He lifted his head and wiped his eyes, his spine tingling faintly. He looked at the floor, where his hands had disturbed the dust and revealed the mosaic beneath-the image of a foot armored in silver plate. Looking around, he could make out some of the image, except where it was covered by a large round table-an armored figure enfolded by a leaping tongue of silver flame. He crawled toward the figure's head, sweeping the dust aside so he could see her face.
"It doesn't look anything like her," he said aloud, but hearing the words aloud made him realize the absurdity of the thought-he'd expected to see Dania's face enshrined in a mosaic on the floor of a temple that had been abandoned at least forty years before she was born. No, he realized-this was probably Tira Miron, the paladin who had joined herself with a pillar of supernatural fire to become the Voice of the Flame, the founder of the faith.
She floated in the midst of the fire, holding a sword aloft in one hand. Her face was exquisite, even from a merely artistic perspective-a look of rapture in her uplifted eyes and full lips. There was something at once erotic and unspeakably holy about her face. The tingling at the back of his neck turned into a chill washing through his whole body, a cool fire that coursed through his veins.
Why do you resist me?
He wasn't sure whether he heard the voice or remembered it from all his fevered dreams, but it seemed suddenly as though Tira's eyes gazed directly into his.
"Because I'm not worthy of you," he said aloud. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back a fresh flow of tears.
Then he felt a soft hand on his cheek, and without thinking, he pressed his lips to hers. They were warm and moist, and her breath filled his lungs like searing fire.
You are worthy, she breathed into his mouth, and you are mine.
CHAPTER 24
Wind and thunder followed Gaven through the streets of the city. If soldiers were still chasing him, they had only to follow the beacons of lightning that flashed over him. It didn't matter-he couldn't have stopped the storm if he had wanted to, and if his plan somehow worked, he would soon have sanctuary of a sort.
He had never known Fairhaven especially well, and he hadn't been in the city in more than a quarter century. But the elves of Aerenal preserved traditions stretching back ten thousand years-he doubted that their descendants in this city had moved their little enclave since the last time he'd seen it. The trick would be finding his way there, once he left the old, straight streets that defined the basic pattern of the city.
Those streets, like the spokes of a wheel with the palace at its hub, brought him quickly to the southwestern part of town, then he lost himself in a maze of smaller streets and alleys. The storm's fury died as he tried to navigate through the neighborhood, as the panic of his flight faded into perplexity. If pursuers still followed him, they had lost their lightning beacon.
So many new buildings filled the area that he began to question whether he could be in the right place, unless the Aereni had abandoned their enclave. Then he decided to turn down an alley he had already walked past twice, and suddenly he was there. One moment, the buildings crowding close on either side were freshly plastered white apartment homes, smooth, window-less walls rising high overhead, but a few steps later the alley widened into a little courtyard paved with ancient flagstones, and the buildings on its three sides might have been transplanted directly from Aerenal. Built of exotic woods, the buildings rose in tiers topped with sculpted spires and magical flames that washed the square below in dancing green and purple light.
Apparently unwilling or unable to trust Fairhaven's city watch to protect their little enclave, the elves had their own soldiers, gaunt warriors in ornate armor, carrying poleaxes with elaborately carved, probably impractical heads. The elves stood at attention as Gaven blundered out of the alleyway, shifting their grips on their weapons. The one on the left, Gaven noticed, bore a tattooed skull design that obscured his true face, making him look like one of the deathless. He fixed a wary gaze on Gaven and scowled. The one on the right, though, was already dead-his withered flesh clung to his bones and dim green flame flickered in his eye sockets.
They didn't immediately accost Gaven-they were probably accustomed to people stumbling into their little enclave, looking around incredulously, and hurrying back out. Gaven didn't see anyone else in the courtyard, so he steeled himself and approached the soldiers.
"Have you lost your way?" the living soldier asked coldly. He spoke Common with a thick accent.
"I know where I am," Gaven answered in the best Elven he could muster. "I-" What was the correct phrase? "I invoke the right of counsel."
The guard's face was as expressionless as his skull tattoo as his eyes searched Gaven's. Then the deathless soldier's bony hand lashed out and struck Gaven's face. A last echo of thunder rumbled overhead, but Gaven squelched his surging anger.
"The Right of Counsel?" the living soldier said in Elven. "You have no such right. You should leave this place before my friend's righteous anger increases."
"My ancestors fought under Aeren as yours did," Gaven said. He wasn't surprised, except perhaps by the violence of the deathless guard's response. But he had no alternative plan. He couldn't give up without a fight.
"Name them," the dead soldier demanded.
"I am an heir of House Lyrandar," Gaven said. It was the best answer he knew. The first Lyrandars had already been half-elves, their elven blood mixed with a noble human line from Khorvaire. But perhaps the elves knew more about his ancestry than he himself did.
"No doubt you have ancestors among the elves of Aerenal," the living soldier said, "but their names are not honored, nor were they worthy of joining the ranks of the deathless."
"Name them," the guard repeated. "Name a single ancestor you claim among the Undying. Whose counsel do you seek?"
"Alvena," Gaven blurted. "In the name of my friends Mendaros Alvena Tuorren and Senya Alvena Arrathinen, I seek the counsel of Alvena."
Both guards took half a step backward, and they exchanged a glance. Gaven wasn't even certain he'd blurted out the right name, and he had no idea whether it was Alvena or the name of one of his friends that had given the soldiers pause.
"I shall go," the living soldier said. With a quick glance at Gaven, he hurried across the courtyard.
"Wait here," the other soldier said. "On your knees, and do not speak to me again."
Gaven didn't know what was happening, but at least he'd made something happen. He decided it was best to obey the undead soldier, so he dropped to his knees and waited. Clutching his poleaxe in both withered hands, the guard stood a few steps away, his burning eyes fixed on Gaven in an unwavering stare.
Gaven watched the living soldier climb the wide stair at the far end of the courtyard and disappear into a darkened archway at the top. What was he doing? Whatever had provoked them, it had clearly suggested a course of action so obvious that the only question was which soldier would carry it out.
"You Khoravar," the deathless guard muttered, half to himself, "so full of human arrogance." He stepped closer and addressed Gaven directly. "The Undying exist only because of the veneration of their descendants. You hybrids who can't even remember the names of your ancestors-if it were up to you, the Undying would all fade into death. Memory is life. Without memory, your people are already dead. You don't know who you are-you might as well be beasts."
Gaven bit his tongue and stared at the flagstones. The soldier had ordered him not to speak, so he bit back an angry retort, but as he did, the guard's words echoed in his mind. Gaven's memories were a jumble, a shattered mosaic of his own past and the memories of the other. The time before he found the nightshard was shrouded in fog, particularly now that Rienne was gone. When he'd been with her, that time had seemed clearer in his mind.