"Yes."
"He is my father." Pain flickered across Han's face. "He took me with him when he left Honguo. I thought he was truly going on a financial expedition. Along the way, our caravan was attacked by the kuang-shi. My father gave me this." He touched the hilt of the sword that jutted over his shoulder. "Chiyou — the Honor Sword. Then he told me to flee while he held the attackers off."
"He did so to save you," Nyori said gently.
"No. If Shiru's words are true as I believe, it was all a ploy. My father wanted me to think he was slain when in fact he joined himself to the kuang-shi. For what purpose I do not know, but I spent years trying to avenge his death by warring against the kuang-shi and hoping I would find out if he truly died. All of that killing for nothing. My father is a traitor, my family dishonored."
Han dropped his head as though in shame. Nyori did not know the words to comfort him.
"Now I know what I must do. Shiru has joined our cause because he believes it is the best way to uncover my father's whereabouts. When we find him, he will have to answer for his crimes."
"You would kill your own father?" Nyori could not imagine such a deed, no matter what the provocation. Her family had always been close-knit. Even after her training with the Sha, they still treated her with love, albeit laced with wariness. She loved her parents and her younger siblings. It seemed impossible to picture hurting any of them purposely.
Han's expression grew dark. "My father is dead, Shama. Only the traitor lives, and he must pay for his dishonor."
Nyori opened her mouth, but her words were cut off by a sentry's voice, shouting a warning.
"Someone comes!"
Already highly alert, the camp became alive with motion as the warriors came to the fore, and the women and children were swiftly ushered toward the center of the camp. Fregeror ran up to join the Huntsmen.
"Stay with me, Shama." Meshella stood beside Nyori as she snatched up Eymunder.
"I can take care of myself." Eymunder's orb flashed at her mental command. Meshella smiled with a touch of pride, it seemed. From their position, the group had a clear view of the sentry who uttered the warning. He sat atop his horse facing the fog-shrouded forest with a long spear in his hand.
"Who goes there? Speak, if you be friend, and beware if you be foe."
A lone figure walked from the shadows of the surrounding woods. Bars of moonlight shone through the branches, obscuring his features. He paused.
"I am alone and mean harm to no one. I search for my friends, and saw the smoke of your fires."
They all recognized the voice, but it was Nyori who broke the stunned silence.
"It's him."
Chapter 40: Marcellus
Yanus fell from the ebony cliff, bathed in his own inky blood. He fell forever, howling with maniacal laughter as he plummeted toward the fiery rivers below. Twilight screamed her challenge while she reared and flailed her silvery hooves. Fountains of flame stretched out below them like yearning fingers. On burnt-out paths, twisted creatures toiled at blackened machines, enormous compilations of cogs and gears that towered and belched smoke into the fire-soaked sky.
Dhamphir soared above on leathery wings, shrieking with fear and outrage. An imposing building towered above all, an ebony array of towers that glistened like wet ink. Its sleek orderliness was a bizarre contrast to its surroundings. A figure stood on one of the ramparts, cloaked in shadow. The only things visible from the heavy cowl were twin orbs, shining like tiny mirrors.
The Reaver raised its sword in a challenge to the unknown enemy. The answer was mocking laughter that echoed from all around. The fiery world shimmered, and for a moment endless Glyphs were visible. They formed every part of the landscape, every blazing streak that flared across the sky.
Something seized the Reaver from behind, pulling with relentless force. The world distorted in blurs of hellish colors.
MARCELLUS BLINKED.
The room was so white it appeared he floated in a sea of nothing. He gripped the seat of the simple black chair he sat in, fearful that if he tipped over or stood up, he would disappear. The chair was an anchor, keeping him assured of the fact that a floor existed.
A man sat across from him.
Everything about the man was black except for his skin, which stood out in pale contrast. There was something wrong with his eyes. They were colorless, but the light glimmered from their surface as though from polished mirrors. His long, inky hair was as jet as his garments: a finely cut cloak heavily embroidered with intricate scrollwork, with a short cape that barely went past his shoulders. His loose-fitting trousers were tucked into supple calf-length boots, and snug gloves covered his slender hands. His face was surprisingly youthful, his cheeks smooth. Only the eyes marked him as something other than a handsome young man.
Marcellus was sure it was the same figure he'd seen on the rampart of the building when he was in the Reaver's form. I must have been pulled into the building, but how? It was impossible to know without asking, and somehow Marcellus did not want to be the one to break the silence.
The Man with Mirrored Eyes studied Marcellus with an unsettling air of calm. It was the way a man might gaze at a pebble or shell the sea had washed ashore.
"Do you remember the wyvern, Marcellus?" The words flowed from the man's lips like music. His eyes, however, they never blinked. The light flickered from his irises like scattered diamonds.
Marcellus licked his lips. His voice was thick in his throat when he managed to speak. "The…wyvern?"
A hint of amusement touched the other man's lips. "Yes. Your people called it a dragon, of course. Similar in form, but not entirely the same. Nonetheless, the legends credit you for slaying a dragon, don't they?"
"I…never killed it. It needed something. It needed my help." Marcellus found that recollection was hazy in the room of all white. His knuckles tightened on the seat of the chair.
"Your help to do what?" The Man with Mirrored Eyes waited patiently, the tips of his gloved fingers pressed together.
Marcellus frowned in thought. The experience was from his early days of knighthood. He had been a Wolf Knight then, a penniless warrior who sought fame and fortune wherever he could. He had thought the small cantref's populace had been exaggerating with their tales of being terrorized by a dragon. But then he had ventured into the rumored lair…
The darkness came alive around him, coalescing into gleaming scales of jet that wound about him, sinuous and powerful. Unable to move, unable to breathe, Marcellus looked up into the cavern ceiling. Glimmering eyes flashed, gazing at him with intelligence so far beyond human that it was terrifying…
"The dragon was trapped. Trapped in our world when it belonged…somewhere else."
"In the next stratum." The Man with Mirrored Eyes gestured almost lazily. A globe sprang from his hand. It swelled in size and hovered between the two men. It was divided into several layers, each winking with alternating pulses of soft light.
"You only know one level of existence." The Man with Mirrored Eyes pointed to the second layer from the bottom. "The world you call Erseta. In the past humanity knew their world was multi-layered, but those days are no more. Beings that you believe to be myth, like dragons — belong in Kuan, the world beyond your sky. After that, there is Nolavani, the home of the Aelon."
The room flickered. The floating globe distorted, crackling in and out of visibility.
Marcellus broke his gaze from the intricate globe to look at the Man with Mirrored Eyes, whose gaze had sharpened into a malignant stare. He gazed into the distance as if seeing the ghosts of long dead memories and hating every one. A sound filled the room, the roar of angry winds and colossal waves mercilessly pounding brittle rocks.