“He cannot penetrate here. Where? When?” it asked, the intensity in its voice taking on a near desperate edge.
“On Earth,” I said. “He doesn’t know himself, but he seems content. He’s…” I groped for a way to explain what an FBI agent was. “He helps protect innocents,” I finally said. “We’re partners in this.”
The savik released my shoulders and head then shifted off to crouch beside me. “Who guards him?”
I pushed myself up to sit. I decided to dub this demon male, since it had that feel about it, though I had no idea if I was even close. “A syraza. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he is. He goes by Zack.”
“Zakaar!” He gave a hiss-growl. “Ptarl of Rhyzkahl.” The ‘k’ sound in his words came out as its own guttural click, giving an unusual cadence to his speech. Zah-KH-aar. Rhyzzz-KH-ahl
So Szerain was being guarded by Rhyzkahl’s syraza? “Is that good or bad?” I asked.
The savik snorted. “Good, bad…meaningless. It simply is. Zakaar is of the old line. Zakaar will guard him well.”
“He does,” I said quietly. “He guards him well.” I peered at him. “I am Kara Gillian.”
The demon dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I am Turek, essence-sworn to Szerain.” There was something about the way Turek spoke, a deep resonance in the inflection, that told me he was not only very very old, but also that being essence-sworn to a lord was rare and special.
“I am honored to meet you, Turek.” I leaned in toward him. “Can you tell me why he was exiled?”
“It was his choice,” he replied, eyes luminescent.
“His choice?!” I said, shocked. “But what…? Why would he do that? And why is he called an ‘oathbreaker’?”
Turek brought his arms in close. “His actions were judged to violate an ancient oath, and so he is named kiraknikahl, oathbreaker. He holds information he chooses not to reveal concerning the ways and means of his anathema. For this, he is judged to be too dangerous to remain here, and fifteen years, nine months, six days, and two hundred twelve heartbeats ago chose exile over revelation.”
I struggled to process that. It was loads more information than I’d ever managed to get up until now, yet at the same time it told me damn near nothing except that the scope of whatever he did was huge. More data for the mental clue board, I thought in frustration.
“Is he exiled forever?”
Turek stood and dipped a claw in the water of the pedestal. “It cannot be forever. The balance of potency suffers with the absence of even one qaztahl.” After a moment, he lifted his hand and traced a quick amber sigil with a single claw.
I blinked in amazement as a horizontal circle of points of light spun lazily a couple of feet above the basin, making a flat-tire wobble on each revolution. Eleven points. Multiple strands of vari-colored light dropped from each point and twisted together below, like a ring of long fringe with its ends wound into a crazy ball of glowing string. The savik lifted its claw toward the dimmest of the light points that trailed only a single sickly strand. “Szerain. Diminished. Exiled. Vilified. All out of balance.”
I scrambled to my feet. “If he’s so needed, then why can’t he come back now?”
Turek remained silent and made a slashing motion with his hand, dispelling the ring of light. He touched the water again, eerie eyes on the fuzzy image taking shape above the water. I tugged at the collar in annoyance as if tugging could bring sharper focus, but slowly it began to coalesce into an image of the same man I saw in the Elinor bathtub memory, and looking no more like Ryan now than then. Will his personality be different as well? I wondered, uncomfortable worry twining through me again.
“The demon council is at an impasse,” Turek finally said, again in that resonant tone that felt so powerful and ancient. Perhaps Earth summoners only ever called juvenile savik? They were considered second-level demons, but I had zero doubt that this particular demon was far stronger and had more arcane ability than even a tenth-level zhurn.
“Until resolved, Szerain…” Turek paused as if the thought brought pain. “Szerain remains in exile. And it is safer there, safer hidden, than here. Much more challenging for others to reach him. And Zakaar is better able to suppress him should he emerge.” His top lip curled back from those razor teeth, and a low growl came from his throat. “He despised being submerged. He will not willingly submit to it again.”
Gooseflesh crawled over me. I couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. “What happened to Elinor?”
Turek tapped the lip of the basin, claw clicking on the stone, and the image shifted to the sweet-faced young woman. “I cannot speak of what happened to Elinor.”
I let out a sigh. Once again with the damn oathbound crap.
But Turek surprised me by continuing. “Szerain asked me to remain silent, and so silent I remain.” He shifted the image; Szerain again, but the expression seemed somehow harder.
“What was he like?” I asked, eyes taking in everything about Szerain. “Was he…nice?” That wasn’t really the word I needed, but I couldn’t think of another way to convey what I so desperately wanted to know.
The demon lowered his head and made a sound like a jarful of angry wasps. “Is. Is. What is he like.” He lifted his head again and punctuated his statement with a harsh snort. “He is Szerain,” he said as if that explained everything. “He is Szerain imprisoned. Rhyzkahl sealed what he could of his arcane potential, overlaid the life of a human.” He paused, then lifted his hand from the basin, allowing the image to fade. “He could not change Szerain’s core essence, but I do not know how that manifests in a different existence, in a different form.”
“He can be very moody,” I said softly. “Sometimes he’s a real ass, and other times he’s gentle and kind. But he…cares for me.” What could Ryan possibly be going through now, not knowing what was happening to me, not knowing if I was alive or dead? Tears stung my eyes, and I had to blink furiously to hold them back.
“Truly kind, kri. Long, very long ago,” Turek said.
Worry nipped at me. “What do you mean ‘long ago’?” I asked. “Is he not kind now? I mean, before he was exiled?”
Turek bared his teeth again, but I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a snarl or smile. “Can be kind, kri. But not like during the first age. Not like before the gates collapsed and the potency rebounded. And then the blades brought more shift to all.” The savik seemed to droop. “He appeared to be regaining something of his old ways in the years before the cataclysm. Then it was gone.”
I frowned. “The what? Blades?”
Turek traced another sigil above the pedestal. “Tools of power for the Three: Rhyzkahl, Mzatal, Szerain. The Iliok—the essence blades.”
An odd chill crawled down my spine at the name alone. “But what are they?”
“Knives, daggers,” he said, finishing the sigil. “Each unique. Each shaped from a synthesis of the arcane core and the potency of iliur, of the essence.” An image coalesced above the pedestal. A simple dagger with a gold-hued blade and a hilt that flared at each end like an elongated apple core. A deep green jewel sparkled in its pommel, winking with amber lights.
I stumbled back, feeling as if my blood had been replaced by ice. Ghostly agony flared throughout me, followed by a confusing maelstrom of horror, grief, terror. I was vaguely aware that I was moaning, No no no, yet I didn’t know what I was denying, only that I wanted to be away from the terrible image, the beautiful dagger.