The Temple of Ize, Southern Corigon
May 7, 1189 PT (Post Tyrannus)
 

Mavell

The stench of decay stung Collector Mavell’s throat. He tightened the black scarf over his nose and mouth, stepping aside as another collector dragged a guard’s petrified body by the ankles.

“Wait.” Mavell’s monotone voice echoed in the marble room.

The collector halted, wiping sweat off her forehead with her own scarf.

Using his bloodied boot, Mavell knocked a dart loose from behind the guard’s ear. The smell of rotting fruit rose from the hollow tip—wraith poison.

Like all the fallen guards in the room, this man’s rifle remained slung across his shoulder, his pistol in its holster. Fifteen armed men, but not one had fired his gun.

The scene reminded Mavell of a knacker's yard with no care given to quality butchering. This, however, was the Hall of Hoven in the Temple of Ize, a sanctuary of Drawlen. After examining the room, Mavell knew this was no haphazard slaughter. Just a gruesome work of art.

He nodded to the woman.

She grunted, heaving the stony body over the threshold. Two other collectors cleaned the remaining gore with buckets of steaming water. The distant whimpers of a child melded with the clamor of sloshing mops, boots on stone, collectors exhaling their nausea.

“Collector Mavell.” His partner stepped into the room and stood at attention. Grime smattered her usually pristine uniform—an assemblage of black clothing, scarf, and belt ordered with lethal accessories. She stared with blank lavender eyes.

“Collector Detoa,” Mavell said, sparing her a glance.

“He is here.”

An ominous man appeared in the doorway as Detoa moved aside. He was unnaturally tall and draped in dark, silver robes, his face covered by a glittering fabric rippling like water.

Mavell dropped to one knee and bowed. Detoa and the other two collectors imitated him.

The Veiled Man stood, unmoving, for several minutes. Then he entered the room, one foot mechanically following the other. By the time his lord passed, Mavell’s knee throbbed.

“Rise,” came a nasally voice from under the silver veil. “Show me the body.”

“Bodies, Your Eminence.” Mavell gestured to the carnage. “There are twenty-three—well, almost twenty-three.”

The Veiled Man regarded Mavell.

Even with the immortal’s face covered, Mavell tensed under his piercing stare. “Seven of them are just heads. They were killed elsewhere and brought here as a message.”

“Blood for blood.” The Veiled Man pointed his gloved finger to the dais, above which the phrase SANGUINIS PRETIUM SANGUIS dripped in crimson letters. The Veiled Man’s arm disappeared into his robes like a stone sinking in oil. “I have no interest in the mortals, Collector. Show me Hoven.”

Mavell bowed and led the Veiled Man to the end of the hall while the other collectors resumed their work. At the other end of the space, a golden throne hid beneath a cloth, and crusted blood lined parts of the exposed metal. Mavell peeled the fabric off the upper half of the corpse entombed on the seat.

The Veiled Man stepped back. “Is that—” He pointed to a bloody mass stuffed inside the corpse’s mouth.

“Hoven’s heart, yes.” Mavell removed the remaining cloth, displaying Hoven’s erupted chest. “This was done by someone with an intimate understanding of an immortal’s regenerative power.”

Curling his long fingers, the Veiled Man balked.

Mavell replaced the sheet. “We have a genuine godkiller on our hands, Your Eminence.”

“Indeed.” The Veiled Man stretched his neck. “Why Hoven? What was the motive?”

“Vengeance, I’m sure.” Mavell pointed to another covered mass in the corner while motioning to Detoa. Walking past him, she and two collectors pulled off the black fabric. It slithered to the floor, revealing the massive dragon-like head of a great-horned wyvern.

Three sets of eyes reflected the blue light of the sunrock lanterns. One of its onyx horns, curled back from the wyvern’s flat nose, had been broken in half. The scales of its bruised face had withered and grown pallid. Within its gaping mouth, skewered onto its long teeth, sat seven petrified human heads. And the smell . . .

“Cover it. Burn it,” the Veiled Man said. “Explain, Collector Mavell.”

“According to the keeper of this temple, Hoven’s clerics dispatched the wyvern to clear the way for a mining venture sixty miles east, across the border in Yvenea.” Removing his knife, Mavell tapped the creature’s mouth. “These seven heads are those of the clerics and a few Yvean conspirators. Other than Hoven, there were fifteen guards, an oracle, and her young daughter—all present in the room at the time of the incident.”

“Why so many guards?”

“The oracle must have told him something was coming.”

The Veiled Man nodded. “All were killed, I presume.”

The corners of Mavell’s cheeks lifted behind his scarf. “Two survived—the girl and the oracle. Although the oracle was unconscious, they were mostly unharmed.”

“Bring me the girl,” the Veiled Man said.

Mavell signaled to Detoa, who bowed and left the room. Standing rigidly, Mavell waited with his master. He glanced at the throne where Hoven had ruled the south with notorious cruelty for three hundred years. That immortal legacy ended abruptly, and a child was the only living witness to his death.

Detoa returned with the witness, who shuffled into the room with her neck drooping. As they approached the Veiled Man, the girl held fast to Detoa’s arm.

Placing two spindly fingers under her chin, the Veiled Man raised her head. “Show me what you have seen, child.” He lifted his veil. For a moment, the girl’s eyes widened, their light returning. She trembled with her mouth agape. When the Veiled Man dropped his covering, the girl resumed her limp posture.

“It seems our killer is plagued by a small conscience,” the Veiled Man said. “He spared the woman and her child.”

“Killer?” Detoa said. “A single killer?”

“There was an accomplice. Both, I believe, were ralenta. But most of the killing was done by one man.”

“How is that—”

“Impossible,” drawled a voice from the doorway.

Mavell’s teeth clenched when Selvator Kane, a dark-haired boy in an embroidered purple justaucorps and polished boots, strode into the room.

Not really a boy. Just a monster in the skin of a boy.

“How indeed, Lord of the Veil?” Sel approached, crossing his arms like a parent waiting for a child to explain his misbehavior.

The Veiled Man snorted. “Are you not the Lord of Whispers, Selvator? Did you come to be of help, or to act as your revered father’s errand boy again?”

Sel bristled, but his voice remained steady. “I’m simply here for the child. Young Haana has latent shade craft, so for your sake, I hope you did not harm her.”

“Indeed not,” the Veiled Man said. “I have lifted the burden of this horrific event from her mind. She will henceforth have no memory of it. So, if anything, I have helped her.”

Sel narrowed his eyes. “And what have you done with that—burden?”

The Veiled Man tapped his temple. “It is safe and waiting for his lordship to witness for himself.”

“Then I shall take you to Lord Refsul immediately. I will meet you on the wraith gate.” Sel took Haana’s hand and escorted her through the door.

Once again, the Veiled Man stood, silent and still. Once again, his servants waited, just as silent, just as still. Only Haana’s footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.

At last, the Veiled Man faced Mavell. “We shall speak in private, Collector.”

Mavell nodded, calling his shades to cloak them. Wisps whirled like smoke from an extinguished candle, encasing them in a soundproof cocoon of darkness.

“I am giving you a secret assignment, Collector. Find this godkiller.”

“Dead or alive?”

“Oh, trust me, young hunter, you and any mortal in all the Drawlen ranks are no match for this creature. He is mortari, a Shard Keeper, a reincarnation of Agroth. You will find him alive, and you will leave him alone.”

The words mortari and Agroth swirled in Mavell’s mind. They sounded familiar, but he nodded rather than risking ignorance before his master.

“You will tell no one what I show you, Collector, other than your partner. There are pieces of the child’s memory only you and I will see. Not even Lord Refsul, himself, will know the nature of this adversary. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

His master put two fingers under Mavell’s chin and lifted his own veil, revealing a pair of solid, white eyes. A vision of this room before the present gore flooded Mavell’s mind.

He was crouched behind a pillar near the dais. No, not crouched. Beneath him, Haana’s face reflected in a water basin.

Hoven, in all his obese glory, reclined on his golden throne. A red-haired woman of immense beauty, Tessa the oracle, stood rigidly at his side. Her perfection was only tarnished by the look of disgust on her face.

“You broke your word,” she said.

“I am a god, Tessa. I get whatever I want, no matter what deals you try to make. You say someone is coming to kill me. I say let them try.” He thrust out his sagging arm and surveyed the guards posted along the walls.

“No. You won’t be getting anything you want,” Tessa said.

“Why is that?” Hoven’s hand snaked up Tessa’s thigh, slipping under the gold fabric of her dress.

“I told you. I saw your death.”

“You lie.”

“A foreseer cannot lie.”

The crystals in the sunrock lanterns extinguished, a shadow falling over the windows like a curtain. Muffled screams erupted while the power of a ralenta’s shades momentarily blinded Haana. A minute later, fifteen dead guards lay exactly where Mavell first found them.

Tessa struggled to free her wrist from Hoven’s fat-handed grip. He grunted and tossed the slender woman. Tessa’s head struck the wall, and she fell unconscious and bleeding. Hoven drew a gaudy blade as he barked in horror.

In front of him sat the head of the wyvern with seven human heads skewered on its yellow fangs. Haana’s eyes moved toward two hooded figures in the middle of the hall. A tall, lanky ralenta held a curved, bloody knife in each hand.

Next to him stood the godkiller. His eyes blazed behind the shadow of his hood. A long, glittering red knife protruded from his sleeve. He stepped forward with preternatural speed, then vanished. After a low, quick buzzing, he reappeared in front of Hoven. He lifted the knife and—

Haana buried her face in her arm. When Hoven’s laughter filled the room, she lifted her head, eyes widening. Hoven clenched the godkiller’s forearm, fending off the knife.

“So glad we’re all enjoying ourselves,” the accomplice said. 

With overwhelming strength, the godkiller thrust the knife forward, and Hoven’s cries erupted. A red glow filled the room, intensifying with Hoven’s screams, followed by silence. Enveloped in darkness, Haana wept.

When Mavell resumed reality, he was lying on the floor. His shades no longer cloaked him, having lost connection with their master. Detoa’s hands rested on his shoulders, but she jumped when he shook her off and glared.

As Mavell rose, his legs quaking, the Veiled Man leaned closer. “Find him. And when you do, don’t let him know. Report to me and me alone.”

Brushing a greasy yellow lock off his forehead with a bloody glove, Mavell bowed. The Veiled Man faced the throne. “He won’t be missed.” Slowly and silently, he walked out of the room.

Mavell watched until his master was out of sight, then whispered to Detoa, “That’s probably true of most immortals.” As they left together, they passed through the atrium garden along the mid-level balcony. Sel and Haana came into view beside a fountain on the ground floor. The collectors slipped between two planters at the edge of the balcony to listen through the power of Mavell’s shade.

“I have a gift for you from your mother.” Sel draped a gold chain with a pendant over the child’s neck.

The girl squealed nervously as she clutched it.

“Now we shall return to Shevak,” Sel said.

“Lord Sel, what about my mother?” Haana sounded rather mature for one so young, but being a Drawlen harem child often meant growing up quickly.

“The oracle will recover.” The immortal tucked Haana’s blond hair behind her ears. “You’ll be mine someday, when you’re old enough and have come into your ralenta power. Then no one will touch you. No one but me.”

Detoa scoffed. Mavell pulled back his shade as Sel, the Eternal Child of Shadow, led his unsuspecting charge through the glass doors into the courtyard. The two collectors moved along the balcony for a closer view below. In the courtyard, the Veiled Man occupied the octagonal platform of the wraith gate. Sel ascended the eight steps, holding Haana’s hand.

Three bronze rings rotated within the gutters upon the wraith gate and eight bronze poles rose from holes at each corner, grinding and spinning against their stone housings. Attaching to each pole like a net, a fog of shadow solidified for a second before vanishing, along with the three people. The poles sank, disappearing beneath the intricately carved platform. The bronze rings slowed to a stop.

The two collectors stared at the empty gate from the balcony. “I never thought Selvator Kane to be sentimental, or a child-lover.” Wrinkling her nose, Detoa picked at a blotch of dried blood on her sleeve.

“He’s neither.” Mavell leaned against the railing. “He’s grooming her for a convenient binding. He’ll be quite disappointed when he finds out she doesn’t have a shred of ralenta power. Too bad for the girl. Sel is a wolf among wolves.”

“How can you know she has no shade craft when she’s only five?”

He pointed to his forehead. “I’ve seen through her eyes. By the way, what do you recall about the name Agroth?”

Detoa stared, her brows wrinkling. “Agroth. Man or immortal?”

“You tell me.”

“I think . . . hmm. Something to do with the Fires. Or maybe the Devourer.”

He licked his crooked teeth. “Ah yes, the ancient terrion king who was given the power of Absolute Death by Sovereign. When he died, priests divided his power among his warriors to continue fighting the Devourer.”

“They were called the Order of Mortari, weren’t they?” she asked.

Mavell adjusted his scarf. “Indeed. Supposedly, Agroth reincarnated during the Fires and killed the first legion of immortals.”

“Perhaps he’s returned.” Detoa tapped a finger against her mouth. “Perhaps he killed Hoven.”

“The dead remain as they are, Detoa. But the power Agroth wielded was enough to kill countless immortals. That power may indeed live on, and it appears someone has started using it again.”