Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3) Read online

  Why now? What had changed with him?

  Without him, what did the Magi lose? Jostephon was the Mage who would know the key to choosing a Uniter. Without him, would they succeed? Their odds had been poor before, but now they were even worse.

  Alriyn glanced at Endric, thankful for the Denraen general’s presence. Without Endric, would he have managed to get free? He might have ultimately killed Jostephon, but at what price? What would he have sacrificed by killing his old friend?

  Worse, though, was that Alriyn wasn't certain it wouldn't still come to that. Regardless of the temporary defeat, Jostephon remained somewhere within the palace. Of that he was certain. The man wouldn't abandon whatever plan he had in mind so easily. Not if he had been so willing to sacrifice his beliefs. Not if he had been willing to sacrifice those he was supposed to serve.

  “Where are you leading us?” Endric asked.

  Alriyn forced the thoughts out of his mind. They were dangerous thoughts, ones that came with the fear he'd felt the moment he realized Jostephon had involved himself in something far more dangerous than Alriyn could ever have imagined. “As I said, we need to secure the mahne. Once it is secured, then I can focus on discovering what else Jostephon had in mind.”

  Endric's brow furrowed. “I fear his intent was to disrupt everything within Vasha. If he was able to infiltrate the Magi, and we know he has helped the Deshmahne infiltrate the city, I worry about the Denraen.”

  Alriyn almost stumbled as he stopped. “You worry more about the Denraen than about the Magi?”

  Endric took a deep breath and cast a quick glance to Novan. “The Magi have always possessed power. Having them converted… It's dangerous. There are only so many Magi. I worry more about having fully trained soldiers infiltrated by such power. The Denraen maintain the peace. If the Deshmahne have somehow managed to infiltrate my men, I worry what else might happen. What if these men—men I trust on patrol—can’t be trusted? What if the men I've sent out, expecting them to maintain peace, do nothing of the sort?” He stared at Alriyn, letting the question linger in the air. “So, yes, I’m more concerned about the Denraen than about the Magi.”

  “You’ve done all that you can to keep those men safe,” Novan reassured.

  Endric gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening, and the scars on his face distorting slightly. “I’ve done what I can, but I still fear some might have slipped through. It's happened once. That's enough for me.”

  They reached the library on the fifth level of the palace and passed through the massive oak door. Rows of shelves filled the room, towering toward the ceiling. There was a certain organization to the books, one that Alriyn had long ago mastered. The works stored here held the knowledge of generations of Magi scholars. There were tomes from the university as well, the Masters there often the equals of the Magi scholars. Alriyn knew that works of the historians guild were also here, though none were the originals. The guild kept those locked away—along with the added comments the historians were rumored to make in them—as if to prevent the Magi from knowing what secrets they knew.

  Was he too late? Had the Eldest already reached the library? If they lost the mahne, more than their heritage would be lost—they would lose the chance to follow the ancient prophecy.

  Alriyn saw no movement. There was nothing but the regular activity of the librarian, making his way along the shelves. Efrain’s eyes widened when he noted Novan and Endric with Alriyn, and he stood between shelves with his hands clasped in front of him.

  Were there only the time to send Novan away. Having the historian gain access to the library seemed a mistake—especially with his past. Worse, it was a mistake they had already made when they’d let him get too close in the past. Novan was far too eager to discover secrets the Magi scholars kept and seemed far too eager to interfere.

  Yet Alriyn suspected Novan had secrets of his own that he had not yet shared. Perhaps he could leverage that to prevent Novan from reaching what they didn’t want him to reach.

  What had the historian been doing when the Deshmahne attacked? Alriyn had seen him speaking softly to himself, not seeming nearly as perturbed as Endric, and not nearly as injured as the Magi. That hinted at some greater ability that Novan possessed.

  How could that be possible?

  As far as he knew, Novan was nothing more than a historian. He had a sharp mind—almost too sharp—but was not Mageborn, and was certainly no soldier.

  Yet… There was no disputing that Novan had handled the attack much better than Alriyn would've expected. For that matter, he’d reacted much better than Alriyn had.

  More secrets for him to understand.

  He stopped at the back wall of the library. A massive shelf lined the wall, making it appear no different from the rest of the library. Without looking over to either man, he used his Mage abilities, drawing the manehlin in such a way that he pressed it upon the shelf, pulling it back. On the other side was a blank wall.

  “You will be the first not on the Council to ever have stepped into this room. You should understand that were this not necessary, I would not do this.”

  Endric chuckled. “I think you overestimate the security of your chamber.”

  Alriyn turned to look at him. “What do you mean? Only the Council has ever been granted access to this chamber. Even the librarians are forbidden access.”

  Endric nodded toward the section of wall. “Are you going to open the door, or do you need me to?”

  “You wouldn't be able to—”

  Endric shouldered past him and slapped his hand on the wall, and power surged.

  The section of wall slipped open, revealing the chamber on the other side. Alriyn barely noticed that the mahne was still present. Relief swept through him, but it was tempered by what he had just experienced.

  “What… How…”

  Endric stepped into the room. “One failing of the Magi has long been their belief that they are the only ones with any sort of power.” Endric glanced back to Alriyn. “Even you, Second Eldest, suffer from that belief.”

  Novan followed Endric into the room. Alriyn hesitated a moment, before hurrying in after them.

  The only way that Endric would have been able to open that door…

  Novan turned to the section of wall and triggered it closed. It was more of a mechanical trigger from the side, not one that required strength and power in the manehlin, but Novan’s familiarity with how to close the wall troubled Alriyn.

  What was happening here? He had come thinking to protect the mahne, bringing Endric for his own safety, and Novan because he doubted the historian would've allowed him to go without him, but he was left with questions he hadn't expected. There was no way that Endric should have been able to open that wall. Yet he had.

  “For you to have been able to do that would mean you have some ability with the manehlin.”

  Endric stood in front of the mahne, eyes fixed on the book. Alriyn could feel the barrier pressing out from it, the section that he'd added contributing to it. This would be the first time in centuries that the mahne would be removed from this chamber. He still didn't know what he would do with it once they removed it. Yet Alriyn felt confident that it needed to be removed, that he needed to protect it from whatever Jostephon intended for it, and there was little doubt that he intended to do something with the mahne. It was the key to everything they were.

  A troubling thought came to him. What if the Deshmahne wanted to disrupt the choice of the Uniter?

  He shook it away and turned to Endric. “Are you going to answer?”

  Endric grunted, his preferred way of speaking. The long scar along his cheek twitched, pulling his face tight. Not for the first time, Alriyn wondered what happened to give him that scar. How had he earned something so violent?

  “As I said, one thing I have observed in all my years in Vasha is how the Magi believe they are the only ones with any ability.” As he finished, he reached his hands through the barrier and grabbed the mahn
e.

  Endric should not have been able to open the door to the chamber, but he absolutely should not have been able to reach through the barrier. Endric grabbed the book as if it were nothing.

  No, that wasn't quite right.

  Alriyn noted the tight expression on Endric's face. There was a strain to the man. He had an effort to what he did, one that was belied by the way he passed through the barrier. When Endric withdrew the mahne, he handed it to Alriyn.

  “This is what we came for. Now we have to keep it safe,” Endric said. “If you intend to find the nemah, then you will need its guidance.”

  Endric knew. And Novan didn’t seem surprised.

  What more did the Council not know?

  Alriyn held the book in his hands, staring at the cover, transfixed as he usually was by the symbol that had been made all those years ago. The barrier the Magi had placed around the mahne had been partially for protection, and partially to preserve it. A book this old needed to be preserved, and had they done nothing, without the barrier, the pages would dry, crack, and fade. Already, there had been much damage to the book, likely even before it came into the Magi's possession. If they could repair that damage, he could learn the secrets long lost in those pages—he could find the answers he had long sought, like those who preceded him had sought, even Jostephon had sought.

  Glancing from Endric to Novan, he wondered—had he discovered an answer to what was on those missing pages?

  “I'm beginning to think that it has never been protected,” Alriyn said.

  “It's been safe enough here,” Endric began. “Now… Now it's time for us to take the mahne somewhere else. The secrets of the past must be preserved.”

  “Jostephon once told me this only represented words on a page,” Alriyn said, thinking back to the conversation.

  Novan eyed the book with an almost hungry expression. “Is that what you believe? Do you believe this to be simply words on a page?”

  “They are written in the ancient language. There is power in those words, a power that most barely understand,” Alriyn said. “Beyond that, this is a call for peace. This book—the mahne—demands that we strive for peace. It has never been clear exactly why. Only that the gods asked this of us.”

  “And why do you think the gods cared for peace?” Novan asked.

  Alriyn squeezed the mahne in his hands. Could Jostephon be right? Could it be nothing more than words? He had gained significant power listening to the Deshmahne. Was that what he'd intended for Alriyn to learn?

  No. Even the goddesses wanted him to protect the mahne. She had instructed him to watch for evidence of the Deshmahne influence within the city. Alriyn knew the gods and goddesses were real. He had seen her.

  “What do you know, historian? What is it about peace?”

  Novan smiled, almost sadly. “It has always been about more than what the mahne has explained. The gods… There is something they protect, much as there is something you protect. That's the reason for peace, the reason the mahne is so important.”

  Endric tensed and hurried to the door. He tipped his head to the side as if listening. After a moment, he looked back at them. “We need to get moving.”

  Alriyn frowned. “Why? What is it that you detect?”

  Endric nodded to the door. “You wondered whether the Deshmahne cared about the mahne? I think we’re about to get the answer.”

  Alriyn stuffed the book into the large pocket of his robe. He took a deep breath, drawing power into the open portion of his mind, feeling the way the manehlin filled it, noting how much vaster it seemed than it ever had before. Then he nodded.

  As he did, he wondered: why was he able to see power swirling around Endric and Novan?

  Chapter Eight

  Having left the daneamiin city, the return to the Great Forest should have led Jakob to find Alyta, the last of the race of beings most knew as gods. Instead, they had arrived in the forest and faced the Deshmahne. Faint light filtered through the trees, and the air was still, almost heavy. An odor clung to it, one Jakob recognized from the Deshmahne.

  The dark priest that stood in front of Jakob, power radiating from him, was the same man who had trapped him in the forest long ago. Had Brohmin not come for him, Jakob didn’t know what would have happened to him. Would they have forced him to convert? Would they have killed him?

  There wasn’t time for those questions—or the answers. Another question needed answering first.

  “Alyta still lives?” Brohmin asked, his quiet voice heavy in the silence around them.

  Jakob hazarded a glance at the man and saw that he stood casually, a dark fury to his pale eyes and a firm tilt to his jaw. Salindra stood next to him, her posture now slouched as she withdrew from the dark priests arrayed before them, yet her face flashed anger and defiance. Anda had slid far behind them all, nearly to the tree line, and she blended into the background. Jakob knew she would not fight.

  “For now,” the Deshmahne answered. “It matters little. She will be gone soon, and her power will be passed on to the Highest.”

  Jakob heard the quiet ring of metal as Brohmin unsheathed his sword, and he laid a hand on Neamiin, pulling it quickly and holding it loosely before him. A humming came from the sword, shooting up his arm and into his head, dizzying him briefly as it did. Always the vibration had come from him first, but now, the sword buzzed with its own energy.

  Since visiting the Cala maah, his sword Neamiin had awakened.

  “Not passed. Taken,” Brohmin said heatedly.

  The large Deshmahne barely shrugged. “A minor difference.”

  Brohmin laughed, and there was an edge to it. “Not minor. Not at all.” His jaw muscles flexed in anger. “You will never understand.”

  Jakob stepped into a ready stance but swooned.

  A low laugh came from one of the Deshmahne as Jakob righted himself, but he ignored it as he struggled to ignore the waves of emotion pushed upon him by the Deshmahne.

  Hopelessness. Fear. Self-doubt.

  All came at him in a torrent.

  It was stronger than the last time he had felt it, nearly an ocean of weight to the emotions that rolled over him, but he remembered the sense all too well. When they’d captured him, he’d experienced horrid memories that he’d moved past, yet the sense of hopelessness and disappointment to the gods had stayed with him. When he’d faced the Deshmahne before, he didn’t have the same control of the ahmaean as he did now.

  It would be different this time.

  Jakob glanced at his sword and saw Neamiin radiating, its ahmaean flowing from the bright side of the blade back into the muted black edge that buzzed with the same sense that burned up his arm.

  He took a deep breath and somehow pulled some of the ahmaean of his sword into himself, clearing his head as he did. For some reason, the Deshmahne waited… unless there had been something like what he’d experienced before, the sensation that time had stopped.

  Full of his sword’s ahmaean, he studied the Deshmahne.

  A sense of darkness hung about the men, a thick haze that he now recognized. It hovered over the ground like an early morning fog, small tendrils stretching away from the Deshmahne and fading as they did. Where the haze came into contact with the large rocks scattered about the clearing, it simply vanished.

  The Deshmahne glared at him a moment, and Jakob felt the heat of the emotion flung at Brohmin. It was a heavy wave of sorrow and fear, and Brohmin staggered a moment before pulling back his shoulders and standing upright again. A determined expression crossed his face, and he flared his nostrils as he steadied himself again.

  “So be it,” the large Deshmahne said, and made a small movement with his hand, barely more than a flicker. The lesser Deshmahne behind him started forward. The dark haze, their dark ahmaean, moved with them, oozing forward with their motion.

  “It is upon us to save her,” Brohmin said.

  The words were directed at Jakob, and he turned his head briefly. Brohmin did not look at him, his
eyes watching the movement of the Deshmahne as they advanced upon them. The large Deshmahne stood motionless, watching as the other priests surrounded them. There was a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, a dark smirk, and his eyes glittered with malice. As Jakob watched, small fingers of ahmaean—tendrils of it—stretched from the large priest to the other Deshmahne, and a rush of understanding came to him.

  “Does he direct them?” he asked Brohmin.

  “I think so,” Brohmin said without taking his eyes off the Deshmahne.

  “If he is gone?” Salindra asked as she moved nearer to Brohmin for protection.

  “It will be easier. Not easy.”

  Jakob looked briefly to Brohmin and Salindra before glancing back at Anda. She stood at the edge of the forest, one hand upon a large tree, and her face twisted with what could only be fear. Seeing that look on Anda’s peaceful face triggered something within him. A surge of anger flooded through him. Anger that the Deshmahne would direct their violence against the daneamiin, a peaceful people. Anger at what they had taken from him, had done to him. His father. Novan. His capture.

  Constant fear.

  Jakob steeled himself. It was too much. They would do this to him no longer.

  They will not have Anda, he thought.

  Neamiin came up before him as if sensing his thoughts. The ahmaean flowed around him, twining down his arm and through him before stretching back into the sword. He practically hummed with the sword.

  Jakob pulled on the ahmaean and everything about him slowed. “I’ll take on the lead Deshmahne.”

  Brohmin did look at him then. “No, Jakob! I’m not sure that even I can take him. We need to retreat to safety, or Alyta will never be saved!”

  The large Deshmahne answered. “There will be no retreat; there will be no safety.” And he lunged forward, leaping inside the circle of lesser Deshmahne toward Brohmin, a long sword held in both hands sweeping down toward the man.