it was quiet in the cell before, but she hadn't realized just how much noise her tormented cellmate made. Now, with Azar gone—his ruined body bled dry and burned upon the altar—the small noises he made had gone with him. She was alone, in a way she had never been before. Even before the Keeper became her ally, she'd had the life inside her to give her hope. Now, though, there was only emptiness—in the cell, in her womb, in her heart.

Her son had never known her. And now, with the black moon high and fat above the temple—she could feel its power, though she had never beheld it before—the time was nigh. Her turn to die. And her own child would wield the blade.

Kill me, Mislaxa, she prayed. Kill me, Sargas. Kill me, you gods of the Uigan. Whoever might be listening… if my life is the key to freeing this faceless monster… kill me now, and save the world the suffering he would cause.

A sound from the door interrupted her misery. Essana turned her head—she no longer had the strength to raise it; hunger and despair had weakened her too much—and saw a crack of pale light, then darkness again as the portal shut. Whispering footsteps: human, not yaggol. A quiet cough. She squinted, trying to see.

"They say you gave me birth," whispered a voice. "They tell me you are my mother. Is this the truth?"

Essana caught her breath. She wanted to raise her arm, touch the face so close to hers, just out of sight. But she couldn't. Her eyes burned: for lack of water, she could no longer make tears.

"I am," she croaked. "You are my son. Mine… and Barreth's."

"My father," said the voice in the dark. A bitterness there. "They have told me about him as well. How he rode off to battle and left you alone while you were carrying me."

She shook her head. "It wasn't like that. He went to protect—"

The boy snorted—only, by the sound of him, he was a boy no longer. He would appear sixteen now, at the rate he'd been aging. Perhaps eighteen. Her son, only weeks old… a grown man now. She shuddered.

"The man abandoned you," he said. "He abandoned me. I will hear no more."

"Why have you come, then?" she shot back, surprised by her sudden anger. "Just to torment me? Or did the Brethren send you for a reason?"

He was quiet a time, stung by her bitterness. When he spoke again, his voice sounded flatter, farther away. "They did not send me," he murmured. "I came on my own. The Brethren do not know I am here."

Oh, Essana thought, but they do. They always know.

"Then speak," she said, "and have done."

Again, the silence. She had snapped the last words; she couldn't help herself. Here he was, her own offspring, and he hadn't shown any concern for her condition, though she knew she was a horror to behold. He hadn't offered to save her. No, he would soon cut her throat because the Faceless told him to. He had no right to be stung by her tone. No right at all.

"I am grown," he said. "I am a man. And yet… I have no name. The Brethren call me the Taker, but that is what I shall do. It is not who I am."

"And you wish me to name you," she said, understanding. "You wish something to call yourself, in these last hours before Maladar takes you."

"You are my mother. It is your place."

And who taught you that? she wondered. Anger boiled inside her—this was some sick game, some diversion by the Master. The boy didn't know he was being manipulated… this visit was meant to hurt him… or her. Probably both. She thought of just telling him to leave… but no, she couldn't. The need to do this small thing, to play some part in her own child's life, was too great.

"Your father and I spoke of this, when we learned I was pregnant," she said. "It is the custom of our people to name children after dead family and friends. We chose my own father's name, if you proved to be a son. Varyan Forlo, future Baron of Coldhope."

"Varyan," he said, tasting the name.

"But," she added, "I will not give you that name."

Another pause. "No? Why not?"

"Coldhope is lost, so you will not be its heir. You speak ill of your father, so I will not name you after mine. There is another name, one more fitting."

"Speak it, then. Give it to me."

"Azar."

He snorted. "After the Keeper? You would give me a traitor's name?"

"I give you the name of one who tried to save me," she said. "Of a man who sacrificed all in the hope of stopping this darkness. The Keeper was a good man. Perhaps, with his name, some part of that goodness will pass to you."

She could feel him glaring at her, the fury in his eyes. She smiled. The Brethren would be displeased at this: they would want no reminder of the Keeper. The Master, in particular, would be infuriated.

"I do not accept this name," he said.

She shrugged. "All the same, it is yours. You can change it if you like, but other names are fleeting. This one shall remain with you always, your mother-name. When you stand before the gods, at your life's ending, it is the one you must give them. Azar Forlo, son of Barreth."

"And you will give them yours," he said, "much sooner than that."

There was a ring of steel, a sudden movement. Essana felt a blade press against her throat, its edge dimpling her flesh.

"I will use this blade," he said. "I will stand before you as you lie upon the altar. And I will send you to your vaunted gods."

"Why wait?" she whispered through gritted teeth. She let none of her fear show through her voice. "Do it now."

One last time, he was silent. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he withdrew the blade and strode away. The door opened again, the crack of light spilling through. In the glow, she saw his face. He looked older than she'd thought possible. Twenty or more, now. Hate had twisted his features, made them ugly.

"Your time will come, Mother," he said. "As it will for my father, when he comes."

She blinked, her mouth opening. "Barreth? He's coming?"

"Did you not know?" He smiled, an expression of sheer cruelty, devoid of mirth. "A yaggol patrol sighted him, the day before yesterday. Him, and several others. They are coming for you, Mother. But the Faceless are ready. They will capture my father, and bring him to the sacrifice. He will watch as I kill you."

Finally, after all this time, after all her suffering, this news was too much to bear. Essana screamed and screamed. Her only answer was the door booming shut and her son's retreating footsteps, lost in her cries.

It was a calm night, cloudless, the air hot and still. The sky over the temple was a riot of stars—more than Essana could ever remember seeing, as if someone had tried to paint the heavens and didn't know when to quit. Solis and Lunis were nowhere to be seen, but an eerie luminance bathed the jungle nonetheless: a light whose hue she couldn't quite name. It wasn't blue or violet, or even gray. It made everything seem weirdly vibrant, but the colors were all wrong. The ocean of leaves surrounding the temple were yellow. Her own skin was tinted green. The flames that leaped from the braziers were almost white. The weird colors of the night made her shiver, gooseflesh rising on her arms.

She looked up and saw.

Nuvis was supposed to be invisible, a hole in the sky marked by the League's seers and astronomers, not by its form, but by the stars it blocked out. Priests of the evil gods and wizards devoted to darkness were said to be able to behold Nuvis as clearly as its red and silver cousins. It lit the world of the dead, an emblem of the Thenolite armies. But common folk, those untouched by shadow, simply could not see the third moon.

Yet there it was, risen above the jungle: a disk of purest black, but with many colors swirling within: purple, and crimson, and midnight blue. She saw craters and seas on its surface, forming what looked like a dour, glowering face. An aura shone around it, snaking out in all directions like ink in water. Nuvis was alive, seething, its magic dancing in the night air.

"Yes," said a voice like grinding stones, from the far side of the rooftop. "My power is strong here. It surrounds this place. You can see Nuvis, just as all in Aurim could see it when I ruled. And all Taladas will see it, in time, once I am reborn."

Essana tore her attention from the black moon, forcing herself to look at the statue and the specter floating above the altar. Maladar's shade was unchanged: pale, as insubstantial as mist, bound to the Hooded One by ropes of silver fog. His face was more horrible than any of the Brethren, a carved and charred mass of gnarled flesh, with patches of skull showing through. His eyes gleamed with the greenbrown of rotting meat. Her heart sank at the sight of him.

"I do not fear you," she said defiantly.

"You lie," he answered. "I can smell your dread, Essana of Coldhope. It hangs thick in the air. You know your fate, and it terrifies you, but you try not to show it. You are a strong woman. In another time, I would have made you one of my wives."

She raised her head. "In another time, I would have poisoned you while you slept."

Maladar laughed. "Many have tried. I flayed their skin and left them spitted on stakes atop the tallest towers of my palace, for the skyfishers to take. My courtiers made a game of it—who would lose his eyes first, whose liver they would take. Quite a few lingered for days before the end. Once, I skewered every slave I owned because one was caught approaching my bedchamber with a knife." He fell silent, lost for a moment in thought, then waved his hand. "But this is no time for pleasant memories. Not now. Bring her to me, my servants."

The Slayer and the Speaker stood to either side of her, flanked in turn by yaggol, whose minds were lodged like splinters into hers. Bowing, the Brethren dragged Essana forward, toward Maladar. Every step was torment, forced upon her by her captors: she could never have walked on her own, in her weakened state, but the yaggol's thoughts compelled her. They approached the altar, the bloodstained slab where the Keeper and countless elves had died.

"Look at me, girl."

She didn't want to, but it didn't matter. Her gaze rose, inexorably, to the gruesome ghost above her. And yes, she felt fear. A kender would have felt it.

"He is out there," Maladar said. "Your husband. He is coming, as the Taker told you. He will watch you die, and I will feast on his rage, his anguish. They will only increase my power. A pity, a cruel irony—to have searched half of Taladas for you, only to lose you again as soon as he's found you. It will tear him apart."

"Barreth won't let me die," Essana growled. "He'll find a way."

Maladar shrugged, then looked over her shoulder. "Ah, the prodigy and his mentor. Now the ceremony can begin."

Essana tried to turn, stumbled, and only caught herself at the yaggol's command. Jerkily, like a puppet, she righted herself and raised her gaze to the top of the stair. There, lit by Nuvis, stood the Master and her son.

"Your mother awaits you, boy," Maladar hissed. He relished this cruelty. Here was a man who had known malice so long, it had become his only desire. "Have you the blade that will open her veins?"

The boy was older than even a few hours ago. Another year of his life, maybe two, had passed. "I do, my lord," he said, drawing a curved knife, identical to the ones the Faceless carried. It glistened in Nuvis's shifting light.

"Good," said the specter. "Come, then. We had best be ready when your father arrives."

Fight them, Essana told herself, as the Slayer and the Speaker took hold of her arms and dragged her backward. You have to resist. You must fight!

But she could barely hold her head up on her own, and the yaggol wouldn't let her do anything, even if she could. Grinding her teeth, she let the Brethren lay her down upon the altar. They slid chains around her wrists and ankles, though they were of little need. Her head hung a little over the slab's edge, settling into a niche so that her throat lay bare, exposed. Maladar hovered above her, his eyes agleam with hunger. Nuvis shone behind him.

Footsteps. The Master drew near, her son at his side.

"You have given us much trouble," he said, his bloodshot eyes afire with scorn. "Now see how much your struggles avail you."

She ignored him, her gaze fixed upon her son. "Azar," she breathed. "Please… ."

But he shook his head, raising the knife in salute to Maladar. "I am the Taker," he declared, "and your life is mine."