HERALD #2
She helped Neri to his feet. They followed the Disciples through the dark passageways to where they opened up along the deepriver.
On the black-sand beach sat a honeycomb of squat, interconnected buildings, lit by diamond-shaped lanterns glowing red-gold.
The winding streets slanted upward, bustling with activity.
Ysira had never heard such a diversity of languages in one location.
Zal was spoken freely, as were Standard, Telu, Dalish, and others still, from the very fringes of the Black Sun’s dominion.
The streets were crowded with dark-clothed, tattooed Zal, Telu with pierced faces and intricate braids, nomads in brightly patterned shawls and beads from the habitable edges of the Glass Sea.
Pale, freckled Dalish painted in whorls of green, hawking seeds and hammered metal jewelry.
Even a pair of highlanders from the Burning Hills, guiding along their winged, hoofed mounts with snapping beaks and golden feathers.
All turned and stared, falling silent as the veiled Disciples passed.
Some watched their group with suspicion, others fear.
Some pointed, others whispered, and Ysira understood only fragments.
Beneath the curiosity rose a buzzing undercurrent of something else, something she could not quite identify, like the distant rumbling before a sandstorm.
Neri stayed close, hunched in her shadow, making himself as small as possible.
Ysira asked Teheda, “Are these people all part of your . . .” She trailed off, unsure of what to call them.
“This place was founded by the Disciples of the Gate,” said Teheda. “Everyone here is a refugee. Most share our faith, and those who don’t still share our cause.”
There had to be thousands of them. It was so much more than Ysira had dared hope.
She had been wary of these people in the past. She had thought their religion quaint, their fight hopeless, and she had sworn to herself she would never join them and become a martyr like Elyas. But today, she came to them with leverage. She would be no one’s martyr, and neither would Neri.
The murmuring around them grew as they crested a hill, and Ysira felt that intoxicating thrill—the same as she’d felt aboard the Firstborn station when she realized her true strength. A shudder ran down her spine.
They reached a building hewn into a rock facade atop the hill, removed from the rest of the city.
It overlooked the beach and a river inlet that led to another, smaller, steaming lake, where fishermen hauled up pale crustaceans.
Past the columned portico of the entryway lay a red sandstone interior, then a broad, age-worn stair to a set of double doors.
Teheda pounded on the graven surface once, and two guards hauled the doors open from within.
The hall beyond had a low ceiling, at a triangular slant.
Torches burned in sconces, casting the floor in pools of orange light between long shadows.
Opposite the doors, on a dais, sat three thrones.
The centermost, elevated above the other two, was vacant.
On the right sat a grey-haired man in dark armor; on the left, a woman robed in red.
Two dozen others, all in red, some armored, some masked or veiled, gathered to either side of the dais.
As Ysira, Neri, and Teheda entered, an argument petered out.
They’d interrupted something. Ysira assumed these were the Shrouded City’s leaders.
She squeezed Neri’s arm in an attempt at reassurance, but he was so tense, his muscles felt like rock.
She was suddenly aware of how filthy they were, still in their tattered clothes from the crash.
But she squared her shoulders, shaking off the discomfort.
Whether she came to these people in rags or the finest spidersilk, her message was the same.
As they approached the thrones, the armored man shifted in his seat. Ysira met his narrowed eyes, and, to her astonishment, beheld their strange amber hue. The mark of a telepath integrated with a demon. She had seen them only once before, in Elyas.
The robed woman stood. Her irises were as white as any Church telepath’s, but her red tattoos, more rigid and symmetrical than Ysira’s, stretched up her neck and over her shaved head. A jagged scar spidered out from the corner of her left eye.
Her voice echoed throughout the hall. “Kneel, and be judged.”
Neri started to obey. Ysira caught him by the armpit, pulling him upright. She drew herself up to her full height and said, “I am Ysira Var Naktis. I have—”
“Var Naktis?” the woman cut her off, incredulous. “How dare you claim that title?”
“It’s true,” said Commander Teheda. “We saw what she can do.
And the boy—”
The woman held up a hand. She examined Ysira with open distaste.
“I want her to speak for herself. Audacity such as this demands a very good explanation. I am Eneva Nal Karak, Gatekeeper of Otavok.” She gestured at the man beside her.
“This is Kanan Var Mondral, who, unlike you, endured the Trial of the Gate to earn his rank. You will explain to us who you are, how you found us, and how you came to possess a demon. Or else I will force the truth from you.”
“There’s no need for that.” The armored man stood too and stepped down from the dais. “Welcome, sibling. Forgive Eneva; she failed her Trial. She’s still a bit resentful about it. And the process of bonding with a demon is always the same. You would be dead if you had not been found worthy.”
“It can’t have chosen her.” The Gatekeeper bristled. “It’s a miracle she’s not comatose, let alone standing and speaking.”
“A miracle indeed.” Kanan Var Mondral tilted his head at Ysira, the barest of smiles touching his lips. He lifted a hand, amber eyes sliding out of focus, and Iyelekirin fluttered. “Interesting. You really aren’t a telepath, are you?” He looked down at Neri. “But he is.”
Mondral’s tone grew almost somber as he asked, “What’s your name?”
Neri opened his mouth but could not seem to muster words. “Wait,” said someone else, from the shadows. “That’s Neri Semira.” “What?” Eneva said sharply.
A murmur rose from everyone gathered, and a few hands dropped to sheathed weapons.
A tall, rail-thin woman stepped into the light.
Ysira tensed, because she recognized her.
In her decade of avoiding the Church of the Black Sun, she’d made a point of recognizing their priests—even when they wore red, rather than black.
Sister Hesaya Jinaan ran a chapel in the Knots. Ysira knew little about her besides that she’d been a classmate of Jacen’s and was a talented exorcist of unremarkable ambition. She kept to herself, drawing neither her superiors’ praise nor their ire.
Perhaps this was why.
Hesaya paced closer to them, robes rustling against the stone, and demanded of Ysira, “What were you thinking? Are you trying to bring half the knights in Zivora down on our heads? Who do you think you—”
Neri lifted his head, letting Hesaya see his eyes. In the dim light, his irises glowed.
“It can’t be,” Hesaya whispered.
“Careful,” said Eneva. “Do not let hope deceive you.”
“With due respect, Gatekeeper.” Hesaya spoke tightly and did not look away from Neri.
“I know demons. I’ve performed exorcisms under the eye of the Black Sun for twenty years, and I am not naive.
” As if to herself, she added, “The voice in the desert was silent. But I had not dared . . .” She met Ysira’s gaze. “Who are you?”
Ysira spoke so all could hear. “I am Ysira Var Naktis, and my demon is called Iyelekirin.”
Eneva, at least, knew the significance of that name. Her frown deepened. Two of her veiled Disciples exchanged invisible glances, postures gone rigid. One recited something under his breath, with the reverent cadence of a prayer.
“Iyelekirin is a myth,” said Eneva. “And you’re not capable of extradimensional communion. How do you know your demon’s name?”
“Your soldiers saw proof. I cannot be killed.” Ysira lifted her chin, baring her scarred throat. “Many have tried.”
Eneva looked sharply at Teheda, and Ysira saw him nod.
“The gods of Zivora tried,” she went on, louder, before the Gatekeeper could speak. “They failed. I’ve been to their station in the sky. I’ve seen the truth of what they are.” She paused for effect. “Mortal.”
Another murmur circled the room, and the volume rose.
“We know this.” This time, Mondral spoke. The demon priest crossed his arms over his chest. “But the distinction is not a practical one when we possess no weapons that can harm them.”
But Hesaya still stared at Neri. “We might.” A note of urgency entered her voice. “Child. What is the name of your demon?”
The hall went quiet. Waiting. Like a desert storm gathering its breath. At first, Ysira did not think Neri would answer. He stood frozen, jaw clenched, as if he stood on a precipice and Hesaya had asked him to jump. But then he spoke, so quiet, Ysira strained to hear. “Naxal.”
Hesaya inhaled sharply. For a moment, she was silent, as though doubting her own senses. She repeated, loud enough for all, “Naxal.”
And then people began to shout. “It’s not possible,” said Mondral.
Hesaya rounded on him. “Look at his eyes. He’s not integrated, but they’ve already changed.
This is no ordinary demon. Or are you just confounded because he’s Telu?
” She snorted. “Naxal belongs to all the people of the Scar.” Tears brimmed in her lashes as she turned toward Neri once more.
“The fact that it chose you—” Emotion overcame her, such that she could not continue.
The shouting intensified. One man bellowed, “Liar!”