Chapter Eleven

Lea trotted beside him, glaring in protest. “No, Caelan! You don’t understand anything. Why must you be so rude?”

He lengthened his stride, refusing to listen. His ears were roaring, and he had to grit his teeth to hold back a rebuke. It was his fault, not hers, that he had come this far. He should never have held the sword, should never have admired it, should never have buckled it to his belt. Pausing in mid-stride, he yanked the scabbard free and flung it away.

Lea gasped. “You are stupid! You—”

He turned on her, rage swelling inside his chest. “I will not become a—”

Pain struck his chest as though he’d been speared. With a hoarse cry, he doubled over and fell to his knees. This attack was worse than any of the previous ones. He felt as though his chest was being pried open. Desperately, he struggled to master the agony. If he could just sever the pain, then he could regain his feet and get far from here.

But severance failed him. He had lost his techniques, his knowledge, in the sea of pain.

He cried out again, flailing with one powerful arm against an enemy that could not be touched. This battle raged inside him. Gasping for the breath that did not seem to come, he slewed around on his knees, falling off balance only to catch himself with one hand, and looked at the pouch containing his emerald. The leather was splitting along one seam. Through it he could see the stone glowing.

Again, his anger intensified. “Get away from me!” he shouted, fearing the emerald’s mysterious power. “Get out of me!”

His heart was bursting. The pain grew worse, until he knew nothing but it. He had been told in the arena barracks that men did not pass out from pain alone. They might lose consciousness from loss of blood or shock or fear, but pain went on relentlessly.

Now, he prayed for oblivion, for release, but his agony burned ever more fiercely. It was unendurable, yet he could not escape it. He could not master it, could not master himself. Worst of all, he could not sever. The calm void inside him had been filled with fire that twisted and tortured him.

He was drowning in pain, unable to breathe, his lungs jerking convulsively now. In a brief moment of clarity, he found himself writhing on the snow, its crusty, frozen surface scratching his cheek until it felt raw. Then another wave of pain, like a tide of heat, swept over him, driving him back into madness.

Suddenly an unknown voice spoke to him in words he did not understand. A cool barrier drove back the heat. He found himself able to breathe again. Shuddering, drenched in sweat, he lay there with his eyes closed while he dragged in breath after breath. The pain receded, leaving inexpressible relief. Spent and exhausted, he felt too weak to even lift his head.

“Arise,” said the voice of Moah.

Caelan dragged his forearm across his face and slowly opened his eyes. He found himself lying on the ground with his fur-lined cloak a thin barrier between his body and the ice. Gone was the sunshine. Gone were the brightly colored tents. Instead, everything was gray, windswept, and desolate.

Struggling to his feet, he frowned at how weak he felt. He could barely stand, and his muscles felt drained as though he had been in combat for hours.

The only sound beyond his own labored breathing was the empty whistle of wind over the expanse of glacier.

Where had everyone gone? Where was he?

Suddenly alarmed, Caelan spun around and nearly lost his precarious balance. “Lea?” he said uncertainly.

He was alone, whisked by some means to the far end of the glacier and abandoned there. The wind blowing into his face was frigid and raw. As far as he could see in any direction, there was nothing but ice. No trees, no rocks, no tents. Just cloud, mist, and bone-chilling cold.

He shivered, rubbing his arms beneath his cloak, and drew up his hood. His dagger was gone, and he could not find a recognizable landmark in any direction.

Fear traveled up his spine, but he squelched it quickly. His anger was returning. Was this an exile, a punishment? If so, he did not care. He would rather die out here of exposure than grovel to anyone.

Absently he rubbed his chest where the pain had been, and pivoted again. Wind off the glacier usually blew southward. Grimly, Caelan put his back to the wind, then he set out with long strides. In moments, his breath was rasping in his throat. The high altitude began to sap his strength.

No one had ever tried to cross the entire glacier and lived to tell how large it was. Caelan’s own knowledge was confined to the southernmost tip of the ice, where it spilled into the mountain passes. He might have to walk for days, and he did not think that was possible. Already his toes were numb inside his boots. His cloak did not seem to break the wind that drilled into his back. He lacked even a tinderstrike to start a fire, not that there was any wood or peat up here to fuel it. When darkness fell, he would have no shelter.

But he refused to fear. It was his own death he faced, on his terms. When the time came, and his legs could carry him no farther, he would lie on his back for a last glimpse of the breathtaking aurora before he fell into eternal sleep.

With a start, he jerked up his head and blinked hard, finding himself kneeling on the ice in a shivering knot. He realized he must have passed out. Alarmed, he struggled back to his feet and nearly fell in the process. His feet were entirely numb, and he couldn’t feel them when he stood. When he touched his face, he couldn’t feel his own fingers. Lassitude crept over his limbs, and he knew very soon he would start to feel warm as he froze to death.

Staggering forward, he stumbled and fell to his knees. The wind howled over him, whipping his cloak about his shoulders. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He sank down onto the hard, frozen surface of the ice. How old it was, as ancient as time.

Caelan’s senses swirled. He felt dizzy and lost. Severance was gone as though he had never had it. Perhaps this was the ultimate end of reaching into the void. Perhaps he was already completely severed and did not realize it. He felt as though his own threads of life had been cut. Now he drifted here between the physical and spirit worlds, part of neither. And he heard the grumble of the ice below him, heard the ponderous shift and grind of its infinitely slow progress. More than that, he heard its song—a low keening like the sound from the rim of a crystal goblet when rubbed.

Sevaisin pulled him to it. For a moment longer—perhaps the space of a heartbeat—Caelan resisted. Then with a sigh, he stopped fighting and allowed himself to join with the ice, to become one with the glacier.

There was a brief jolt of incredible cold, as though he had been frozen solid in an instant, and then light flashed through him. It was like physically exploding, except he felt no pain. And he found himself in a roofless temple, a place of peace and calm harmony. He stood on a slab of pale marble surrounded by twelve marble columns reaching high above him. Another row of columns, too many to count, stretched into the distance without end. There was no sky, no horizon. It was neither day nor night. Yet he saw everything with complete clarity. The air was the perfect temperature, neither hot nor cold. He heard the gentle sound of running water in the distance. It was a soothing noise. Mentally he felt renewed, restored. His naked body stood strong and whole. For once, perhaps the first time in his life, he felt centered and complete, as though he had found balance.

The quiet sound of footsteps made him turn around.

Robed in white and wearing a soft, brimless cap of silver cloth, Moah approached him with the peculiar gliding stride of the Choven. Although Caelan could feel no wind here, Moah’s silk robes billowed around his squat frame in constant motion.

Seeing Moah, some of Caelan’s peace faded. He sighed, but made no move to evade this meeting.

Moah stopped a short distance from him and stood regarding him in silence.

Meeting Moah’s liquid gaze directly, Caelan squared his shoulders and said, “Am I dead?”

Something unreadable glimmered in Moah’s rough-textured face. “Do you believe you are in death?”

“Didn’t I freeze to death on the glacier?”

“Did you?”

Caelan frowned. He had no patience for such puzzles. “Why else would I be here?”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Caelan said, holding onto his temper with difficulty. Already he was finding it difficult to keep his resolution. “This looks like a temple of some kind. Am I at the edge of the spirit world?”

“No.”

It was the first solid answer Moah had given him, but it wasn’t very informative.

Caelan’s frown deepened. “Then where am I?”

“Where do you think you are?”

“I don’t know. I’ve already given you my best guess.”

Moah raised one long, dark finger. It looked like a twig. “Guess is unnecessary. Think.”

Caelan didn’t appreciate being treated like a schoolboy. “I’m in no mood for lessons,” he said sharply. “Why have I been brought here? What do you want from me?”

“I want nothing,” Moah replied, unruffled. “You are seeking to learn. Will you take learning from us?”

The fear that Caelan had known earlier among the tents came back. “No,” he said. “Why should I?”

“You fear me.”

Caelan’s mouth was dry, but he answered with the truth. “Yes. I fear you.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Caelan stopped, his thoughts and emotions a chaotic tangle in his mind.

“Because you were taught to be afraid?” Moah suggested quietly.

“You are not part of our world,” Caelan said, defiant and angry. “You have powers from—from the gods that men may not have. You follow the ancient ways, ways that are forbidden. How do I know what you will do to me? You can probably turn me into smoke at will.”

“Not smoke,” Moah said. “Ice.”

Caelan swallowed hard and held his tongue. He’d said too much already.

“On the glacier,” Moah said, “you were dying. Did you feel fear?”

“Some,” Caelan admitted reluctantly.

“But you accepted death.”

It seemed to be a question. Not understanding where the Choven was going, Caelan nodded his head with impatience.

“Yes.”

“Why did you accept it?”

Caelan shrugged. “I had no choice. I had done my best to save myself. But it was inevitable. I had to accept it.”

“So when no other choice is possible, you will accept what is before you?”

“Maybe.”

Moah laughed. “Such stubborn caution.”

“I am not Choven,” Caelan insisted, goaded by the Choven’s amusement. “I am human, son of Beva E’non—”

“A man you do not love, a man you do not respect,” Moah interrupted.

“That’s between me and him,” Caelan snapped. “No one else. He’s still my father.”

“And you would defend him?” Moah asked. “How curious. You have resented and criticized him as long as you can remember, yet—”

“You don’t understand,” Caelan broke in. “That’s just part of it. If he had only accepted me^:—”

“And who are you, Caelan E’non?”

Caelan stopped, feeling confused again.

Moah took a step closer, his gaze penetrating. “Who are you?”

“But I don’t look like you!” Caelan burst out, feeling cornered. “My skin, my hair and eyes, my stature. I’m not Choven. I’m human. Why do you insist otherwise?”

“I have said nothing,” Moah said in a reasonable voice.

Caelan glared at him. “Lea told me.”

“Ah, your sister is light incarnate. She is radiance itself.”

Caelan refused to be distracted by this compliment. “Yes, but she’s wrong.”

“Is she?”

“Yes!”

Moah turned away as though he were going to leave, then paused. “I will relate a tale,” he announced, and began before Caelan could protest. “In the long days you call summer, a man of Trau climbed the mountains in search of us. We would not be found, but this man persisted. He wandered the mountains and even ventured onto the glacier. His will was iron in his body; he would not give up.

“At last, after a span of many days, the seeker sat on a rock and fasted. Rains fell on him. Winds blew at him. He fasted, sustained by his limited skills of severance and his will.

“We were in the time of feasting and did not wish death to cast poor omens across our shadows. We brought the seeker to us and restored his health. He told us he was a student of healing, but a poor one. He could not master the skills of his training, and he feared he would fail. With all his heart he wished to bring succor to the sick and needy.

“The Choven had pity on this seeker, and the ability to heal was given to him.”

Caelan gasped, his mind reeling. All this time he’d thought his father had been born with his gift. The masters at Rieschelhold had all praised Beva’s abilities while he was in training. Why had they lied?

“The seeker went down the mountain and treated his gift well,” Moah said. “He used his new powers only to heal, never forgetting his bargain with us.”

“What bargain?” Caelan asked.

“That is in the past—”

“What bargain?” Caelan insisted, yearning to know. “What promise?”

Moah regarded him a moment, then answered. “If we would make it possible for him to heal the sick, then he would live his life as a peaceful man, committed only to the practice of his arts and training.”

Caelan frowned, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Understanding filled him, but it did not lessen the resentment in his heart.

“Weren’t we worth his commitment, too?” Caelan asked. “Why did he bother to sire us if he didn’t want us?”

“But you were wanted,” Moah said.

Caelan remembered his father’s many lectures, remembered his father’s plans for them to be healers together.

“Years passed,” Moah said, “and once again during the long days the man came in search of us. Remembering him, we let ourselves be found and listened to his request. He had taken a woman to wife, but there were no children of this union. It was important to this man that he have a son to walk in his footsteps, to train as he had trained, to become as him.”

Caelan opened his mouth, but he could not speak. His heart felt like a stone in his chest, too heavy to beat.

“These traditions are not Choven ways. But the man spoke long and persuasively. His heart held much longing and anguish. He had shame among his people because he could not sire a child.”

“No,” Caelan breathed.

Moah appeared not to hear. “Again, the Choven granted the bargain, and a spell was cast. But the man was not true as before. His pride had grown great. The Choven did not care, but because falsehood was found in him, auspices were studied and the spirits consulted. The Choven told the man that children of his request would not be as humans, that they would be fashioned of fire, earth, air, and water. Because of those elements, they would have to follow their own destinies as shown in the auspices.

“The man was living in shame because of his lack of manhood. He could not heal himself. He agreed to the bargain, saying his wife would turn her eyes to another if she had no children to bind her heart to him. The man agreed to let the children walk their own path of life.”

Caelan was stunned. His father was sterile? He had entered a spell-casting of his own free will? Beva, the most outspoken critic of the ancient ways, a man intolerant of the rare sight of Choven at fairs, a man who barely allowed warding keys to hang on his gates? If the Choven spoke the truth, then stern, austere, upright, moral Beva E’non had been the most duplicitous hypocrite in the land.

“But this promise the man did not keep,” Moah said. “In his children, he saw the beauty of his wife and the strength of his own will. His children shone among others, and their bright radiance of spirit made the man more praised by his people. In time, the man forgot his second agreement, and when his wife died he set himself to mold his children as he wished, denying them all knowledge of their true heritage. He trained them only in the ways of his people, limiting them all he could, and would not let them walk their own paths of life to their destinies.

“This was a man of strong will and determination, a man who would die for his own purposes, a man who still reaches out from the spirit world to force his way on his son.”

Moah turned his head and looked straight into Caelan’s eyes. “Always you have fought to keep a sense of yourself, fought to walk your own path of life, fought to return to your true people again and again despite all that has kept you from the glacier.”

Caelan swallowed hard. He was reeling from all that Moah had said. Yet he did not doubt the truth of what he’d just heard.

“The Choven,” Moah said, “do not wish to be known by the people of men. But among themselves, they know the traditions of the gods and the foretelling that one day the earth will be broken.”

A chill struck Caelan. He stared at Moah in rising dread. “That’s what Master Mygar said when he cursed me. That one day I would break the world. But—”

Moah extended his hand, palm up. “How else can light shine into the darkness below? Unless the earth is cracked open to expose all that honors Beloth, what hope has the world?”

Caelan stared at the Choven, feeling his throat constrict too tight for speech. He did not want to believe his curse might actually come true.

Moah met his gaze. “The gods have said that one day the earth must be broken in order to keep the cycle of life. That is the prophecy cast, and the auspices still point to it.”

“I will not destroy the world,” Caelan said in horror. “Whatever kind of monster I am, I will not help Beloth smash—”

“Prophecy has no single interpretation,” Moah said. “Let not fear cloud your mind. Instead, consider the plowman and his work.”

Caelan frowned at the sudden shift of subject. “I don’t understand.”

“Have you ever planted a seed? The earth must be opened so that it can receive the seed. Then the soil is pressed smooth in warm protection until the seed can grow. And when the seed is ready to sprout into the sunlight, again the earth must be broken to allow it to come forth.”

Caelan’s impatient bewilderment grew. “We’re talking about war, not farming.”

“So we are,” Moah agreed mildly. “Was not the imprisonment of Beloth a planting of sorts? Does he not sprout forth now? Should he not be chopped down, and his roots dug up? After destruction comes rebirth. With Beloth defeated, life can be renewed. The cycle will continue.”

“I can’t defeat Beloth,” Caelan said.

“Choven and the people of men are separate, yet they fit together to create a balance of harmony,” Moah said as though he had not heard. “We lack the aggression, the ambition, the insurmountable will of men. Men lack reverence for all sides of the life force. Men refuse to see the truth, and they walk in fear.”

Moah turned his head and stared deeply into Caelan’s eyes. “You, Caelan, are of the Choven yet not of us. You are a man, yet more than a man.”

Caelan did not want to hear more. He shook his head. “No.”

Moah smiled, and his dark eyes gleamed. “Yes. You have come to the truth, Caelan. Gaze into it, and know. You were born of woman and man, yet of spell-force also. At your birth, the auspices were thrown and your name was given. You are Caelan M’an i Luciel. It means Man of Sky Who Brings Light.”

Frowning, Caelan mouthed the unfamiliar words to himself. “Is this why you gave me the sword?”

Moah spread his dark hands wide in the equivalent of a shrug. “Tell me a truth that you have known all your days.”

The sudden change of subject again threw Caelan. “I don’t understand.”

“Think. What is a truth in yourself that you have always known? What have you always been?”

“Rebellious,” Caelan said flippantly without thinking.

Then, at Moah’s sober look, he sighed and took the question more seriously.

“I kill,” he said, and met Moah’s gaze. “That is my essence. That is my truth.”

“This shames you?”

“Of course! You’ve been talking about the many forces of life and reverence and truth. I destroy that. I take lives, whether in light or in shadow.”

As he spoke he glared at the Choven, standing there in white purity and total wisdom. How did the blood taint on his hands measure up against Moah’s standards?

Yet Moah did not seem shocked or offended by him. “Exoner was made for you as a gift. Our most skilled smith forged it while the spells of strength and valor were chanted into it.”

“It is a wonderful sword,” Caelan said impatiently.

“Does it not sing to you?”

“Yes, but I—”

“To hear metal sing is a precious gift to the soul, given to few. Exoner will serve you well in that which is to come.”

Caelan shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I cannot accept it.”

“It is not a bribe,” Moah replied. “The Choven do not buy men.”

Caelan’s suspicions returned. “No?” he countered. “Then what do you want from me?”

“For you to be true to yourself.”

“You want me to kill? Is that showing reverence for life?”

Moah lifted his hands. “Calmly. Remember that you are in a place of safety. Do not fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” Caelan snapped. “I’m angry.”

“You are a king,” Moah said. “Act like one.”

This rebuke surprised Caelan enough to silence him momentarily. Then he said, “I’m no king. I’m an ex-slave, arena trained for combat. I—”

“You have shared with Kostimon, the greatest king in the history of the people of men,” Moah said. “You were linked to him in Choven fire. You know his heart. You have swallowed his spirit. You wish to rule.”

Caelan opened his mouth, but he could deny nothing. “Yes,” he said simply.

Moah nodded approvingly. “The truth sounds well on your tongue. You bring ambition to the Choven. You bring ruthless will and the strength of a warrior to the Choven. Yet you have a kind heart and a gentle soul.”

Caelan wanted to laugh in derision, but he found himself yearning for Moah’s assessment to be true. “Once, perhaps, but that was beaten from me.”

“The soul cannot be beaten,” Moah replied, “unless it chooses to be. We are metalworkers. We know how to temper and refine steel. You have been tempered in order to meet your destiny. Had you not been a slave, you would never have learned the lessons of survival. Had you not been a gladiator, you would never have learned how to be a valiant warrior. Had you not been brother to Lea, you would never have learned to love another. Had you not been protector to the Empress Elandra—”

“I wasn’t her protector,” Caelan protested.

Moah sent him a glance of rebuke.

Caelan sighed and surrendered. “Very well. Unofficially.”

“Had you not performed such a task,” Moah said sternly, “you would never have learned to restrain aggression in favor of your gentle side. Had you not fallen in love with the empress, you would never have learned what is forbidden and what is not. Nor would you have seen your own destiny.”

“My destiny,” Caelan repeated. He shook his head, unwilling to accept the burden Moah wanted to give him. “All my life, others have been telling me what I must do, what I must be. I want to make my own choices.”

“You are capable of understanding much,” Moah said. “When you are ready to hear my words, you will hear them.”

“But—”

“Are you ready to return?” Moah asked him. “Are you ready to carry Exoner?”

“I have enough blood on my hands,” Caelan said. “I don’t want to continue.”

“That is good,” Moah said. “When the time comes, you will know how to stop.”

“But—”

“Caelan, your spirit is like a strong vine, wrapped and entwined among your threads of life in a protective binding. When you learn to be what you are, when you learn to trust what you are, then you will truly be the Light Bringer.”

“You aren’t listening to me,” Caelan said in frustration. “I came to your camp to ask for help in freeing the empress from the poison in her, not to call myself a king and free the earth from oppression.”

“Turn around and look,” Moah commanded.

As he spoke, he spun Caelan around by the shoulders and held him in place, giving him a little shake for emphasis. “Look! Do you see it?”

Caelan looked at the tall marble columns standing beyond the temple. A black mist flowed around their bases.

Horrified, he whispered, “What is it?”

But he knew. In his heart, he already knew the answer.

Moah replied anyway. “It is the breath of Beloth, escaping imprisonment within the realm of shadow. It is the cloud you have seen coming closer to Imperia with every passing year. It is the darkness that can eventually engulf the light.”

Caelan closed his eyes. It was the end of the world.

“No,” Moah said. “There is a chance.”

“Not me!” Caelan said, spinning around to glare at Moah. “What fool can go against that? How can a man fight the mist? The wars of gods are not for men.”

“Had a man not opened the door of Beloth’s prison,” Moah replied, “there would be much truth in what you say.”

Caelan snorted. “Kostimon opened the door, but how am I to shut it?”

“That is your choice.”

Caelan’s temper grew shorter. “Is it?” he said mildly. “And are you going to put a—a Choven spell on me to make me as strong as a god? Gault forgive me! I know I am blaspheming, but what is a man to say to this?”

“The strength of men and the strength of Choven are woven together in you,” Moah replied. “If there is a way to stop the return of Beloth, you will find it. That is foretold.”

“But—”

“There is no one else, Caelan,” Moah said. His gaze did not waver. “You are the only one.”

Caelan stared at him and tried again to find a way out. “But I am only a—”

“What are you, Caelan? What are your strengths? What gifts do you have? How strong is your faith, your belief in the realm of light? You have feared many things, but if there is anything which should be feared and vilified, it is that which comes.”

Moah pointed at the black mist. “Kostimon’s destiny intersects with yours. That is the key which you must remember. Kostimon is the means by which you can reach Beloth.”

Caelan’s mouth was dry. He tried to swallow without much success. How simple Moah made it sound. Didn’t he realize what he was asking? Just that one journey through the realm of shadow had been horrifying enough.

Cowardice filled his throat like bile. “I am hurt,” he said. “I am not whole. The emerald has damaged me in some way.”

Moah released his arm, but his gaze went on holding Caelan’s. “How many excuses will you find?”

His scorn turned Caelan’s face hot. “I will find all the excuses I can. But I have told you the truth.”

“Has not the emerald always been a help to you, a support to your spirit during times of difficulty?”

“And if the emerald causes another attack?” Caelan asked him. “Each one is worse.”

“Do not blame the emerald,” Moah said. “Such stones as yours are rare. The earth spirits create them. The ice spirits guard them. We Choven cut and set them according to their best purpose. As you grow, so does the emerald. Sometimes growth brings pain.”

“But what is it for?” Caelan asked, ready to veer onto any topic as long as it was not confronting Beloth. “What does it do?”

“It has given you hope,” Moah said, tilting his head to one side. “Is that not enough?”

“But—”

“It is time for us to take the stone and work with it on your behalf. Will you allow that?”

“Yes,” Caelan said, not sure what the Choven was talking about.

“Then there is no more to say. You have taken learning from me. This time is finished, and we must return.”

Caelan looked at him in alarm. He had more questions, specifically regarding Elandra. “Wait! There is the empress and—”

Again he felt the sensation of exploding into glittering bits of light, spiraling down from that lofty center of calm tranquility, returning unwillingly back to the chaos of problems, doubts, and trouble.

With a jolt, he opened his eyes. He expected to find himself back in the Choven camp with Lea bending over him. There would be another chance to talk to Moah and ask him for help.

Instead, he found himself in the forest, standing in the gully near the ice cave where he had left Elandra. He was clothed again. Exoner hung heavy in its scabbard at his hip. His dagger was tucked in its belt sheath. But for the sword, he might never have believed any of it had happened. Even now, he couldn’t be sure.

The conversation with Moah seemed a long time ago and very far away. But his destiny was drawing closer with every passing moment.