Each passing day was an adventure for him as he traversed the locked caverns within his mind. The knowledge of the demon Velixar, the Beast of a Thousand Faces, was immense. It seemed as though every hidden mental doorway he unlocked, however small, hid some long-lost secret. The secrets of ancient magics were spread out before him like a blanket of shimmering entrails. Biology, necromancy, otherworldly travels, the snaring of souls lost in the afterlife, the history of the universe itself-they all lay at his fingertips, his present understanding a mere hint at the possibilities that simmered beneath the surface.
His fingers cramped and he placed down his quill, shaking the ache from his hand. With the onset of that cramp, his frustration grew. Even with the strength he’d gained during the ritual, he was still trapped by the limitations of his physical form. Glancing to the side, he saw his reflection in the dragonglass mirror that had once belonged to Crian Crestwell. Despite the cataclysmic change that had occurred within him, he looked much as he always had: the same black hair, the same strong jaw, the same perfect posture. The only true difference was that his eyes were now rimmed with pale red, a color that flashed brightly whenever he accessed the magics trapped within him. In some ways he thought Clovis Crestwell lucky. Clovis, pathetic and egocentric fool that he was, had not possessed the strength to sever the ties that bound the creature’s consciousness from its essence. Darakken had infused every fiber of Clovis’s being, shoving aside the personality that had once resided there, altering his body’s form to make room for its much larger presence. The Clovis that existed now only retained passing similarities to the man he had been. In that way, and that way only, he envied the former Highest.
He had knowledge in abundance. He understood more secrets of the universe than Karak and Ashhur combined. But power…power was the one thing he lacked, and it shamed him. There were constant limitations to his abilities. He’d assumed that by absorbing the demon’s core he’d be able to transcend those limitations, transcend his humanity, but that hadn’t happened. There are no limits to how strong you will become in time, he told himself. He hoped it would happen sooner rather than later, for the march into Paradise was rapidly approaching. Dropping his head, clenching and unclenching his fists, he once more begged for patience.
Soft footfalls sounded, and Velixar glanced up. The cavernous room he had taken as his own was the one he’d designed many years before as the throne room for the castle of Veldaren. It was four stories high and a hundred feet in either direction, empty but for his desk, which stood against the eastern wall, and his featherbed and small breakfront, which were positioned beneath the painting of the gods coming forth into Dezrel that graced the raised dais on the northern wall. There were no other furnishings or decorations, Velixar having removed all remnants of the statues carved by Ibis Mori, finished or unfinished, and interspersed them throughout the city.
A lithe form appeared in the doorway, taking a few cautious steps forward. Lanike, the wife Clovis Crestwell had created for himself, entered the light of the torches burning on the drab, gray walls. She was the keep’s only other occupant, brought here as an insult to her husband, who was a prisoner in his own body. Lanike took care of the wash and cooking in Velixar’s home like a lowly household servant. Small and fragile looking, her hair was slightly disheveled and her eyes wary. She was ageless, just as her creator had been, and not horrible to look at despite her mousiness. The draping cobalt robe she wore was satin, and it caught the womanly figure beneath with every other step she took. Velixar thought of the dead elf Brienna Meln, who had loved the First Man with all her heart and whose pendant he had long ago smashed to demonstrate the cleansing of his past. She had owned a robe like that; she would traipse through the cabin in Safeway wearing it, before he stripped her and ravaged her perfect form. For a moment he felt arousal, thinking perhaps Lanike would be a viable replacement. She was of the First Families, ageless just as he, and if he could make her love him…
“Enough!” he commanded, and the thought disappeared.
Lanike stopped in her tracks, staring at him with fearful eyes. She took a step back, tugging nervously on the sleeves of her robe.
“I apologize,” she said, her voice soft.
“Not you,” Velixar said. He groaned and stepped toward her. “Why have you interrupted my studies, Lanike? I told you I am not to be disturbed when I am at work.”
The mousy woman refused to look him in the eye. “I understand, and I mean no disrespect, Ja-Highest Velixar. But there is a man here to see you. A man in armor. Captain Handrick, he said his name was.”
Velixar nodded. “I see. Tell him I’ll be with him momentarily.”
“Very well.”
Lanike hastily curtseyed and then left the room. She nearly tripped over her robe, crashing into the archway before she exited. In sharp contrast to his earlier feelings of desire-a weakness, he thought-Velixar felt a rush of loathing. He should have ended the pathetic woman’s life long ago, and would have if he didn’t need her to keep Darakken in line.
He changed out of his nightclothes, putting on a clean tunic, black leather breeches, and a surcoat edged with expertly stitched lions. He couldn’t greet Captain Handrick looking slovenly. Harlan Handrick was a rough sort, headstrong and stubborn, in charge of the two hundred soldiers stationed just outside Karak’s private temple on the outskirts of Veldaren. Having been a member of the Palace Guard for nearly twenty years, Handrick was one of the few in the city who had known Jacob Eveningstar before the First Man had pledged himself to Ashhur. They’d often come to disagreements about the proper use of armed force, but Handrick was a capable man, and Velixar hadn’t thought twice before ordering him and his unit to march to Erznia three weeks ago, after Dimona Mori’s attempt to flee the realm. Though he’d sent them to the hidden forest stronghold in Erznia under the pretense of a demand for fealty, what he truly wanted was for Oris Mori and his nephew Alexander to be rounded up and brought to the capital. The fire-scarred Oris was a beast with a sword, and Vulfram’s son was a true child of Karak. They were respected throughout the kingdom, just as Vulfram had been. Having them pledge their fealty to him would only heighten his influence.
He found Captain Handrick standing in the foyer, looking dignified in his mailed suit over boiled leather. Almost immediately Velixar knew something was wrong. The captain’s greaves were coated with deep burgundy stains, as was his longsword’s scabbard. The gruff, older man eyed him with distaste as he approached, but Velixar saw something hidden beneath the veneer of loathing.
Fear. Guilt. Failure.
“Captain,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of the man.
Handrick’s heels snapped together. He offered a slight bow but neither spoke nor offered any show of reverence.
Velixar frowned and said, “How went the journey? I assume the men I asked you to retrieve are in the garrison readying to greet me?”
The captain’s nose twitched.
“As a matter of fact, they are not,” he replied.
Velixar’s blood began to rush faster through his veins.
“And why not?”
“They are dead.”
“Who are? Oris and Alexander?”
“All of them. The entirety of Erznia.”
Velixar’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. All of Erznia…dead? But why? His anger began to churn once more, but he held it in check. He thought he knew who was responsible, but he had to go through the charade, had to find out for sure.