CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE #2
“The ancient Mages made the Keeps’ entrances impossible to see unless you are also a Mage, or it’s directly pointed out to you,” Auden explained.
“Yes, but—” Rafferty’s voice rose when they reached the antechamber, “this place is a thousand years old, right? How’d Ephren build his palace on top of it and the entrance remain so accessible if he couldn’t see it? It isn’t as if he’d knowingly harbor a Relic, right?”
“Magic would never allow the entrance to be truly blocked,” Auden said. “If you were to place a boulder over the entrance, it would simply turn the rock into its new entrance. If you were to seal it with plaster, it would create another opening.”
“How does it do that?” Thom asked. “I didn’t think it was sentient.”
“It isn’t,” Ilain said. “But it is alive.”
“That’s confusing,” Thom noted.
As he ignored their banter, Deckard’s blood now pulsed erratically.
His skin was covered in gooseflesh despite the heat coiling within.
An unknown tug drew him a step forward, and a strange black light flooded the hall before him.
Somehow, the blackness refracted in such a way that it gave off the brightest brilliance, almost like the light of the moons on a cloudless night.
“Wow,” Rafferty said dryly, stepping up to his side. “That’s creepy.”
A smattering of nervous laughter filled the antechamber, yet Deckard was silent, staring down the arched hallway.
The iron door to the Keep lay ahead, and his magic eagerly anticipated his touch.
It buzzed under his skin. Desperately, he reminded himself that whatever lay beyond that door, he couldn’t lose control.
Evylin’s hand brushed his arm. He looked down at her, catching the wave of encouragement she sent his way. When their eyes met, she smiled, the Night sword already glowing violet in her hand. Its purple beam almost looked dull next to the black light of the windows. “Together,” she whispered.
Deckard dipped his chin in gratitude, his heart swelling with a sudden assurance. He could do this. With Evylin at his side, there was nothing to fear.
Auden moved for the door, but Ilain caught his sleeve. Then she looked at Deckard. “Jonn,” she said, nodding to the hall, “this is your Keep. You should do the honors.”
Though his throat went dry at the thought, Deckard gathered every last ounce of courage and began walking down the hall. The arched windows depicted swirling cosmoses, planets, and small stars. Through the light, he could almost see a rainbow of colors glittering at him.
Deckard stopped before the large iron door, its face etched with the same designs. His hand trembled at his side. He wasn’t sure whether it was from anxiety or anticipation.
“What is it you say?” Deckard asked, looking over his shoulder at the Calders. “Into the fray?”
Auden and Ilain smiled slyly.
“It’s the ‘Psalm of Sigrid,’” the highlord said. “She was a Warrior Bonded to a Day Mage. The psalm was her mantra before a battle: ‘Into the fray, into the fight; With goodness and honor, with Allore’s might.’”
“We say it to remember why we fight,” Ilain said, a fire igniting in her eyes.
The sentiment settled into Deckard, and he found his lips turning up. He could do this. For Allore. For the people of Allund. For Evylin.
Turning back to the door, Deckard raised his hand. “Into the fray, then.”
The moment his hand pressed against the cold metal, a loud hiss erupted. The lock popped free, and a thunk resounded as the door began to slide open. On the other side was blackness.
Cautiously, Deckard and Evylin took the first steps into the infinity of the Space Keep.
The sky was black—pure, deep, rich black.
So dark and whole that Deckard felt as though it might swallow him, like it could collapse and consume him into its nothingness.
It stretched forever, so far ahead that Deckard didn’t think it could end.
Only the faintest glimmer of refraction marked the division of floor and ceiling.
Far in the distance, a glossy black obelisk loomed.
Deckard took one step down the staircase, and everything changed.
The Keep became alight with life. A vibrant green and blue nebula shattered the sky. Flashes of gold and ivory starlight tore into the blackness. The ground spun with a vortex of crimson and violet clouds, colors twisting into one another. It was startling. It was terrifying. It was mesmerizing.
And it all reflected under Deckard’s skin.
“Evylin,” he gasped so quietly he didn’t think she heard him.
His heart began to pound. His muscles trembled. His breath caught.
The vastness of Space, the boundless energy it possessed, the colossal magnitude of its form—it settled into his core, filling him with infinite power.
Deckard took another unintentional step forward, unaware of anything but the eruption of light, nebula, and life around him. Wordless whispers filled his ears. His heartbeat calmed, his muscles relaxed, and his lungs eased. He felt weightless and unworried.
Magic pressed in on him, collapsing into his form. It pulled at him, twisting and tearing through his body like those clouds and starlight. It demanded everything he was, down to the most infinitesimal part of himself. The infinity of Space wanted it all.
“Evylin,” he murmured again, fumbling for her hand this time. He made contact but couldn’t control his limbs enough to grab hold. He was too consumed, too overcome by the sights around him and the feelings within.
He heard Evylin curse under her breath and knew she was likely feeling the overwhelming sensations radiating out of him as well.
Then she was there before him, taking hold of his face.
“Jonn,” she called, but he couldn’t look at her.
He was too overcome by the Space Keep’s grandiosity, by its beauty. “Jonn, what’s going on?”
Deckard felt his brows pinch together. “I can feel it,” he whispered.
“Feel what?”
“What’s wrong?” Thom asked at their side.
Deckard could sense the presence of their team, but he was too distracted to pay attention. More nebulae, more stars, more clouds, more infinity erupted before his eyes. A blend of awe and indifference filled him. He couldn’t find the ability to move.
“I can’t tell,” Evylin was saying to Thom, her grip tightening on Deckard as she worked to get his attention. “He’s feeling something—something intensely powerful—but . . . I can’t tell what it is.”