37. DISCIPLES
DISCIPLES
JACEN
Jacen slept little that night.
As the Shrouded City prepared for battle, it wasn’t just the noise and activity—he did not feel the need for sleep. His thoughts had not stopped racing since the Gate.
Everything had changed at such a pace, he felt he’d left himself behind.
He had split into two selves, watching the old one fade into the distance, far away from this new man who could refuse a drink, kill with his bare hands, make love, renounce his gods, break every vow he’d ever made, and plot to change the world.
He knew, now, that the immortal could be killed. The unbreakable could shatter. The insurmountable might yet be conquered.
He paced amidst the ashes of the library, resisting the temptation to visit Seth by speaking with the people of Otavok.
After what he, Neri, and Ysira had done to defend this place, he watched any remaining animosity toward him fade into acceptance.
With some, as he offered comfort to the grieving and encouragement to the terrified, it even began to resemble trust. He was no tactician and certainly no soldier, but this, he could do, and with it came that flicker of the numinous.
That sense of purpose he’d feared lost forever.
He arrived well before anyone else to the Gatekeeper’s meeting, which was to take place in the throne room below the library.
The Disciples had hauled in a stone table hewn with a map of the Scar, edges blackened by the fire, and placed it parallel to the three empty seats.
Lost in thought, Jacen ran a hand over its grooves and painted red glyphs, each designating the location of a Gate.
Someone had placed Rakalem’s skull beside the largest glyph, over the miniature spires of Zal Fel. Empty eye sockets that once belonged to the Lord of Fear leered at Jacen. Even after everything he had seen, he could not quite comprehend this new reality.
For the first time in five years, he felt compelled to murmur a prayer.
He did not sense Nines approaching until she said, from behind him, “I need to tell you something.”
Jacen faced her, hoping he appeared sufficiently composed.
He had managed to locate clothing that resembled his Church vestments, and it seemed Nines—perhaps subconsciously—had done the same.
She tugged at the sleeves of her dark grey tunic.
The flickering torchlight cast stark shadows across her face, lending her a haunted look.
“I’ve been paying attention.” She glanced around the empty hall. “I spoke to Turil.”
Jacen’s stomach lurched. “You what?”
Nines avoided eye contact. “I knew you wouldn’t like that.” “Who let you into Seth’s cell?”
“No one,” Nines said. “I didn’t go there. You can sense Seth from here too, can’t you?”
Jacen could. The militia had left Seth under heavy guard, sedated and blindfolded with wax stuffed in his ears.
Jacen sensed his presence when he looked, and it remained—so far as he could tell—Seth’s own.
The alien intelligence had vanished into the depths of his mind, buried in wait to reemerge . . . when?
Akkani must have known. She had given up too easily as they escaped Zivora; she must have detected the goddess’s presence and let them lead her here. Had Seth not picked up the ashek in the library, Jacen might not have noticed anything amiss until it was too late.
How long, exactly, had Turil been in control? How much of Seth’s actions had been Seth’s in the days since she crawled into his head?
Jacen might never know. He could not afford to dwell on all the questions that haunted him, so he wrestled them back. “Nines—this is an archdemon. You have no idea what she might be capable of. Why did you—”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Nines interrupted, and Jacen was surprised enough to shut up. “She’s not as strong as she wants us to think. She can’t communicate unless I reach out first or if Seth is awake enough that she can use his voice. When he’s blind and deaf, so is she.”
From what Jacen had seen at the Gate, this made sense. It had been difficult to tell amidst the heat of battle, between shielding Ysira and freezing Seth’s motor functions, but now that he thought about it . . . the sole telepathic power he’d had to defend against was Rakalem’s.
“You’re sure?” he asked Nines. She nodded.
Jacen recalled something Urien had said. “The archdemons choose the strongest telepaths of their generation.” An incredulous laugh escaped him. “It’s not just the host body’s physical abilities they rely on. The gods aren’t telepaths—their hosts are.”
“She also wants to talk,” Nines said. When Jacen opened his mouth to reprimand her again, she added hastily, “I kept my distance. I didn’t show her anything inside my head. But I slipped up a bit, and when she noticed me . . . She wants to talk.”
To negotiate, perhaps. To offer an ultimatum or bait them into a trap. Regardless of what the goddess wanted, this might be worth entertaining—if only because they might turn the tables on her.
“Well done.” Jacen squeezed Nines’ shoulder. She allowed it. “Just tell me first next time.”
The double doors creaked open, signaling someone else’s arrival. Nines tried to slink away, but Jacen said, “Stay.” He grinned wryly at her. “I know you’re going to listen in. And you may be able to help.”
She hesitated but nodded, and melted into the shadows near the empty thrones.
Hesaya entered the hall. She had shaved her head and tattooed it in the same style as Eneva. A bold statement—she’d never be able to resume her role in Zivora like this. But her posture was steady, determined as she took her place on the righthand throne. She acknowledged Jacen with a short nod.
Dacil Var Solai, dressed in dark armor, took Mondral’s place on the left. The short, red-haired demon priest looked as though she expected someone would tell her to step aside. Jacen thought Ysira might, but she arrived in plain clothes and chose an inconspicuous spot against a wall.
By her dark-circled, bloodshot eyes, she had not slept.
Her jaw was a hard line as she watched the self-declared High Lord of Zivora enter next and take up a position at one end of the table.
Militia Commanders Teheda and Azaharo stood opposite Ged, and between them gathered the other five Zivoran knights, Sister Ilusha, Ogden, and Urien.
Neri arrived last, two armed Disciples at his back. The hall fell silent as he approached. His red eyes lingered on Rakalem’s skull—then the empty center throne. His expression was difficult to read, his consciousness even more so, pulled three ways between revulsion, determination, and anxiety.
He did not speak. He seemed to expect someone else would. Yet the silence dragged on, and all of them—even Ged—waited for him.
“All right.” Neri’s voice creaked. He planted his hands on the table, where the great chasm of the canyon opened wide to the east, and tried again. “Let’s begin.”
Hesaya gave him an approving nod. She leaned forward in her chair to point at Mount Otavok on the map.
“The Shrouded City is a fortress, built to withstand months of siege. We’ve collapsed every entrance of which the enemy is aware and have the means to do the same for the rest.” She nodded to Ogden.
“My explosives aren’t a permanent solution,” the old man clarified.
“The Firstborn have already begun the process of clearing the rubble at the docks. Months of siege will be days at most, with the technology we’re up against. But the proximity of the Gate effectively blinds them, so we can slow them down and choose where we engage. ”
“We know that their objective is Naxal,” said Hesaya.
“We don’t know the full extent of their arsenal, but so long as he remains here, they won’t risk destroying us.
They also know we have one of their own—Turil—held prisoner.
They’ll be forced to break through our defenses the hard way, on foot.
In the meantime . . .” Hesaya gestured at Urien next, for the newcomers’ benefit.
“From within the Firstborn Empire, for decades, Urien has been our primary source of information. He thinks that if we destroy Tharanoth and Ileth, we can force those under their command to surrender.”
“Surrender,” Ged repeated, disbelieving. He observed Urien as he might a particularly repulsive insect.
Urien’s armor creaked as he shifted his weight, uncomfortable.
“My people, with the exception of the archdemons, don’t stand a chance against yours hand-to-hand.
I also believe that only the most fanatical—which are not the majority—would choose our leaders’ power struggles over their own lives, absent the threat of immediate consequences.
” His eyes flicked toward Rakalem’s skull.
“However. I don’t anticipate Tharanoth or Ileth will risk a direct confrontation after what happened to their fellow. Accessing them will be . . . a task.”
Ged nodded, as though he’d already thought of this. “So, we defend your Shrouded City with everything we have. We draw the enemy’s eye, make them think this is where we’re trying to bait them. We turn this place into a tomb if we have to—while we go for the jugular.”
He sauntered around the table to grasp Neri’s shoulders. The boy stiffened. From her place by the wall, Ysira stopped slouching. The two Disciples reached for their weapons, but stopped when Neri lifted two fingers. Expressionless, he motioned for his father to continue.
“All we need is my son,” said Ged. “We send him with a team to guard his back—we won’t need many; we know one of our warriors is worth ten of theirs—and we bring the fight to the gods.”
The militia commanders exchanged a glance. Commander Azaharo was a large woman, tall enough to look Ged in the eye. She did so from across the table, one brow raised, as Commander Teheda crossed his tattooed, muscled arms.
“You are aware,” Azaharo said flatly, “of the nature of the enemy we face? Their fortress is in the sky.”