“Aric,” came another voice. “Or whatever your name is. Can you hear me?”
He could not answer, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“Who are you?”
The water pressed in around him, squeezing the breath and life from him, and he kicked furiously to reach the surface. His lungs screamed for air, but the water was so deep, so dark, he was no longer sure he swam in the right direction. Was there a hint of light above him, a faint glow in the blue? He kicked harder, but something tangled his legs, seaweed or He drew a great gasping breath, but the tentacles still held him, drew him in, then he was looking into a single great staring eye.
“Why do you struggle?”
A mace appeared in his hand and he swung it over and over, beating back the tentacles. Vor stood over him, hacking at tentacles as they appeared through the portal. “I’ll hold them back,” Vor said. “You seal it.”
He kneeled beside the portal and laid a hand on it, trying to feel the knot of magic inside. It was too complex. His mind couldn’t fathom its intricacies. It was a labyrinth And he was walking it, smooth crystal walls stretching as high above him as he could see. Straight corridors crossed and branched, and again he knew that everything he wanted was waiting for him at the exit from this maze. He wandered and wandered, then the maze was the Labyrinth, and he stumbled along, weak from hunger and thirst, half-blind from sun.
He fell, gravel pressing into his cheek. He didn’t think he could stand again. Feet crunched the gravel and rolled him over. A field of blood red sky, framed by canyon walls.
“Who are you?” the Traveler asked him, her face shadowed by a brilliant sun behind her.
“Kalok Shash,” he said through parched lips, and the Traveler withdrew from him.
“He changes constantly, a new face every few moments. Is he possessed?”
A hand on his forehead, and again coolness washed through him. “No.”
“What, then? A demon? Should we not kill him now, before he regains his strength?”
“He is no demon, and no warrior kills a man while he is helpless. And he is a man, though he is obviously a man of many faces. He is ill, and we will care for him until he recovers.”
“He deceived us.”
“He didn’t deceive me. I’ve seen his heart, and I know both the goodness and the evil there. Has anyone else seen what you saw?”
“No.”
“Good. Then no one but you is to care for him, and you will admit no one but me to his presence. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
The Traveler withdrew from him, and he chased after.
Haccra approached the black pavilion, fear gripping her stomach. She hated approaching the chieftain, hated what she endured every time she entered his presence. But it was her duty.
She looked up at the banners as she passed, bone white with the chieftain’s rune painted in blood. They made her heart beat faster-with excitement at the conquest they promised, and with fear.
Two guards stepped forward and seized her arms. She did not struggle.
“Do you bring news the chieftain wishes to hear?”
“I do.”
“What tribe are you from?”
“I have no tribe. I serve only Kathrik Mel.”
Not releasing her arms, they shuffled her forward into the pavilion, forcing her head down as they entered, then pushing her face to the ground. Only when she was prostrate did they release her.
“Haccra.” His voice glided over her skin, smooth and exciting. “You may lift your head.”
Slowly she did, and he grew into her vision-first his armor-clad feet and the twitching tip of his fleshy tail, the bloodstained plate armor he wore and his strangely delicate hands, fingers tipped with razor-sharp claws. She shivered at the memory of those claws tracing lines of blood in her skin. She could not look at his face.
“What news do you bring me?” Tingles ran down her spine.
“Our scouts found the stronghold of the Maruk.”
“At last.” He stepped closer. “This is excellent news, Haccra. What reward would you choose?”
“Pain.” Pain hurt so much less than the pleasure he offered.
CHAPTER 33
Someone sat beside Aric where he lay, and he was surprised to realize that it was not the Traveler, Dania, Rienne, Vor, or any of the bizarre figures that had haunted his dreams. It was Farren, laying a cool hand on his head and driving away the last of his fever.
“How do you feel?” Farren asked. There was concern in his voice, but his eyes didn’t meet Aric’s. “Am I still dreaming?”
Farren smiled and drew his hand away. “No, I’m really here. You must have been having some strange dreams, based on what Lharat and I have heard. And seen.”
Aric’s heart leaped, but he steadied it with a thought. He had been completely out of control for-how long? It might have been hours or days. What had he revealed?
“Very strange,” he said.
Farren stood and turned to look out the window. “Kathrik Mel’s horde will be here soon. I fear that our city will fall.”
“No!” The word burst from Aric’s mouth, surprising him with its passion.
If Maruk Dar fell, one feeble beacon of hope in the Labyrinth would be extinguished, and it would be his fault.
“We’re ready,” Farren said. “We are already dead, and Kalok Shash will burn much brighter when Maruk Dar falls.”
Aric envisioned the Binding Flame, growing brighter with each soul added to it, stretched across the Labyrinth as a barrier against the advancing horde. But he could not imagine it holding Kathrik Mel back. Not without a living army to back it up.
“You could flee the city, join with the other Ghaash’kala, make a concerted defense where they leave the Labyrinth-”
“The Maruk Ghaash’kala will make their stand here, defending their homes. Though we cannot triumph, we can at least make their horde smaller.” Farren turned away from the window to look at Aric again. “But you are not Maruk Ghaash’kala.”
“I would have been. I was ready to take my vow.”
“But you did not. Your illness saved you from joining the ranks of the dead.”
“I will join them soon enough, defending this doomed city.” The thought made Aric proud. The idea that he, too, could die in the service of something he actually believed in-perhaps the only thing he had ever believed in…
He imagined standing beside Vor, Dania, and Farren’s dead brother Durrnak, all smiling.
Horns sounded from the walls of Maruk Dar. “They’re coming,” Farren said. “I do not want you to die defending Maruk Dar.”
“What?” How strange it felt, to have his chance at martyrdom snatched away. For a moment, he feared that Farren was about to draw his sword and make sure Aric didn’t have a chance to die defending the city.
“Listen.” Farren sat on a stool beside the bed. “I don’t know who you really are, and I don’t know what allows you to change your face, as I’ve seen you do.”
“You lied to me,” Kelas said, his voice wounded, almost piteous.
Laurann felt shame well in her chest, and she lowered her head.
“After all I’ve done for you, you betray me like this?” Kelas added. Tears were welling in his eyes, grief etched his face.
Something was wrong-this was not like Kelas.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” he whined.
Laurann nodded, and Kelas flew into a rage. “Never be ashamed!” He slapped her. “You’re supposed to lie to get what you want. Deception is your life!” One more slap, for good measure.
Laurann stood her ground, staring straight ahead, her shame dispelled by a rising tide of hatred.
“Never confess to a lie,” Kelas added. “And never, ever feel shame! Shame is weakness, and your enemies will exploit it.”
That had been the first time she felt shame, and the last-Until now. All the time he’d convinced himself that he believed in the ideals of Kalok Shash, he had been lying to Farren and all those who sought to live out those ideals. After all they’d done for him, he had betrayed them.