When the Heavens Fall (78 page)

When the god spoke his words made the air tremble. “Why are you here?”

She nodded at the Book. “Perhaps for the same reason you are.” Her lips quirked. “Or should that be for the same reason Mayot Mencada was?”

The tendrils of darkness round Shroud reared and darted forward.

“I spoke to the
magus
several days ago,” Parolla went on. “He believed the Book would give him the power to defeat you.”

“He was wrong. And for his impertinence he now faces an eternity of suffering. As will all those who stand in my way.” Shroud had raised his voice to speak these last words, no doubt intending them as a threat to the others assembled in the dome.

Parolla did not look round to see how his warning was greeted. Glancing again at the Book, she adopted a light tone. “Careless of you, Father, to let the Book fall into the hands of another. But then it was never yours to begin with, was it? It belonged to your predecessor. You remember him, don't you? The god you betrayed.”

Shroud did not reply.

“I have seen the place of lost souls,” she continued. “The world you destroyed in claiming your throne.”

“Indeed. I trust you enjoyed your stay.”

“Don't play games with me! Or would you have me believe your power is any more permanent than that of the god you usurped? For all your arrogance, you are vulnerable.”

Shroud's laugh shook the dais. “Of course I am vulnerable! Every immortal is. There will always be those whose ambition drives them to challenge us. Like Mayot Mencada.” He paused. “And like you, my dear.”

“You're wrong. I don't want to take your place.”

“Then why are you here? Why have you embraced the dark?”

Had she?
No! The tiktar … I had no choice.
Shroud was trying to confuse her, to distract her from the real reason she had come.

“My Lord Shroud,” one of the men to her left began.

The god's raised hand commanded him to silence.

“I searched for you,” Parolla said. “For a portal that would lead me to the underworld. I even tried to contact you—left messages with your disciples. You ignored me.”

“Perhaps I had nothing to say to you.”

“Or perhaps you didn't have the stomach to hear what I would say to you.”

“Oh?”

“You know what I'm talking about,” Parolla said. Her mother's face appeared in her mind's eye. “You will pay, Father, for what you did to her. You … forced yourself on her.”

The god was silent for a moment, his gaze steady on Parolla. She needed to see his face to know what he was thinking. His expression, though, remained veiled in shadow. “Aliana told you that?”

“She didn't have to! You took what you wanted, and you left her.”
Left us.

“You think I should have dropped in on the two of you from time to time? Perhaps let you ride on my shoulders?”

“Your touch killed her!”

“
My
touch? Aren't you forgetting your own part in her death?”

“A part I knew nothing about until it was too late. I didn't have the power to heal the damage you caused. But you … You could have saved her.”

“And if she did not want to be saved?”

Parolla was stung silent for a heartbeat. “What do you mean?”

A note of amusement entered Shroud's voice. “If Aliana didn't tell you, I don't see why I—”

“Lies! You pretend a higher motive where there was none.”

“And you will hear only the truth as you would have it. Is that not so, my dear?”

Parolla hesitated, then shook her head. Even after all Shroud had done she still wanted to believe him. The reality, though, was that he was trying to twist the truth to his own ends, to poison Parolla's memories against her. “Aliana told me … At the end…” An image came to her then: sitting beside her mother's bed in the inner sanctum of the Antlered God's temple, holding Aliana's left hand while trying not to notice the gangrenous stump where her right should have been. The skin of her mother's balding scalp was crisscrossed with black veins, and the stench of rot hung in the air. Aliana's voice had been no more than a whisper, but she'd said … She'd said …

Shroud's tone was mocking. “What? What did she say?”

The memory, though, was fading. Aliana's face, the white walls of the inner sanctum, the candles scented with malirange and dewflowers: all were dissolving into shadow. Parolla struggled to hold on to the scene, but the dark tide within her rose to engulf it. She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Had Shroud cast some enchantment to steal the memory from her? No, she would have sensed him drawing on his power.
What's happening to me?

The god must have guessed her thoughts, for he said, “It is the blood, Parolla.
My
blood. You never learned to control its power, did you? No doubt you believed you could master the darkness, but instead it is claiming you. You should not have come.”

A shadow fell across Parolla's vision. “Perhaps not. But I am here nonetheless.”

Shroud took a step forward, and Parolla tensed. If he made any move for the Book, she would be ready. Instead the god said, “You think you would fare any better than Mayot with the Book in your hands?”

“You know I would.”

“And if you fail? Are you prepared for the consequences?”

The shadows behind him began to swirl. Shapes took form, pushing against the darkness as if it were a black curtain. A face appeared. A young man … someone Parolla knew. Yes, she recalled now—from the temple where she'd been raised. An acolyte—one of those she had killed while escaping from the Antlered God's priests. Parolla hadn't meant to harm him—the power had slipped her control. She felt a stab of guilt, but it was quickly swept away by her blood.

The shadows rippled again. One after another, a host of faces appeared, all victims that Parolla had sent through Shroud's Gate. She recognized one of the guardians of the Thousand Barrows who had died screaming when he tried to deny her access; a man from an inn in Calad whose hands had wandered presumptuously; the slave girl she had silenced in Xavel during her flight to the river.

Had there really been so many?

Could they all have been mistakes?

And now, finally, the image of Aliana materialized. Parolla remembered the kind sad eyes, the gentle smile, the lines of pain that had been a feature of her mother's final days. Aliana had tried to hide that pain from Parolla, but her face had betrayed her at the end, as had the force with which she had gripped Parolla's hand. Parolla blinked back tears.

Shroud's cold voice cut through her thoughts. “All of these and more, their souls are now mine. Gifted to me by you, no less. If you challenge me and fail, they will share your torment. Is that what you want? Have they not suffered enough already?”

At his words something shattered inside Parolla. The waves of darkness came surging up again, immersing her. Drawing her lips back in a snarl, she took a step toward the Book.

Which suddenly rose into the air as if lifted by invisible hands.

Pages flapping, it flew across the dome.

*   *   *

Luker rolled his shoulders. Touching though this family get-together was, it was time to start winding things up.

Carried by his Will, the Book of Lost Souls settled into his hands, its cover slick with blood, its pages lying open. The paper was the color of bone and soft as cloth. Staring at the spidery script inside, he felt a disorientation as if he were falling into the Book. From the corner of his eye came a ripple of movement, and when he looked across he saw the heads of the undead turning toward him, their hollow gazes fixing on his.

Luker slammed the cover shut.

He could sense the threads of death-magic emanating from the Book, and for a moment he wondered whether it was possible to locate the strand that held Kanon. He shook his head. One among thousands? And even if he somehow found it, how was he supposed to sever it? Any attempt to use the Book, after all, would likely bring a swift response from the other players assembled here.

So now what?

Luker looked at Parolla. The woman had begun to gather her power, only to hesitate. If she attacked him she would leave herself open to a broadside from Shroud, and without the Book's power to call on that was surely not a fight she could win. But the Lord of the Dead was vulnerable too, Luker reminded himself. For while the dome was now part of the underworld, it remained no less a part of the mortal realm.
Meaning Daddy here is ripe for the picking.
Would Shroud risk a move against Parolla before the fate of the Book was decided? Luker doubted it.

Stalemate, then.

A stalemate the Guardian could use to his advantage.

“Well, well, Luker,” Shroud said. “Wisdom returns quickly, I see. After you turned down my offer of service—”

“My answer stands,” Luker cut in. “The Book must be destroyed.”

From behind him Merin spoke in a low voice. “We can salvage this, Guardian. For the empire. There is still some benefit we—”

“There is no ‘we.'”

The tyrin raised his voice. “Lord Shroud, I speak for Emperor Avallon Delamar of Erin Elal. I trust there is some arrangement—”

“Shut it!” Luker snapped. “The Book isn't yours to bargain with!” To the god, he said, “You deal with me, Shroud.”

The Lord of the Dead's shadowy form swelled, and behind him the tendrils of darkness curled and hissed. “Was Mayot's example lost on you? I do not bargain with mortals!”

Luker hawked and spat. Were the histrionics supposed to impress him? “Then it's time you started. You're only here because
I
opened the way, remember?” He cast a meaningful glance at Parolla, then looked back at Shroud. “If you had the balls to step out of your box, you'd have done so by now. So we deal.”

The god studied him. “Kanon's soul will soon be mine, Guardian. As one day will yours.”

Luker turned away. “Maybe your beloved daughter—”

“Wait! The Book does not have to be destroyed for Kanon to go free.”

The Guardian snorted.

“You don't trust me to make good on my word?”

“The Book's destruction serves your purpose as well as mine. What difference…”

Luker broke off at a sound from behind—the scrape of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He swung round, recalling as he did so that he had given the invested weapons to Merin and the Endorian. His own blades were still sheathed at his waist, but in the time it took him to draw them …

A sword flashed toward him.

Luker gathered his Will, knowing already that it was too late.

*   *   *

Ebon's gaze lingered on Parolla. The woman looked … lost. Hurt shone from her eyes, and her voice was all rough edges. Ebon was not fooled by her talk of revenge. She had come here seeking, what? Understanding? Acceptance? But when she'd reached out to Shroud, he'd slapped her hand aside. The Lord of the Dead would come to regret trying to intimidate his daughter, Ebon suspected, for instead of being cowed she had made a move for the Book. If the scarred stranger—Luker—hadn't snatched the thing away, all Nine Hells would have broken loose by now.

But then perhaps that was what Shroud intended all along. Perhaps he
wanted
to set his opponents at each other's throats. Perhaps he had foreseen that Luker would intervene as he had. If so, the god had nevertheless misjudged the man, for the scarred stranger had shown he was not simply going to toe the god's line.

Ebon heard only the opening exchange between Luker and Shroud before Galea entered his mind. The goddess had been quick to abandon him when Shroud arrived, but now it seemed she was not yet done with him. When he spoke his coolness was a match to her own. “What do you want?”

Galea ignored his tone. “The Book must be preserved, mortal.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated scornfully. “Have you any sense of its power? No, of course you don't. The things you have witnessed thus far are but a fraction of what the Book can do. It can restore life.
Real
life, not this tortured existence that has been forced upon my people.” She left the thought hanging for a moment, then added, “And yours.”

“Why have you not told me this before?”

“Because you didn't need to know. You
need
the Book, mortal. Your people need it.”

Ebon's mouth was dry. “My people? You said you would help them.”

“And I have done so. But did you think there would be no further casualties? That
all
of those close to you would survive?”

“Who? Who has died?”

“We don't have time for this. If the Book is destroyed, the opportunity is lost. With its power in your hands you can repair the damage Mayot has done.”

Ebon struggled to marshal his thoughts. Every time the goddess opened her mouth her credibility shrank, and to discover she'd been withholding information from him just made him wonder what else she was keeping back. Even if she spoke the truth about the Book, she would doubtless have plans for it herself—the restoration of her empire, perhaps; vengeance against the Fangalar. And yet, if there was even the smallest chance Ebon's people could be saved … He needed time to think.

“If you would earn my trust, Lady, lower the wards you have raised between us. Show me what is in your mind. Show me what you have done to aid my kinsmen.”

“There is no time! My presence will be detected.”

Ebon looked at Luker. The scarred man was speaking to Shroud, but their words had faded to a whisper. “What would you have me do?” he said to the goddess. “He will not give up the Book.”

“Then take it from him.”

Ebon did not respond.

“Have I offended your sense of honor, mortal? Does your duty to your people count so little that a mere stranger—”