'But it was for shame at what they'd helped Felarod do that our ancestors came here,' someone cried. 'They helped save the world,' Fost shouted back.
'The material world.' Itenyim practically sneered. 'Had the world been destroyed, think of the generations that would have been spared from suffering its illusions.'
Be calm, Fost, Ziore urged him from her jug. Given the Ethereals' historic dislike for Athalar magic, she had agreed it was best she not show herself to them.
'Suffering?' Fost spat the word. 'For all that the world is illusion, Master Itenyim, you acknowledge suffering as real. And I tell you the suffering the Hissers and their ally have inflicted, and will continue to inflict unless stopped, is a thousand times greater than anything humanity has suffered from the illusions of the material world.'
'But the sufferings of the body are nothing,' the first woman intoned, as if reciting a litany. 'Serenity of the spirit is all.'
'Faugh!' Synalon shook her hair back angrily and glared at the several score Ethereals crowded into the temple.
'I've always thought myself selfish, but it seems these dung eaters have some things to teach me. Do you think, you vapid bitch, that the sufferings Istu inflicts are of the flesh alone?' She laughed savagely. 'Perhaps I should give your soul a touch of hellfire, a small taste of what Istu can do. That might teach you a measure of compassion, unless it turns you mad – or kills you outright.' She fixed the Ethereal woman with her eyes. A tiny whimper escaped the woman's throat. She began to writhe as if held in place by invisible bonds. The muscles on her neck stood out in stark relief, but she could not look away from the suns that were Synalon's eyes.
Fost roughly grabbed Synalon's arms. Instantly, she turned the full force of her hell gaze on him. He reeled as agony exploded at the center of his being. It was as if all the loss, despair, and agony of a thousand lifetimes were made into a stake impaling his soul. He spent an eternity shrieking into mocking emptiness.
Then the horror was gone, leaving his mind staggering and weak. He felt Synalon's feverishly hot hand grip his. 'I couldn't stop the spell in time to spare you.'
Dazed as he was, Fost still knew that this woman, who could slay with a single glance of her cobalt eyes, was apologizing to him. He nodded weakly, unable to speak. Dimly, he heard the sobbing of the Ethereal woman.
None of the Ethereals moved to help her. All eyes were on Synalon, who stared back at them with fierce contempt.
What do we do now? Fost asked Ziore. It looks like the diplomatic approach isn't working.
I don't know, she responded despairingly. I'm trying to sway them. But I can't change even one's emotion!
'I'm sorry for what my companion did,' Fost said, expecting a deathbolt at every syllable. 'But the world is under a death sentence. It will be carried out unless you help us.'
'We've spent ten millennia trying to expiate the guilt of our forebears,' said an Ethereal in the front row. 'Now you're asking that we shoulder that burden anew.' Fost sagged. He could find no words to answer.
'Guilt, Cuivris?' a voice asked from the open doorway. 'I will show you guilt.'
Every head turned. Fost blinked and stared as Selamyl, the Ethereal who had tried by guile and argument to restrain him and Moriana from leaving before, made his way painfully into the hall. 'I thought you said he was dead,' Fost said to Itenyim. 'I said nothing of the sort.'
Nor had he, Fost recalled. It had only been said that Selamyl was one of Rann's victims.
He had obviously been a victim. Once he had stood even taller than Fost. Now he was hunched in on himself and shrunken so that the bones of his cheeks poked out through parchment skin. His grace had been almost painful to watch for one less fluid; now he hobbled in a broken walk, supporting himself with a cane fashioned from the haft of some tool. 'I live, friend Fost. And you truly are my friend. I owe you much.' 'It was his fault you were injured!' Itenyim said heatedly.
'If fault lies anywhere, it lies with he who struck the blow. You would like to believe the fault was mine, though, wouldn't you, Itenyim? That I brought this on myself when I tried to stop you from telling Rann where our guests had gone?' Itenyim dropped his eyes. 'No, I was not slain. But I came close enough to death to make me think. Since then I have spent much time away from the others, contemplating what you and the golden-haired princess told me. It is we who live an illusion.' Itenyim looked at Fost, his eyes swimming with tears.
'He's mad. His wound deranged him. Don't believe what he says.'
Selamyl laughed. The others drew back, leaving him in a circle of loneliness.
'The outsider knows truth when he hears it,' he said. 'And speaking of truth, didn't I hear you say something of guilt when I came to the door, Cuivris? Well, here's a truth. Whether we like it or not, we are wardens of the Nexus and its secrets. If we do not act, those secrets and the Powers they command, will fall into the hands of the servants of the Dark. Is this why we came here ten thousand years ago? So that we could help undo all the sacrifice and devastation the War of Powers brought to pass?
'Istu is freed. A new War of Powers is at hand. If we do not act, it is lost. And the responsibility is ours. Ours!'
The Ethereals looked from Itenyim to Selamyl, who loomed above them like the idol of a pagan god. Slowly and subtly, they edged from Itenyim and drew closer to the crippled man.
'Do we murder the world?' Selamyl asked. For the first time in ten thousand years, the voice of an Ethereal rang as harsh as the blow of a hammer onto an anvil. 'Do we let our dread of working evil cause a greater evil still? Or do we turn our faces from illusion, leave behind our toys and scents and contemplation of the emptiness behind our eyes to do this thing which must be done, that only we in all the world can accomplish?'
One by one the Ethereals rose to their feet and came to stand by Selamyl. Soon, only Itenyim remained seated.
A small sound woke Fost. Habit brought him up with blade in hand, even though the strange, deadly creatures of the Ramparts – the legacy of the first War of Powers – never ventured into the Ethereals' village.
Synalon stood in the doorway holding a small lamp. She wore a nightdress of pale flannel that covered her from neck to ankles and hid the curvings of her body. Fost wondered how she'd managed to pack the bulky garment. He swallowed. Somehow, the effect made him hunger for her more than nakedness would have.
'May I come in?' she asked. Taking his silence for assent, she glided in and put the lamp on a jut of black slag in the wall. She pressed her palms together on the flat of his sword. 'You were so masterful today.'
Gingerly, he freed the blade from her grip and slid the weapon back into its sheath. 'I?' he said. 'Being masterful with these people is futile.'
'You swayed Selamyl.' She sat with her hip touching him. Her flesh burned like a brand through thick flannel and thin blanket. 'No, my lord. You give yourself too little credit.'
She reached out to stroke his cheek. He turned away. 'I can't take credit for what another's done. And I'm no lord.'
'Ah, I forgot. The Emperor's ennobling you wasn't sufficient for your pride.' She leaned close. 'I will make you a noble. Then none can question your right to a title – not even yourself.' 'I guess I can't gracefully refuse, can I?'
'No. You cannot.' Her mouth descended to his. Her lips were cool, the contact light. Her tongue swept lightly in a circuit of his mouth. He shivered. His hands wanted to grab her, but he held them rigid at his sides. He couldn't bring himself to cooperate.
'You are reluctant?' she asked, raising her head and smiling down at him. 'Do I displease you?' 'No,' he croaked. 'Never.'