Chapter Twenty-Nine

Outside, the midday sun hung high over the city, appearing as an orb veiled in gloom. It looked like twilight, the air murky and evil, infinitely depressing despite the torches burning like beacons. The square looked larger by day than it had last night. Much of the rubble had been removed from it, piled instead in tall heaps of stone and wood at the edges. The proud statue of Kostimon on a charger lay in broken pieces atop the rubble. On the east side of the square stood what was left of the arena, with its yawning entrance that led down into the dungeons. On the west side, the square opened into the Street of Triumph, a broad avenue that had once been used for civic parades. The center of the square had been cleared of spectators by the soldiers, who stood at attention in their ragged cloaks and unpolished armor, holding back the motley crowd that had assembled. More soldiers lined the avenue, their faces impassive, their hands on their weapons. People stood huddled in nervous groups, looking pinched with cold and hunger.

A wagon rolled along the street, and a pair of soldiers tossed loaves of bread into the crowd to elicit noise and cheers.

Picking his way over the rubble at the back of the crowd, Caelan wrapped his cloak close around him to conceal his sword and merged with the people. Being in severance, he could see their threads of life as well as follow the furtive movements of shadow creatures lurking in concealment. Despite the pervasive gloom, the demons did not quite venture forth openly at midday.

Caelan looked again at the sky, at the sun so cloaked and veiled, as though Beloth had put it in chains. Once again Caelan felt ashamed of his own selfishness and resentment. If he alone could stand as some kind of sentinel against the dark god’s return, then who was he to shirk from such a task, or even to complain about it in his heart?

The trumpets sounded again, catching his attention. He saw the wedding party approaching on horseback. A tawdry little open-sided pavilion had been erected in the square, and a Vindicant priest waited there in his brown and saffron robes. Smoke from burning incense boiled into the air, adding to the murk. Beyond the pavilion stood a small contingent of Penestricans. Past them were more women, dark-skinned and exotic, in garments that shimmered with power. Caelan thought they might be Mahirans. The people of Gialta, Albain among them, stood guarded by soldiers. Albain looked old, pale, and grim, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Tirhin rode into the square to the cheers of the people. Smiling and waving, he was richly attired in heavy velvet and a fur-trimmed cloak. The cuffs of his gauntlets sparkled with jewels. His eyes glowed with excitement.

Caelan stared at him, feeling the temptation to cut this man’s threads of life. How black and snarled they were already. He could reach out like the hand of Mael herself, and snip them. Thus would the reign of Tirhin the Usurper end in a sudden, pathetic sprawl on the paving stones.

With a wrench, Caelan closed off the temptation, afraid of it, afraid of the darkness that rose inside himself. Instead he turned his gaze toward Elandra, while the man in front of him stepped on his toes, and someone to his left elbowed closer in an attempt to see her.

She rode a white horse with queenly grace, gowned in pale sky blue and adorned with jewels. Her veil had been pinned back to let the people see her face. They cheered for her lustily, waving and shouting her name, and she waved back with somber dignity.

Blue did not suit her. She looked pale and unwell. Shadows ringed her eyes, as though she had not slept. Caelan watched her ride past, ducking his head at the last moment so she could not see him. His heart twisted inside him, and it was all he could do not to push his way forward and pull her from the saddle into his arms.

This could not be allowed. She was his. He was hers. They belonged together. He wanted to yell her name. He wanted to draw his sword and smite everyone who stood against them. Most of all he wanted to wipe that evil smirk off Tirhin’s face.

Tirhin is not your enemy, the Magria’s voice whispered in his mind.

His heart burned, but Caelan held his severance and his oath. He must not lose his temper. He must wait, no matter what the cost. But the cost was so damned high.

The chancellors, not as fat and sleek as they used to be, not as many in number, ringed the pavilion as witnesses. A guard stood nearby, watching over a wooden box that must contain Tirhin’s crown.

Waving once more to the crowd, Tirhin took Elandra’s hand and led her into the pavilion. He barely limped at all, and Caelan could see the potions within his body, disguising the dark disease that riddled it. It was not the poison that had nearly claimed Elandra, but something different, something darker and far more foul.

Frowning, Caelan shifted his gaze to a still figure in the crowd, a man in white healer’s robes. In severance, Caelan could see a thread stretching between Agel and Tirhin. Caelan realized that Tirhin was nothing more than a puppet for the forces of darkness, manipulated, and probably unaware of it. Moreover, Tirhin was dying. Caelan could see death within him, held at bay by Agel’s potions.

Pity melted away the anger in Caelan’s heart. Tirhin might be mad, might be twisted with ambition and selfish conceit, but he had once been someone decent, strong, and kind. He was not worthy of hatred for the mistakes he had made. He alone was not to blame for what had befallen Imperia.

The priest lifted his hands and began a droning chant over Tirhin and Elandra.

A low rumble came through the earth, growing in volume and intensity. The ground shook and cracked. The pavilion swayed dangerously. People cried out in fear, horses reared and shied, and some of the soldiers broke ranks. Toppled off his feet by the heaving ground, Caelan fought to keep himself from being stepped on. A youth fell on top of him, and Caelan rolled clear. Then the quake ended.

Stunned silence lay over the square. The bells had even stopped ringing.

He pushed his way clear, wincing and holding his side as he staggered to his feet. The air smelted of dust. Slowly people picked themselves up. Some were crying. Others prayed aloud. Sergeants bawled out orders, restoring the ranks of soldiers.

Elandra still stood inside the pavilion with Tirhin, but the prince was gripping the hilt of his sword and gesturing angrily as he spoke to the priest, who shook his head in answer. The chancellors picked themselves off the ground, slapping dust from their clothes. Fearfully, they looked at each other. One of them spoke to Tirhin, who argued with more vehemence than before.

The earthquake was a terrible omen for a wedding. People standing next to Caelan shook their heads at each other.

“We ought to go,” a man said to his wife.

“And miss the food they’ve promised us for coming?” she retorted.

Tirhin emerged from the pavilion and lifted his hands to the crowd. “My people, be of good heart!” he called. His melodic baritone rang out over the square, quieting the uneasy crowd. “There is nothing to fear. The earth is at peace again, and all—”

A terrible screech interrupted him.

Two shyrieas came flying from the entrance to the dungeons. Their black wings beat the air. Their misty, half-seen faces bared fangs of death. Fleeing, stumbling, screaming, the crowd pushed and shoved in panic while the shyrieas sailed over the square, circling and shrieking.

“Close ranks!” bawled a sergeant, and the soldiers blocked the exit into the street.

Some people went scrambling over the piles of rubble, clawing their way out. Others milled and jostled where they were, calling on the gods for mercy.

Caelan pushed his way forward, trying to get through to Elandra. A boy careened into him, shoving him into the back of a soldier, who turned with a drawn dagger and a snarl.

Caelan struck the soldier’s chin with the heel of his hand, snapping back the soldier’s head and knocking him sprawling. Caelan tried to jump through the break in the line, but three other soldiers rushed him, thrusting him bodily back into the crowd. Caelan found himself pressed on all sides by people, hemmed in and shoved back and forth. Cursing to himself, he tried to get clear.

A dreadful, bellowing cry came from the dungeons. It rose over the general pandemonium, and people stopped shoving long enough to look at the entrance.

A figure appeared there, emerging from that yawning darkness to stand between the burning torches. “My people!” it bellowed again. “Welcome me, for I have risen!”

Uneasy silence fell across the crowd. The soldiers turned around and stared. One of the men dropped his dagger. Others reached for their amulets.

The soldiers nearest the dungeons shrank back, their eyes wide with fear. Then hesitantly one man slapped his fist against his shoulder in salute, followed by another, then another, then another. Suddenly half the army seemed to be shouting, their cries growing lusty and triumphant.

A ripple of sound passed through the crowd.

“Kostimon?”

“It’s Kostimon!”

“The emperor lives!”

Disbelief and astonishment filled Caelan. Like so many others, he stared, forgetting everything but the apparition before them.

A smoky mist coiled out from the doorway, obscuring Kostimon’s feet. He stood there, surveying them all. His face was the same as it had always been—ruthless and imperious. He wore his embossed breastplate, a cloak of rich purple hung from his shoulders, and a wreath of ivy leaves entwined through his white curls.

It seemed as though a miracle had appeared in their midst. The impossible had happened. Kostimon the Great had risen from the dead, to lead them once again.

More of the soldiers took up the cheer, many of them pounding their spear butts on the ground, or beating their swords against their shields, until the noise echoed off the ruins and swallowed up all other sound. Across the square, the Lord Commander sat upon his horse with a face like stone. He made no move, nor did the officers with him.

Caelan glanced across the sea of faces, seeing every expression from naked adoration to relief to astonishment to fear. Women were weeping into their shawls. Grown men stretched out their hands like suppliants.

“Kostimon!” they shouted. “Kostimon!”

The mist spread ahead of Kostimon, swirling around his sturdy legs and gliding among the kneeling soldiers. The shyrieas flew back to land on the carved lintel over the doorway. Folding their wings, the creatures glared at the transfixed crowd. More demons crept forth in Kostimon’s wake, small and ratlike, looking like Legion. They peered out from behind Kostimon, blinking and hissing to each other.

And as though chains dropped from Caelan’s mind, he looked at the emperor with deeper severance and saw that Kostimon’s eyes were red, not yellow. The ivy crown upon his head was withered and black. Faint curls of smoke came from his nostrils with each breath.

Fear struck deep within Caelan. This was not the emperor. This was no man who stood before them. He saw no threads of life, but instead a terrible dark aura surrounding Kostimon’s form, an aura that flashed and crawled with miniature streaks of lightning. At his side, Kostimon held a sword with a blade of black metal. Evil swirled across the blade in a constantly shifting pattern of death and destruction. Horror spread through Caelan, and he did not want to believe his own eyes.

“Kostimon!” he shouted with all his might.

The figure did not react. Kostimon’s terrible eyes swept the crowd again, and a slow smile spread across his face. He lifted one hand to the crowd, and fresh cheering broke out.

Caelan could no longer doubt the truth. This creature might wear Kostimon’s exterior form, but the emperor did not live behind those dreadful eyes. What had Kostimon done, in his last moments of life? Had he tried to bargain yet again with the shadow god? Had he given his body to Beloth, thinking he could yet achieve immortality? Instead, Kostimon had only provided Beloth with the final means of stepping into the world from the realm of shadow. The last chains had been broken, and Beloth stood free while these poor fools cheered.

“Beloth!” Caelan shouted, and this time the creature heard his voice among the others.

Turning his head, Beloth looked right at Caelan. His red eyes glowed, and the false smile faded from his face. Beloth started walking across the square, coming straight toward Caelan.

The people surrounding Caelan cried out. Some of them surged forward with outstretched hands. Others drew back, trying to flee.

“No!” Tirhin shouted. Unexpectedly he came rushing out from the pavilion. His face was contorted with rage. “You are dead, Kostimon!” he shouted at the thing that resembled his father. “You are dead! Foul thing, go back to the grave where you belong!”

Beloth’s attention swung back to the prince, and he laughed. The sound boomed loudly enough to drown out the cheering, which faltered and died.

But when he spoke it was with Kostimon’s familiar voice, sounding both amused and contemptuous. “My son, am I spoiling your day of triumph?”

“Damn you!” Limping now as he crossed the square, Tirhin struggled to draw his sword. But something seemed to be wrong with the scabbard, and he was unable to draw the weapon. “You are dead. You cannot live forever. You will not return. I forbid it.”

“But I have returned.”

“No! I’ll see you driven back to hell where you belong!”

Kostimon/Beloth raised his black sword, but Tirhin still could not draw his sword.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught Caelan’s attention. He saw Elandra emerging from the pavilion with a sleeve knife in her hand.

Alarm filled Caelan. He knocked people flying, clearing a path for himself, and shoved past the soldiers into the cleared space. “Elandra, stay back!” he called in warning. “It’s not Kostimon.”

Her eyes flashed to him, and she stopped in her tracks. She stared at him, her face disbelieving at first, then filling with fierce joy. “Caelan!” she cried out. “You’re alive.”

Tirhin whirled around so fast he almost lost his balance. He stared at Caelan with bulging eyes. “Impossible,” he breathed.

“You’re dead. My father is dead.” Flinging his hands to the dark heavens, he shouted, “I deny this! Both of you, go back to your graves!”

Ignoring him, Elandra came running in Caelan’s direction, her face aglow.

Beloth looked at her and shouted. His words were incomprehensible, but fire burst in the air and fell in a shower of sparks. People screamed and shoved backward. Even Tirhin cried out and cringed from the flying sparks.

“Agel!” he shouted. “Send the Vindicants over here. They must work a spell and stop this—”

Beloth strode past Tirhin, brushing him aside as though he did not exist. The god aimed straight for Elandra.

“Elandra!” he shouted. “Empress of mortals, bow to me in acclaim.”

Caelan reached her first and stepped between her and the god. Elandra clutched Caelan’s cloak, breathing hard, her eyes full of emotion. “Is it true?” she asked, drinking him in. “You live? You are not spirit?”

His hand closed over hers, and he brushed her lips swiftly with his. “I live,” he said. “Tirhin lied to you.”

Her eyes grew steely, and she glanced at Tirhin as though she meant to hurl her knife at his chest. But Beloth was almost upon them, and neither of them could afford to ignore him.

“Elandra!” he bellowed. “Bow to me now!”

Elandra’s face turned white with fear. “The vision,” she said fearfully. “It knows my name. I cannot resist—”

Caelan gripped her arm hard. “Don’t bow to it. Don’t bow!”

She twisted, arching back as though struck, and screamed. The knife dropped from her fingers.

“Leave her alone!” Tirhin shouted. He whirled and came running at Beloth’s back, an upraised dagger in his hand, his useless sword swinging at his side.

Just as Tirhin reached him, Beloth turned and swung the black sword. It hit Tirhin at the base of his neck and cleaved him from shoulder to hip. Blood spurted in the air, and both halves of the prince crumpled to the ground.

People in the crowd screamed. On the other side of the square, Albain roared terrible curses and drew his sword, as did the Gialtan warlords. The Lord Commander snapped out orders, but the soldiers were in disorder, breaking ranks, refusing to listen.

Beloth roared and blew flames in a circle around the square. Men and women turned into sudden blazing torches, spinning in their death agony as they screamed and fell.

Others tried to run for their lives. Many of the soldiers threw down their weapons and fled, knocking down men and thrusting women and children aside.

Twisting, Caelan grabbed Elandra and pulled her to the ground, rolling frantically as the flames roared over them. Regaining his feet, Caelan ripped off his cloak and ran straight at Beloth.

“Caelan, no!” Elandra screamed behind him.

He paid her no heed. There was one chance to strike Beloth from behind, while his back was turned and he was busy roasting people alive. Grimly Caelan raised his sword, sharing with the weapon, feeling the death poised in the steel, feeling the lingering touch of Orlo who had owned this blade since it was first forged. It was a worthy weapon, well made, well kept in its long years of service.

Caelan swung it with all his might, but at the last second Beloth whirled to face him and parried with the black sword. Steel clashed against steel, and Caelan’s weapon shattered into a thousand pieces that came raining down.

Beloth bellowed a word, and Caelan was knocked sprawling by the force of it. He landed with bruising force across part of Tirhin’s corpse and lay there, winded and stunned. Pain from his back broke through severance, and he felt his wound reopen. His courage faltered. The Penestricans had not healed him completely; perhaps they had not had sufficient time, or perhaps they had not understood the all-or-nothing roughness of combat.

“Mortal fool!” Beloth shouted at him, and raised the black sword to finish him.

Caelan had no time to think. He rolled over, trying to scramble to his feet, and saw the hilt jewel of Tirhin’s sword flashing above the edge of the scabbard. It was a large, square-cut emerald.

Everything froze for the space of a heartbeat as Caelan recognized Exoner. Tirhin had taken it from him, yet Exoner had been forged for one hand alone. It would not let Tirhin draw it against darkness, and Tirhin had died.

Now, Caelan could hear the song of the sword, calling to him, and his own spirit sang in answer.

But Beloth was swinging at him. Caelan rolled directly under the path of the black sword, and heard it whistling down as he gripped Exoner’s hilt.

Strength flowed into him like a jolt, and light seemed to flash around him as the sword slid from its scabbard.

Caelan had no time to parry, but Exoner seemed to turn in his hand of its own volition. Its shining blade met the black one, and lightning flashed around them.

The air popped and shimmered; then Beloth went staggering back and Caelan had time to gain his feet.

They faced each other in the square, no longer aware of the people or the confusion. Exoner was dancing in Caelan’s hand, humming with energy, its blade radiant with white light.

Caelan thought of Moah’s teaching on the glacier, thought of the lectures of his father, thought of the mastery of severance that had brought him to this point and that sustained him now. He thought of the waters closing over his head, and how he had learned surrender and trust.

The Magria had told him to have faith. Clinging to that, he surrendered now, releasing severance completely. The pain in his side engulfed him. But he flowed into sevaisin, merging fully with the spell-forged creation that was Exoner. The white light within the sword flowed up his arms and down the length of his body, until he shone with the light, was filled with the light, became the light.

Beloth frowned and lifted his arm to shield his eyes. “What spell do you summon, mortal?”

“I am Caelan M’an i Luciel,” he said, and his voice boomed over the square with as much volume as Beloth’s. “I am the Light Bringer. I have come to destroy you, Beloth, and the darkness you bring.”

Eyes afire with fury, Beloth circled him. Flames belched from his nostrils, but Caelan used Exoner to deflect the fire back at Beloth. The god howled, and the air grew rank with the stench of singed flesh.

“Feel what it’s like to wear a man’s body,” Caelan taunted him.

As he spoke, he sprang. White sword met black in a furious scrape and clang, back and forth too fast for the eye to follow. Caelan could feel Beloth’s tremendous strength pressing against him as their hilt guards locked. Not daring to meet Beloth’s eyes, Caelan gritted his teeth as intense heat singed him. He felt as though he were being roasted alive. Through the roaring in his ears he could hear Beloth saying words of power, terrible words that burned in Caelan’s mind, but Caelan hung on, refusing to give way.

The light flowing through him drew on Beloth’s power, imbuing Caelan with barely enough of his own to withstand the dark god.

Then Beloth broke apart, heaving for breath. As he backed away, it seemed that he drew strength out of Caelan. Staggering, Caelan dropped to one knee. His head was spinning. He wanted to retch.

Beloth laughed, and the sound was like fire in Caelan’s head. “You don’t know how to be a god, mortal! You fail to use what you have been given.”

Flames burst from his fingertips, engulfing Caelan. His clothes were on fire. He could feel his flesh melting, burning on his bones. His hair was on fire. He screamed, and the fire was sucked into his lungs. Writhing, aware of nothing but the agony, Caelan screamed and struggled.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, he heard a voice calling to him, a voice like the crystal waters of the Cascade River—pure, clear, and cold. It was Lea’s voice, calling to him.

Desperately he reached out to her. “Lea! Help me!”

“Don’t fight it,” she said. “Accept the flames.”

“I’m dying. Lea!”

“Accept the fire. Accept the death. Take it into yourself. The more you fight, the more you will lose.”

The flames were horrible. He could barely hear her. He didn’t understand. He could see his own skin melted off his fingers now, could see his charred bones gripping the hilt of his sword.

Then the sword began to sing to him. It sang in the language of fire and cold metal. It sang in the language of ice and water. It sang in the language of trees and wind and the earth itself. It sang of purity and courage, of the strength of mountains and the strength of life. It sang of light, and as it sang Caelan ceased to fear and struggle.

He let the flames become a part of him, as the light was, as once he had absorbed the fire of the warding keys so long ago. He absorbed all that Beloth hurled against him, and felt himself grow stronger. Radiance shone from him, burning back the gloom and darkness that veiled the air. The mist upon the ground melted back from him. Light—dim and feeble at first—began to spread across the square, becoming brighter with every passing moment.

Beloth staggered back, and the flames ceased. The god no longer wore Kostimon’s features. Instead his face was a blank visage, lacking any features except his glowing eyes. And they were growing dull and dim.

“You cannot defeat me!” he roared. “I am the destroyer!”

“Then destroy yourself,” Caelan replied, and lifted his arms. He swung Exoner with all his might.

Beloth’s sword met it, but this time the black sword shattered. Beloth went down, screaming hateful curses, and Caelan plunged Exoner deep.

There was a great explosion, and the sound of stone breaking. The earth cracked open, yawning wide in a gulf that spanned the square and sent people scrambling for safety. Beloth clawed at the edge of the chasm, clutching at Caelan’s ankles as though to pull him over too. Caelan called upon everything he had left and drove the blade deeper, knocking Beloth over the edge.

As Beloth fell into the chasm, Caelan pulled Exoner free with a shout of triumph.

Not yet able to believe it, his blood still thrumming hard, Caelan glanced down at himself and saw that his skin was whole. Not even his clothes were charred. So this was victory, sweeter and more glorious than anything ever met in the arena.

He lifted the sword and started to turn around, but felt a terrible pain plunge through his chest. Buckling to his knees, he glanced down and saw a hand reaching up from the chasm. It was a woman’s hand, black with soil and ashes, and it gripped the long shaft of a spinning distaff that had been thrust through him.

She twisted her weapon, this symbol of Fate, and Caelan arched back, crying out as the agony tore the breath from him. The woman came climbing out of the ground in triumph of her own.

She was emaciated to the point of being skin and bones. Her hair was tangled in a filthy mat, and she was crusted with dirt. Her eyes held only destruction.

Twisting the long distaff, she jerked it from Caelan, and he fell there at the edge of the chasm. Exoner was still clutched in his fingers, but he could not feel the weapon. Its song had been silenced. He felt light and strength flowing from his wound like blood.

The light that had begun to shine over the city dimmed now as she raised her bloody distaff. It was as though she sucked all the life from the very air. Everything she gazed upon withered and died. The ground she stood upon burned with flames. When she turned her head to look at the screaming people who tried to flee, many of them fell dead.

Caelan stared up at her, trying to find one last measure of strength, something in reserve not yet exhausted and driven from him. He knew her, and her very name was enough to freeze his bowels.

“Mael,” he whispered, “bringer of destruction.”

She laughed at him, and her gaze stole the breath from his lungs so that he gasped helplessly at her feet.

“Mortal, playing at godhood,” she said. Her voice rasped out, hoarse and ugly. “Don’t you know the ancient legends? Have you pathetic mortals forgotten everything? In defeating Beloth, you have set me free. How will you rid the world of pestilence and plague? I have only to blow my breath across you to flail the very skin from your bones.”

As she spoke, she lifted the distaff over him, ready to plunge it through his heart. Caelan could feel his blood running beneath him, soaking into the ground. He couldn’t move, much less meet her attack. Exoner lay under his hand, the blade no longer shining, as though they were dying together. He gripped the hilt, straining to lift the sword one last time.

In the distance he heard female voices lifted in a shrill chant. “Chiara kula na, “ they said over and over. “Chiara kula na! “

A strange wind rose up, blowing across the square. The hem of Mael’s dirty rags fluttered against Caelan, and even their touch was like a burning brand pressed into his skin.

He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his side, trying one last time to raise himself and strike. One final blow could take her at the knees and send her toppling back to whence she came. He strained until his vision danced with black, and the sword scraped across the ground.

With a laugh, Mael stamped her foot upon his neck, pinning him. “Die, mortal,” she said. “And so shall the land die with you!”

Elandra crouched next to the fallen ruins of the pavilion. She was still dizzy from the lump on her head and stunned from the spells and dreadful forces that had raged in the square as Caelan and Beloth fought. Now Caelan lay pinned by the horrifying Mael herself, and everywhere people were moaning and sinking down in their tracks, dying already in the goddess’s presence.

She saw Agel fall, and Iaris. She saw Pier go down, and her father stagger. The Penestricans scattered like birds, separating to stand next to certain individuals as though to shield them from harm. The Magria came hurrying toward Elandra herself, but just then Elandra heard a shrill, warbling, ferocious sound rise into the air.

Goose bumps rose across her flesh. It was a war cry such as she had never heard before. Who was making such a noise? Women? But not the Penestricans.

Then the outcry stopped, and a chant low and fierce started up in its place. Elandra frowned. She had heard those words before. They were Mahiran words, spoken to her long ago.

Chiara kula na. Woman of fire.

She remembered the legend told to her. She remembered the second destiny foretold to her by the Magria. Now, at long last, she understood. Rising to her feet, she drew forth the embroidered pouch that contained her topaz.

The Magria reached her, gripping her arm in an effort to pull her down. “Stay low,” the Magria said to her. “I shall try to protect you.”

A cry of agony wrenched from Caelan’s throat. Elandra whirled and saw Mael plunging her distaff through him once again.

Mindless fury possessed Elandra, driving out all fear and caution. Shaking off the Magria’s grasp, Elandra ran straight at the goddess of death.

“Mael!” she shouted. “Begone from us! We will not worship you! We will not fear you! We will not submit to the death you bring!”

The goddess paused in her torture of Caelan and lifted her deadly gaze to Elandra. Her lips skimmed back from stained, rotting teeth, and she shouted a curse that buffeted Elandra.

Staggering to a halt, Elandra felt her mind go numb. She nearly fell, but the jewel pouch in her fist was burning her palm even through the cloth. The pain of its heat restored her wits. Breathing raggedly, she dug the topaz from its pouch.

“Puny mortal!” Mael shouted. “You can’t—”

Elandra hurled the topaz at her with all her strength. The jewel struck Mael in the chest. Explosive flames engulfed her. Screaming horribly, Mael writhed back. She drew the distaff from Caelan’s body and swung it blindly through the air. The flames fed on her immortal flesh, so hot and intense that Elandra was forced back. Unable to breathe the hot, stinking air, Elandra lost her footing and dropped to her knees, shielding her face with her arms.

Mael’s body burned to a skeleton, some of the bones shattering from the heat. She dropped the distaff into the chasm. With a final scream, the goddess toppled over and fell in also.

The earth shook and shifted, throwing Elandra flat. A terrible thunderous roar shook the world, toppling the few remaining walls and buildings into dust, finishing the last of the city.

Clinging to the ground that heaved and shifted beneath her, Elandra prayed for mercy. Terrified that Caelan might also fall into the chasm, she crawled in his direction and caught him by his sword belt just as he started to slide over.

A bald, burly man she did not know came running to her aid and helped her drag Caelan to safety just before the chasm closed.

Elandra clung to his arm, weeping, not sure whether he lived or died, while the world shook and thundered.

Demons came boiling out of hiding, driven forth by the destruction of their sanctuary. The gloomy veil over the sun dropped away, and sudden dazzling light splashed across the city. The demons and creatures of shadow screamed and thrashed, many of them hurling themselves across the square in an effort to reach the dungeons. But the doorway leading beneath the ground had collapsed, and the creatures were forced back, wailing as they died in the light.

Finally the quaking and thunder ceased, leaving only dust and bright sunshine that hurt Elandra’s eyes. Squinting and slowly realizing that it was over, she dragged herself up to her knees and looked around.

There was a strange hush and calm now. The few survivors began to stir, their faces dazed as they rose and looked and found themselves miraculously alive.

But Caelan did not stir. He lay there, broken and bleeding upon the paving stones. His eyes were closed, and his face had no color at all.

The bald man, his face creased with grief, bowed low. “Caelan,” he said hoarsely, “what have you done? We are saved.”

Elandra gave a muffled cry and threw herself across Caelan’s bloody chest, holding him tight, willing him not to die. Her tears flowed freely, giving vent to unbearable grief. Could Fate be this cruel, to give him back to her one last impossible time, only to take him at the very moment of victory? She wept harder, refusing to let him go.

Then she felt him draw a long, shuddering breath beneath her cheek. Half disbelieving, she sat up and stroked his dirty face, heedless of the tears that still streamed down her face.

“Stay with me,” Elandra said, rocking back and forth in her grief. She gripped his slack hand in hers, trying to pour all her will and strength into him. “Please, please, stay with me now.”

He breathed, but he did not open his eyes. Losing hope again, she bent low, sobbing anew for him.

Gentle hands touched her shoulders, trying to draw her away from him.

She found herself looking into the grave face of the Magria. The Magria’s blue eyes were soft with compassion.

“Don’t let him die!” Elandra pleaded fiercely. “Use your powers and save him. In the name of the gods, save him!”

But the Magria reached out and wiped the tears from Elandra’s face with a pure white cloth, squeezing them into a small stone bowl. “And so shall she weep great tears,” the Magria chanted, “healing the earth and giving it renewal. As the earth is furrowed, and new life planted within the womb of the goddess mother, so shall the rain of healing tears feed and nourish all life.”

Anger burned across Elandra’s breaking heart. She turned away from the Magria, furious that the Penestrican was concerned now only with her rituals and ceremonies. Would no one help Caelan? Were they all going to stand around and let him die?

“Elandra.”

It was Caelan’s voice that whispered to her, soft and almost inaudible.

She saw him looking at her. His eyes were no longer blue. Instead they had turned a pale silvery hue, the color of rain. Yet they held all the love of this brave man’s heart for her, all his goodness, all the exhaustion to his very soul. He looked utterly spent, yet he was alive.

Elandra stared at his wounds and found them gone. Even the blood was dissolving where her tears had fallen in it. Gasping, she gripped his hand harder.

“Is it a miracle?” she asked.

He smiled at her.

The bald man gently pulled Caelan up to sit propped against him, holding him so that those who were beginning to gather around could see him.

“Orlo,” Caelan said weakly. “My friend.”

The bald man gripped Caelan’s shoulders and wept awkwardly.

Elandra heard rustles around her, and as she glanced around she saw the onlookers kneeling, one by one, then in twos and threes, then all of them going down on their knees.

“Caelan, forever!” called a man.

More took up the shout. “Caelan! Caelan!”

A Gialtan voice that sounded suspiciously like Lord Albain’s bellowed, “Elandra!”

More cheers rose up, and they all began to shout, “Caelan and Elandra! Caelan and Elandra!”

Strength was seeping back into Caelan’s face. His smile widened as he met her eyes. He gripped her hand and drew her closer to him.

“Beloved,” he said in a voice just for her.

She sighed, allowing herself at last to believe there could be happiness. “It is over,” she said.

“No,” he told her lovingly, as the cheers roared on and on and sunlight streamed down upon them, “it is just beginning.”