Trials of the Innermost: Etherea Cycle, #1

CHAPTER 1

Light.

Too much light.

Alone.

Kharnek awoke to find himself slumped against the wall of a dark hallway. The basalt that composed structures in Zel Morakh chilled his back. His head throbbed. He lifted a hand to rub his face and winced when the stone shards stuck to his palm dug into the skin of his eyelids.

He attempted to stand, and his surroundings whirled. He recalled the events of the last shadowfall after the moon dipped beneath the horizon. His duties were completed with time to unwind before another restless sleep. Too many drafts of ’cano ale with his warrior brothers and then—

An ululating wail startled Kharnek into full alertness. Torchlight flickered into existence near the hallway’s end to his left.

Where is he? a manic voice demanded. A woman’s cry crescendoed from grief into rage. Let go of me! You cannot protect him!

The creak of polished leather armor and boots registered in Kharnek’s trained ears. Three male silhouettes danced in the orange light, struggling to restrain the woman, who wore a spectral violet gown that wafted about her clawing arms. One of the men broke away to move toward Kharnek.

In an instant, he surrendered to the compulsion that lurked in the back of his mind, the voice that haunted him. The voice that was not his but had infected him like a disease.

Light.

Too much light.

Kharnek’s hangover melted away. He slipped past the advancing man, moving so fast that his assailant appeared frozen in place, arms caught mid-swing with his step. When Kharnek walked in shadow, no living creature could see him or match his pace. He paused near the other two men and the woman; they resembled a violent still-life painting. To his surprise, he recognized the woman, Myal, the wife of one of his closest friends. Kharnek remembered this was her home and that just beyond her at the end of the hallway lay the dining hall. He flowed past Myal and abruptly halted at the dining hall’s entrance.

Destruction personified had torn through the room. The twelve-foot-long table, hewn from a single slab of basalt, played host to the broken bodies of several warriors. Kharnek’s friend and Captain of the City Guard lay among them. Hedek’s face was locked by rigor mortis into an expression of horror.

Kharnek instinctively drew his sword. Blood reflected torch light on the cold metal. He dropped the weapon, its clatter echoing as he examined his hands; crimson stains smeared across the map of indentations.

No. This is a dream.

The words tumbled from his mouth, half statement, half plea. Kharnek backed away, and his connection to his preternatural abilities broke. Behind him, the frantic struggle between Myal and the two guards resumed. She screeched and broke free of the men restraining her. In her right hand, a slender dagger appeared. A purple jewel set in its handle was filled with a familiar, swirling darkness.

Kharnek turned and opened his arms in welcome as her hand drove toward his chest. The blade pierced his flesh, but he felt no pain. He laughed as the shadow in the jewel joined the darkness inside him, and he unleashed its terrible power. A black miasma enveloped Myal and the guards.

When the darkness cleared, only ashes remained.

Kharnek fell to his knees, overcome with guilt. A soft swishing noise of fabric against stone heralded the approach of his masters. Anguish turned to anger as the priests encircled him. One of them held a flickering torch, revealing a malicious grin on the man’s face as he spoke.

Well done, son of Komor. Morakh’s Shadow within you is powerful indeed. You will be a great asset in the war to come.

Kharnek’s eyes flew open, darting in the death throes of his ’burn dream. Sweat soaked the coarse red blanket wrapped around him. His muscled chest heaved as he took in the familiar confines of his bedchamber. He rolled out of bed and stood, the coolness of basalt under his bare feet dragging him further into reality.

The volcanic glow that perpetually limned the skyline of Zel Morakh painted the room in shades of red and orange through its sole, slit-like window. Though dim, it was enough for Kharnek to distinguish the geometric outlines of the black ceremonial tattoos that adorned his pale skin—the marks of a warrior of Komor. He brushed his chest just above his heart, his fingers tracing the raised skin of the scar where Myal had stabbed him. It was a visible reminder that his dreams were grounded in reality.

Kharnek moved to the window and gazed upon the muted sprawl of Zel Morakh, the capital city of Komor. Nestled in a large rift created by ancient tectonic shifts, the metropolis was shielded from the bitter cold of the tundra that comprised most of the realm’s surface. Volcanic activity beneath the city kept its residents warm, their primary defense against the eternal darkness that shrouded the western hemisphere of Etherea. Neither of the moons were visible at this time, which the other realms called night, but Komorese knew it as Morakh’s Shadow. The stepped ziggurat of the Temple of Morakh dominated Kharnek’s view from the Warrior’s Wing. It was no accident that the military housing in Zel Morakh lay in the shadow of the residence of the Priesthood elite. Even though Komor’s army was the largest in Etherea, its state religion—and its priests—were the realm’s true rulers.

The sight of the Temple awakened a mixture of anger, remorse, fear, and anticipation. It was because of the Priesthood that he had these bad dreams and that his hands were soaked in blood. His prowess as a warrior and strange powers did not atone for his crimes, and at times he felt crushed by the weight of his guilt and the blood on his hands.

Light—

No!

He clenched his hands into fists and willed the darkness into the back of his mind. He did not need this distraction. Fear coiled in his gut. Though he had lived with his powers and the compulsions that came with them for nearly twenty epicycles, they had lately been more difficult to control, more insistent. Words and fragments of thoughts whispered in his mind, articulating a desire to sink into the darkness forever.

Kharnek?

The deep voice came from the bed behind him. He glanced at his timepiece and groaned. It was only an hour before moonrise when he would be expected to report for duty. Turning toward the speaker, he tried to banish the fatigue that tinged his words.

What is it, Valin?

Are you coming back to bed?

I doubt it.

Valin grunted. Kharnek watched him roll out of bed and begin collecting his scattered garments.

I’m going home, then. We have drills early at moonrise. Not that I need to tell you that. You are running them, right?

No. I will be attending a meeting with the Mahir and Captain Ahlet.

Valin snorted, shrugging on his gray shirt and shorts. Training garments, identical to Kharnek’s own. Standard issue for members of the Brotherhood, Komor’s military. What do the priests want now? Didn’t the Mahir just sanction more raids into Heathström and Sondrine, even though the Trials are about to start? So much for ceasing hostilities.

A wry grin lifted the corners of Kharnek’s mouth. Valin referred to the Priesthood’s orders to continue quietly exploring the defenses of Etherea’s other realms. The sorties had never stopped even after the peace accords many epicycles ago. While Komor’s neighbors might protest this violation of their sovereignty, they lacked the numbers to stop it. Were it not for the magic the other realms employed, the pretense of diplomacy would have long since collapsed, and Komor would have dominion over them, but if these latest raids proved successful, that time was much nearer than Komor’s enemies expected.

They did, Kharnek replied, but Captain Ahlet mentioned some sort of special assignment. I suspect that I will be leaving the city for some time.

Valin cocked his head. It must be serious if they’re sending you. The City Guard barely ever leaves Zel Morakh, right?

Kharnek shrugged. You are correct. But my talents are wasted on protecting dignitaries from imagined threats from Sondrinel or one of the Heathström witches.

As Valin finished dressing, the soldier faced Kharnek. This is a fact. Well, I hope I can see you before you leave.

He leaned in for a kiss, but Kharnek twisted his face away. Valin pulled back with a wounded expression.

What’s wrong?

Nothing is wrong, Kharnek answered, not making eye contact.

Then why not—

Valin. The clipped reply was as much a warning as a plea. Kharnek felt the allure of the other man’s company, but after the dream, it was intertwined with a deadly hunger. This has to stop. You and me.

The words struck Valin with visible force, but to his credit, he did not reply immediately. Kharnek forged ahead into the silence. I am probably going to be gone for a long time. It would not be fair to ask you to wait for me.

Valin’s countenance transformed from hurt to anger. So you just get to make that decision for me? For us? He drew near Kharnek and placed his hands on the warrior’s biceps. "That isn’t fair. You know how I feel about you. And I think you feel the same."

Kharnek’s resolve crumbled beneath Valin’s steady gaze. At first, their trysts had been just that, ephemeral and fleeting. But after enough of them, time had drawn new boundaries for their relationship, and friends no longer made for an accurate descriptor. But guilt shadowed Kharnek throughout the process, borne of his awareness of the evil within him that he did not want anyone to see—or worse, be hurt by.

Kharnek. Valin pressed his body against the warrior’s, kindling heat in Kharnek’s lower abdomen. "Please, give me a chance. Give us a chance." He kissed him with a passion that stole Kharnek’s breath.

The warrior pulled away, despite every nerve ending screaming for him to do the opposite. Valin, stop. I am not who you think I am.

His words seemed to have no effect on his lover, who closed the distance between them again. Valin’s eyes flashed as he looked up at Kharnek. I don’t have to know you to know I want you. Then he leaned in and kissed him again.

Against his better judgment, this time Kharnek met Valin’s fire with his own and felt it course through him. A low moan escaped the other man’s lips as Kharnek nipped the hollow at the base of his neck. Valin’s hands slipped beneath Kharnek’s shirt. His touch was hot on the warrior’s skin, and Kharnek surrendered to his desire, to the never-ending hunger.

The shadow in him seized control. All the flames of his and Valin’s connection were extinguished by an endless well of cold, ruthless need to devour.

I told you to stop. Kharnek’s words slithered through the air, the usual deep timbre of his voice replaced by an oily tone that oscillated in pitch.

Valin looked down at him from where he was held aloft by an invisible, viselike grip around his throat. A stifled scream strained the muscles in his neck when his gaze locked on the pitch-black that Kharnek knew had overtaken his eyes.

The man’s life started a slow spiral into oblivion, its diminishment strengthening Kharnek’s power. The sensation shocked him, and he became aware of the darkness pulling him deeper into its grip, fed by his cruelty. He clenched his hands into fists and cried out, breaking its hold.

Valin dropped to the floor in a heap. He staggered to his feet; his body wracked by violent coughs.

You...are a monster! He gasped.

Valin— Kharnek reached to steady the soldier, but Valin stumbled away from his touch, one hand raised in a warding gesture.

Get away from me!

Kharnek pulled back as if stung. Valin, I am sorry, I did not mean to. I...I would never hurt you.

The other man’s eyes were wide with fear as he opened the door and looked back at Kharnek. Don’t ever come near me again.

Valin fled down the corridor, his words echoing off the stone walls of the Warriors’ Wing.

Gritting his teeth, Kharnek slammed the door to his bedchamber shut. Tears coursed their way down his cheeks. With a snarl, he wiped away the unbidden moisture and paced to the window, turning a baleful stare upon the Temple. He spent the rest of Morakh’s Shadow staring out the window, wondering when he would wake up from this unending ’burn dream. He could add Valin to the lengthy list of failed relationships that his inner darkness had cost him. But beneath the sting of rejection lay a cold, unyielding truth: It was better this way. No one would be hurt except him.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. Kharnek grimaced and composed himself before striding across the room and flinging the portal open.

What? he bit out, then immediately snapped to attention and saluted. Apologies, sir, he mumbled.

His superior, Captain Ahlet, regarded him with a bemused expression. At ease, Guardsman. I should apologize for the hour of my visit. May I come in?

Kharnek waved him in, silently thanking Morakh that the man was not a stickler for formality. The captain seated himself at the small desk that occupied the other half of Kharnek’s chamber and motioned for the warrior to sit. He perched on the edge of his bed, keeping a tight rein on his piqued curiosity.

The captain addressed him. I trust that all is well with your command?

Sir?

I encountered Specialist Saita on my way here. He seemed quite distraught.

Ah. Kharnek lowered his gaze. A disagreement regarding a personal matter. Nothing that will impede his or my performance.

Captain Ahlet’s brows raised. I trust that it will not. At any rate, that is not why I am here. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, Kharnek’s superior regarded him steadily. I wanted to tell you before we meet with the Mahir, so you have some time to prepare. You have been chosen to represent Komor in the Trials of the Innermost.

Kharnek was so taken aback that he nearly missed the officer’s next words.

Publicly, this is a great honor and a reflection of your distinguished service to Komor, the captain was saying, but in truth, the Priesthood intends to use the Trials as an opportunity to further weaken our enemies. And you, Guardsman, will be their instrument.

A caustic retort rose unbidden to his lips, but he swallowed it quickly. Captain Ahlet had been his mentor since Kharnek’s promotion to the City Guard from the regular ranks of the Brotherhood. Although the Priesthood’s involvement rankled, his superior displayed confidence and trust in him by disclosing this information in advance. He would do as he was asked out of respect for the other man and his sense of duty.

I know the Priesthood has been...unkind to you, the captain said quietly.

Kharnek looked up, his eyes widening.

The officer spread his hands, the gesture creasing the sleeves of his blood-red dress uniform. I looked into your background when you were assigned to my command. Some of it is hidden from me, but I learned enough to understand what was done to you. They made you into a weapon and gave you little choice in the matter.

They view all of the Brotherhood as their tools, Kharnek interjected, I am not alone in that regard.

Captain Ahlet sighed. Indeed not, but we both know you are a special case. Which is why you’ve been chosen as one of the two Truthseekers from Komor.

Who is the other?

A frown creased the other man’s forehead as he leaned back in his chair. A priest, I’m afraid. But I’m given to understand he’s a political dissident, part of a growing faction within the Mahir who want peace with our neighbors.

Kharnek digested this news with equal parts disdain and confusion. No matter his political beliefs, he had no desire to spend months with a priest.

Sensing his puzzlement, the captain elaborated, I suspect the other Mahir want him as far from Zel Morakh as possible. Without a figurehead, this movement will be easily quashed. We’ve seen this cycle repeat itself before with other groups that were eventually branded as ‘heretical.’

Kharnek nodded. He had taken part in punitive action against such groups, but that had been many epicycles ago and did not fully explain his involvement now. So, he began slowly, what is expected of me during the Trials?

The captain sat up tall and looked Kharnek in the eye. What I’m about to tell you remains strictly between us. The other Truthseeker must remain ignorant of your mission at all costs...even if it means silencing him. Permanently.

I understand. What of the other four? Kharnek referred to the pairs that would come from Heathström and Sondrine.

If they discover or seek to interfere with your mission, eliminate them. Discreetly, of course, we can’t afford a major diplomatic incident until all our preparations are finished. But, assuming they remain in the dark for the duration of the Trials, you will cooperate with them to complete the tasks set out for the six of you. The first one is simple: you and the priest must reach Waverling together. There will be a departure ceremony here before you leave.

Kharnek groaned inwardly. Going to Heathström’s capital was an eastward trek across the frigid surface of Komor that would last at least ten cycles, and no doubt the priest would expect him to act as a caretaker the whole way. And then he would have to tolerate more foreigners for however long the Trials lasted. Months, most likely, if the historical precedent was anything to go on.

Once you reach Waverling, the captain continued, interrupting Kharnek’s musings, your mission will truly begin.

As his superior officer began to outline the Priesthood’s scheme and his part in it, the darkness in him writhed in anticipation.

Light, he whispered. Too much light.

Captain Ahlet paused. What did you say?

Sorry, sir, just thinking aloud. Kharnek’s hands, which he had unknowingly clenched, relaxed when the other man did not question the utterance any further, but a sense of foreboding stole over him like frost creeping across a windowpane.

Soon, the voice in his head hissed, soon, we will be whole.

CHAPTER 2

The old parchment crackled and released its earthy aroma as Zinvar unrolled it. He loved the smell. It permeated the Great Library of Mora, where he and many other newly-minted priests toiled. Zinvar smoothed the document on the surface of a table littered with other scrolls and took in its content. Neat lines of Komorese text were bunched around diagrams of peculiar geometric objects, unlike anything he had ever seen. In the flickering light of the torches that lit the library, the depictions seemed to change shape with each fresh examination. They unsettled and intrigued him. Pulling up the sleeves of his rust-colored robes, he prepared to elucidate their secrets.

You’re still here?

Zinvar jumped and spun to find another priest behind him, a smirk on his face. Sneaking up on people won’t make you many friends, Lem, he admonished, wagging a finger.

The other priest laughed. I couldn’t resist. Just be glad it was me and not one of the Mahir.

Zinvar cast a wary glance to either side to make sure none of the senior members of the Priesthood were roaming the shelves nearby and allowed himself an answering grin. That’s true. I’m already hopelessly behind on the work that Ezreth gave me, never mind any additional tasks they’d foist upon me.

At least you were assigned to someone prominent after your initiation, Lem grumbled. Instead of some old crackpot obsessed with water clocks. He moved closer to the table and looked over Zinvar’s shoulder. What is all that, anyway?

Zinvar obligingly moved out of the way and swept his arm to indicate the heap of knowledge. It would seem that the Mahir—or Ezreth, at least—have renewed their interest in ancient artifacts found across Etherea. I’ve been instructed to identify any texts referencing such things and bring them to him for review.

Sounds insufferably dull, Lem replied, peering down at the scroll Zinvar had opened. Although these illustrations are odd. Do you really think there were other civilizations here before Komor?

Zinvar lifted his shoulders in response. The Mahir seem to think so. I’m just glad to see them focusing on something other than fighting the other realms.

That elicited a snort from Lem. Their favorite pastime. I doubt that that’s ceased to be a priority.

You’re probably right, Zinvar agreed, slouching.

Lem faced Zinvar and placed a hand on his shoulder. Zin...we’ve been friends for a long time. You’re twenty-six now, right?

Yes.

The other priest shook his head. Hard to believe we were acolytes for so long. Six epicycles from joining to initiation. And now we’ve been full members of the Priesthood for almost an epicycle.

The time has flown by, Zinvar nodded, wondering where Lem was going with this jaunt through the annals of memory.

It has. And we’ve both changed, but you’ve been consistent in your, ah, values, let’s say. Which I admire about you! But not everyone feels the same.

Zinvar frowned. Speak plainly, Lem. You’re circling what you want to say like a varg that’s cornered its prey.

His friend sighed. You’re an advocate for peace among the realms. That’s made you enemies among the Mahir.

I’m aware that my views are unpopular with some, Zinvar said dryly.

Lem’s eyes narrowed. "But that’s just it. Your stance is popular with some priests. More than I think you realize."

Isn’t that a good thing?

Yes and no. Zinvar’s friend gestured at the tomes surrounding them. You earned this assignment because you were a model acolyte. That’s also why your position on diplomacy was tolerated, but now that you’re a real priest and people are actually listening to you...well, I’m afraid that that tolerance is about to run out.

Zinvar blinked, his mind whirling. His hand strayed toward the ebon wood of his staff leaning against the table. Whenever he felt lost, its comforting solidity would ground him.

I’m not saying this to frighten you, Lem went on, but if the more traditional Mahir consider you a threat to their way of life, you could be in danger. You’ve seen what they do to blasphemers. Like your brother.

The painful memory made Zinvar grimace. Yes, I’m well aware. His shoulders drooped. Thank you for the warning, my friend. I understand if you need to limit your association with me. You have Celya and the children to think of.

Lem smiled. I would never abandon you like that. But maybe tone down the divisive rhetoric for a bit, eh?

I can’t promise anything, Zinvar cautioned, especially with the Trials coming up. It’s a perfect opportunity to remind the Mahir that our world could be so different if we’d only embrace the hope that the Trials represent.

His friend chuckled. You never did back down easily. Remember when that ekkarid came marching out of the sea into the dormitory, and you chased it away with nothing but a broom?

Eight legs are entirely too many. Zinvar shuddered. Despite their terrifying appearance, the huge crustaceans that inhabited the cold waters around the Isle of Mora and southwestern Komor were actually quite docile. Even so, he had no desire to drive one off again.

On that, we can agree. Lem stretched his arms. Well, it’s getting late. I should get home. Celya will kill me if I miss dinner again.

Zinvar flashed a wicked grin. Better her than the Mahir.

Ha! You have a point there. Take care, Zin. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.

The priest waved goodbye to his friend and returned his attention to the scroll. Or tried to. His mind kept revisiting his conversation with Lem like a ghost haunting the place of its death. If everything his friend said was true, he found himself in a precarious position. While Zinvar generally enjoyed good relations with his peers—especially those close to him in age—he knew he had few allies among the most devout Mahir due to his pacifist leanings. An exception was his mentor, Ezreth, who steadfastly ignored any of Zinvar’s attempts to engage him on such topics but also did nothing to curb them. The older priest’s familial wealth and political connections shielded him from any fallout created by having a rebellious youth among his staff. Even so, should the other Mahir move against Zinvar, he suspected that relying on Ezreth for support would be akin to leaning on a splintered rod. His usefulness as a scholar and researcher was what his mentor prized.

Not that I’m doing the best at that right now, he mused.

Resigning himself to being too distracted to make further progress this cycle, Zinvar gathered up the scrolls and books he deemed of interest to Ezreth and collected his staff, then set off for the Mahir’s office, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous library, empty at this hour save for him. Exiting the library, Zinvar made his way down the central corridor that linked all the buildings in the Priesthood’s complex on the Isle of Mora. The vaulted ceiling of the passageway played host to frescoes depicting moments of triumph from Komor’s history. If those artworks were not enough to instill pedestrians with reverent awe, statues of prominent Mahir lined the sides of the corridor. Pride blossomed in Zinvar’s chest. For all its flaws, Komorese civilization had produced great wonders.

At the corridor’s midpoint, Zinvar paused. A huge statue of Morakh dominated the central space, stretching upward beneath a grand rotunda. This depiction of Komor’s deity showed him in his most common form: a tall man shrouded in a heavy cloak. While outsiders might find the effigy rather bland in appearance, followers of Morakhism knew that this was an accurate representation of the mysteries that could only be known in the glory of absolute darkness, and Morakh, the lord of all shadows, offered up his secrets only to the faithful—or so the Mahir said. Privately, Zinvar had begun to doubt that Morakh was truly a god. The few canonical writings the Priesthood made available regarding Morakh’s origins were clearly propaganda, with their fantastic stories of the deity shaping the land from his shadow and none-too-subtle encouragements to make offerings at Morakh’s temple. Stranger still, none of the texts he had reviewed for Ezreth made mention of a divine entity of any kind. Writings from the dawn of Komorese civilization ought to speak of Morakh somehow, but the oldest reference he had found was a mere two hundred epicycles ago, roughly a decade before the Priesthood united Komor’s disparate city-states beneath its banner.

Thoughts like this are going to get you into serious trouble. If they haven’t already, Zinvar chastised himself. Shrugging off his doubts, he moved on exiting the corridor to enter the rectangular structure that housed dormitories on its lower levels for junior priests and acolytes. The upper floors contained the spacious apartments occupied by the Mahir. Zinvar hurried up the five flights of stairs to reach the top floor where Ezreth resided. Offering a silent prayer to Morakh—or anyone that might be listening—that his mentor would be too distracted to notice his tardiness, he approached the entrance to Ezreth’s apartment. Firelight flickered at the door’s edges, and muffled voices emanated beyond them. Zinvar frowned. It was unusual for Ezreth to entertain guests this close to middark when the moon’s light completely vanished, and Komor’s eternal darkness reached its zenith. Perhaps another assistant had returned late. Zinvar tapped lightly on the door. The quiet conversation stopped.

That must be him. Come in, Zinvar, Ezreth’s reedy voice invited.

The priest opened the door. I apologize for the delay. My— He stopped short when he recognized the man seated across from Ezreth in the apartment’s front parlor. Zinvar quickly offered a deep bow, which prompted one of the scrolls gathered in his arms to drop to the floor. His face reddened, but he retained the presence of mind to greet his mentor’s guest. Please forgive the intrusion, your holiness.

Think nothing of it, the other man replied. Please, join us.

Zinvar collected the rogue scroll and straightened to find Natak, the high priest of Komor, smiling at him. Thank you, Mahiratha, he said, this time remembering to add the formal honorific bestowed upon the Priesthood’s leader. He hurriedly deposited his collection of research items in Ezreth’s study, then returned to stand by his mentor’s side. If the older man seemed perturbed, his wrinkled visage held no trace of it. By contrast, Natak’s handsome features were still graced by a smile. It was hard to look away, even beneath the scrutiny of the high priest’s intense blue eyes.

Well, he’s here. Ezreth gestured impatiently. Shall we get on with it?

The Mahiratha chuckled. Still sour about losing your finest assistant? I suppose I can’t fault you for that.

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Zinvar listened to the interaction with mounting concern. Was this what Lem had tried to warn him about? The shadows dancing on Natak’s face suddenly took on a sinister quality.

Be that as it may, the high priest responded, leaning forward, you have my thanks. I know you understand my reasoning.

Ezreth nodded. The boy will serve you well.

Indeed. Natak’s eyes glittered. Zinvar, you have achieved much in your short time in our order. Your treatise on the effects of overharvesting in our underwater farms was nothing short of revolutionary.

You honor me. Zinvar inclined his head in a show of respect.

It is I who am honored to call you a priest of Morakh. That being said... Natak paused, and Zinvar’s heart pounded. There are some, the high priest continued, his gaze never leaving Zinvar, who say you are not faithful to the traditions that have brought order to chaos throughout our history. That you question the guiding principles of Morakhism.

Zinvar held his breath. It seemed like Natak’s eyes bored through him into the secret corners of his mind, scouring their depths for the blasphemous thoughts he must already know lurked there.

The Mahiratha abruptly stood and moved within arm’s reach of Zinvar. While he was on the upper end of average height, the high priest towered over him. Gazing upward into the other man’s face, Zinvar was gripped by fear’s chill claws.

Natak stared down at him for a long moment before speaking again. I am not like those people. Survival requires adaptation. Such change is not possible if we are enslaved by tradition. So I do not find your views problematic or offensive. On the contrary, I think they are healthy and essential to our order’s growth. Anyone who is threatened by them has proven themselves an enemy of progress.

Precisely! Ezreth spoke up. "You are wise beyond your years, Natak. I knew you were destined for greatness from the moment I met you as an acolyte. You were my finest assistant, Zinvar’s excellence notwithstanding."

Zinvar’s eyes widened. He did not realize that Natak and Ezreth had such a personal connection, but he was grateful for it since they seemed to share at least some of his progressive mindset.

Thank you, Ezreth. You are discerning as ever in your choice of proteges. Natak smiled down at Zinvar. "My only question for you, child of Morakh, is this: Do you believe?"

Zinvar sensed layers of hidden meaning behind the high priest's words, some of which he could not hope to decipher. Doing his best to keep his expression a neutral mask, he confidently answered, Yes, your holiness.

Natak’s eyes gleamed. Then I am certain of my decision. Zinvar, you will be one of Komor’s representatives in the coming Trials. You had best start preparing. You will leave for Waverling in three cycles’ time.

Zinvar felt naked without his staff.

The fact that he actually was naked at present did nothing to help. He hated this part of the ritual cleansing that took place prior to any ceremony overseen by the Priesthood of Morakh. The idea was to clear the body and spirit of all influences that could disrupt communion with Morakh’s presence. Zinvar had ostensibly cleared his mind with several hours of meditation prior to the physical scrub-down of his body. Yet his thoughts wandered as freely as the sponges cleansing every inch of his pale skin.

He remembered a time like this, many cycles ago when the occasion was far less joyous than his imminent departure to Heathström. The ululating cries of the mournful crowds still rang in his ears as his mother and father were entombed in the Valley of Monodium among Komor’s honored dead. They had been slain during Morakh’s Shadow in their own home by an intruder while Zinvar was away for his initiation into the Priesthood. Zinvar still carried the ebon staff given him that day as faithfully as the memories of what had transpired. It was a tangible reminder of loss, pride, power, and guilt. He felt incomplete without it.

A shiver coursed up his spine. The stone preparation chamber sat high in the Temple of Morakh where little of the volcanic heat that permeated Zel Morakh reached. Zinvar resisted the urge to cross his arms in an attempt to conserve body heat.

The attendant straightened and bowed, signaling the end of the cleansing. Zinvar’s staff and dull orange robes were returned to him. He dressed, attuning his ears to the roar of the crowd outside the Temple. Natak was whipping the city’s residents into a frenzy of religious fervor. His resonant voice, aided by a sophisticated sound-channeling system integrated into the Temple’s construction, rumbled Zinvar’s insides.

The priest’s stomach lurched as the floor of the chamber shuddered and rose toward the stone ceiling. He watched the ceiling retract as he ascended toward the orange glow that suffused Zel Morakh’s sky. His head cleared the chamber’s fully retracted roof, now revealed as the surface of the platform atop the Temple. Screams of adulation assaulted his ears in unrelenting waves.

The floor came to a halt with a grinding clank. Zinvar’s heart swelled with pride as he surveyed the masses surrounding the Temple’s base. Zel Morakh’s entire populace thronged about the black ziggurat. He wished his parents could witness their son’s exaltation.

Behold Komor’s chosen sons, who will carry Morakh’s flame into the faithless twilight of our world! Natak called, his arms outstretched to either side. The High Priest’s robes, made of crystalline rift wyrm scales, shimmered beneath the cold light of the nascent moons.

Zinvar looked past Natak to see who would accompany him to the Trials of the Innermost. Only two ambassadors were chosen from each of Etherea’s three regions and sent to the twilit center to participate with the goal of fostering the fragile peace that existed between shadowed Komor, gray Heathström, and sunlit Sondrine. It was an honor greater than most Priests of Morakh ever achieved, but, as the Mahiratha had said, Zinvar had proven himself as an apt student and accomplished orator, useful qualities for an emissary of peace.

His breath hitched when he met the cinnamon eyes of the man to Natak’s left. Zinvar’s traveling companion and fellow honoree towered over him and even Natak, his muscular frame clad in the scarlet leathers unique to the City Guard of Zel Morakh. The chest piece was formed around the pectorals beneath it, outlining the strength of the man’s torso. A strange expression flickered across the warrior’s chiseled face, but Zinvar had no time to analyze it as Natak motioned for them both to approach.

As the twin moons rise, so shall Komor’s might increase until all the realms bow before the servants of Morakh!

Natak ordered Zinvar and the warrior to kneel facing one another on either side of him. He raised his arms skyward. Zinvar’s eyes flicked upward, past the rooftops of the city and toward the firmament above, silvered with stars. The roar of Zel Morakh’s populace dwindled into a gentle murmur as Natak invoked their deity’s presence.

Show your face, he who stands upon the twin moons, who may only be known in the purity of absolute darkness! Let your shadow fall upon us, that all may bear witness to your greatness! Morakh, ruler of all that is, make your blessing upon these two sons of Komor known!

Natak’s voice intensified with each phrase, the veins in his neck bulging.

Zinvar looked back at the warrior, and his blood turned to ice. The man’s eyes were pitch-black. Then he blinked, and Zinvar found himself gazing into the same intense brown he had seen before. Maybe Natak had put too much incense in the braziers burning atop the Temple.

An intense violet light flared at the center of the platform, interrupting Zinvar’s thoughts. At its core, the light faded to an incandescent white. Zinvar shielded his eyes as the light pulsed and a dark figure manifested at the center. Enrobed in swirling black, the manifestation resembled a man who towered fifteen feet into the air.

Behold our fell lord! Natak exclaimed, falling prostrate.

A resonant voice that seemed to come from inside Zinvar’s mind emanated from the figure of Morakh, their god.

These are my sons, Zinvar and Kharnek, with whom I am well pleased.

Zinvar shivered at the sound of the warrior’s name. Kharnek. An ancient set of syllables that bespoke power and, in the ritual language of the Priesthood, a nameless terror that stalked the darkness of Morakh’s Shadow. His companion for the Trials of the Innermost grew more intriguing with each revelation.

He dared to glance up at the apparition and its violet aura. Tendrils of light coiled like the corona of a star. Zinvar watched, entranced, as Morakh’s image began to collapse in on itself, before vanishing in a burst of brilliance. The spectators at the base of the Temple, who had fallen silent at the sight of Morakh, lifted their faces.

Natak rose and called out, Morakh himself has testified: These men are the chosen! Let none question the divine provenance of their journey!

The Mahiratha motioned for Zinvar and the warrior—Kharnek—to stand.

People of Zel Morakh, I give you your champions!

Natak threw his hands up once more, and the crowds erupted into wild cheering. Again, Zinvar felt a surge of pride and could not prevent a burgeoning grin.

He glanced at Kharnek and was surprised to see the same stern countenance as before. Perhaps his military training at work. There would be time on the journey to Heathström to ascertain the nature of this enigmatic warrior. For now, Zinvar basked in the adulation of the people of his home city and the knowledge that his parents would have been proud.

Hours later, once the crowds had dissipated and returned to their homes, the priest and the warrior met with Natak in his study within the Temple. The High Priest sat at his massive desk, contemplating a scroll spread across it. They knelt before the Mahiratha until he motioned for them to stand.

You will leave for Waverling at the next moonrise. We will furnish you with basic supplies and tokens that identify you as Truthseekers, but it is up to you to find your way. Unlike the last pair, I trust that this first Trial will prove no match for your formidable talents.

Natak’s tone made it clear that this was a command, not a supposition. Publicly, the previous Truthseekers Natak referred to had died with honor, but the whispers within the Priesthood told a tale of Sondrinel sabotage. Rising from his seat, Natak pulled a rope that dangled from the study’s ceiling. Four acolytes entered in pairs. Each duo carried a large black cube between them. Zinvar regarded the objects with curiosity.

These devices enable instant communication, regardless of distance, Natak explained. They will be transported to Waverling by ship, where they will await your arrival. You will present the devices as gifts to Heathström and Sondrine during the portion of the opening ceremony reserved for the demonstration of your skills as Truthseekers—along with an announcement that formal trade between those realms and Komor will commence immediately.

Shock rippled through Zinvar. He glanced at the warrior next to him, who seemed unfazed. He must have already known about this.

This will no doubt come as a great surprise to the other realms, as it has to you, Zinvar. Natak sounded amused as he continued, But consider it a reward for your excellent service to the Priesthood. You have been an outspoken advocate for peace, and we have listened. Now I charge you with delivering your message of harmony to the rest of Etherea.

The weight of responsibility settled upon Zinvar’s shoulders. Finally, everything he had worked for—often at odds with his peers—was coming to fruition. With the leader of the Priesthood’s endorsement, no less!

Zinvar bowed to his superior. I will not fail you, Mahiratha.

Indeed not. I have the utmost confidence in you and in your companion. He will be the strength behind your words. Now, go and ready yourselves for the journey. The acolytes will summon you near shadowfall to provide your supplies and teach you about the communication devices.

The priest and warrior bowed at Natak’s dismissal and exited the study. When they reached the Temple’s exterior, Zinvar stopped Kharnek.

We haven’t had a chance to speak. I wanted to formally introduce myself.

Zinvar’s cheeks heated beneath the handsome warrior’s intense scrutiny. Awkwardly, he thrust out his hand.

I’m Zinvar. Well, you know that. But I’m looking forward to starting the Trials and getting to know you better.

Kharnek tilted his head and slowly reached out to clasp Zinvar’s forearm in the traditional Komorese greeting between equals. The strength in his grip took Zinvar’s breath away.

I am Kharnek, as you also know.

The warrior pulled him closer until their faces were inches apart. Dark brown eyes stared into Zinvar’s own, and he knew he could lose himself in their depths.

Make no mistake, priest—I am here to keep you alive and for no other purpose. So please, do not make my task more difficult than it already is.

Kharnek released his hold on Zinvar and walked away toward the section of Zel Morakh reserved for the Brotherhood. Red marks stood out on Zinvar’s pale skin where the warrior’s hand had clasped his arm. He rubbed at them, confused by Kharnek’s hostile attitude and by how much he enjoyed the lingering warmth from his touch.

CHAPTER 3

Relentless heat scoured the broken plain north of Axiom, transforming the distant horizon into a wavering mirage. Although the terrain appeared flat between Kalis and that distant point, he knew it held countless hidden ravines and crevices. The undulating landscape traced the paths of rivers that once flowed across the desert, and navigating its contours was a perilous undertaking, even for someone trained to anticipate and overcome the wasteland’s challenges, as Kalis was.

Mostly. As a Prioriate, he was well on his way to becoming a Sentinel, one of his homeland’s guardians and warriors.

A familiar voice intruded upon his thoughts, Do you ever wonder how it got to be this way?

Kalis looked to his right as she joined him at the crest of a huge dune. The dry wind snatched at the other Sondrinel’s robes and hurled sand and grit at her headscarf, yet she and her reptilian mount did not balk. Her short cerulean hair, like his own, was covered by the tough but breathable fabric.

It was the Great Calamity. Everyone knows that Arinna, Kalis replied.

The other half of the scouting pair gripped her solendrake’s reins in one hand while motioning with the other at the expanse. Yes, but what caused that catastrophe? And why did it turn half of Etherea into this?

Hmm. Kalis wiped the sweat from his brow. The Astronomers Guild says our world stopped rotating. That’s why it’s always light here but dark in Komor with Heathström in the middle.

Although her face was covered, Arinna’s stiff body language conveyed disapproval. Lucky them. They say that people in Waverling even get around the city by boat. Imagine having so much water that you can use it as a road. No wonder they’ve grown soft.

Kalis had read about the capital city of Heathström and its canal system, so different from the subterranean metropolis that was Axiom. His thoughts flitted back to home. Tomorrow was his best friend’s graduation from Pedium. She would then join him at the Priorium for Sentinel training. They might even be assigned to patrols together, like the one he was on now, an idea that filled him with excitement.

Next to him, Arinna’s solendrake hissed and tasted the air with its forked, violet tongue. The creature shifted its padded feet, and its club-tipped tail curved upward in a defensive posture. Arinna looked at Kalis and used hand signals to indicate that she would investigate while he flanked her. Her solendrake lurched into motion and sped silently down the dune’s northern face. Kalis tracked its movements for a little while, then the beige and brown of the creature’s scales and Arinna’s robes melted into their surroundings. Spurring his mount on, he followed at an angle that would keep him close enough to help but far enough apart that he and Arinna could not be attacked simultaneously. Whatever her solendrake had detected would likely prove unfriendly.

The bottom of the dune was adjacent to a rock formation that thrust upward from the sand like a grasping hand. It offered the only cover for miles making it a likely hiding place for their quarry. Kalis reined in his mount’s headlong plunge a short distance from the outcropping and waited. The soughing of the wind was the only noise that disturbed his vigil. A few moments later, motion caught his eye. Arinna and her solendrake crept along the jagged edge of the rock formation’s base making for a shadowed gap in the stone wall. He held his breath as they disappeared into it. A long minute passed, then another. Kalis’s pulse quickened, realizing they had not agreed on how long he should wait until coming after her. That would not make his Sentinel instructors happy. Inwardly cursing himself for the error of omission, he mentally recited one of their maxims to calm his frantic thoughts: Do not let yourself be consumed by the chaos of thought. Only through serenity can you discern the path ahead. Breathe in the air, breathe out your fears, and in the stillness that remains, you will find certainty.

A flash of blue light winked at Kalis from where he last saw Arinna. He relaxed his grip on the saddle horn. Blue meant all clear. He snapped the reins and followed Arinna’s path between the rocks. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness. Arinna had dismounted and was examining something on the ground. Kalis hopped off his solendrake and took in the space at the heart of the rock formation. It was big enough to hold at least ten Sondrinel with their mounts and was significantly cooler inside. Turning his attention back to Arinna, he crouched next to her.

She pointed at a glistening lump. Wyrm sign. Only a few hours old.

Kalis looked at her in alarm. Do you think they’ll be back?

No. Arinna shook her head and stood up, lips pursed. At least, I don’t think so. We only found tracks from three wyrms, which implies a scouting party. They wouldn’t be looking for a fight.

I hope not. Kalis shuddered. I’ve never seen a rift wyrm and would prefer to keep it that way.

His companion snorted. As would I. But it’s a bold move for Komor to send scouts this deep into Sondrine. They’re up to something.

Whatever it is, it can’t be good, you know? Kalis rose and faced Arinna. Did they find the supply cache?

No. Arinna motioned toward the back of the space. I checked. Even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to use the diminishing crystals.

Kalis nodded. His training included learning how to find Sentinel supply caches with weapons, rations, and extra clothing, such as this formation, throughout Sondrine. The supplies were stored in crystals that could only be accessed by life force wielders, which made them useless to Komorese intruders.

We should get back to the rendezvous point and let Sentinel Mysere know what we found, Kalis said. He’ll want confirmation that his suspicions about Komorese activity in the area were correct.

The duo left the rock formation and started back toward the location just north of Axiom, where they would rejoin the other Prioriates on patrol, all of whom were supervised by a veteran Sentinel. There was no better way to learn than by being in the field. Kalis enjoyed this form of instruction much more than the classroom setting where his mother taught. But both were part of the military academy’s rigorous requirements, and he had to meet them to continue his family’s legacy of service to their realm. So far, he was doing well, today’s potentially costly slip-up notwithstanding. Kalis was somewhat mollified by the fact that Arinna, who was more experienced, had made the same mistake. He resolved to take the lead the next time he found himself in a similar situation.

Kalis and Arinna took a few hours to reach the cave where Sentinel Mysere awaited them. By the time they arrived, most of the other patrols had already checked in. Arinna took their solendrakes to be fed and given water, while Kalis reported their discovery to Mysere. Despite his weathered appearance, Mysere remained as spry and vigorous as ever. Many overconfident Prioriates were given a taste of humility in the training ring by his uncanny ability to predict his opponent’s moves.

You and Prioriate Arinna have done well, the old Sentinel praised, even if you are late. I expected you over an hour ago.

Kalis’s face grew hot, but he made no reply, knowing it was useless to argue.

Mysere scratched the faded cerulean of his short beard. Even so, you made it back safely, which is more than I expected from most. So emboldened by the recklessness of youth is this new group. It will be a wonder if I can keep them alive. The Sentinel’s eyes narrowed. Speaking of which, how many riders did you say?

We found evidence of three, sir.

The other man grunted. Same as the others.

Others? Kalis desperately wanted to ask for clarification, but Mysere was just as well known for his lack of forthcomingness as his fighting abilities.

Your peers tracked two other such groups. The increased Komorese presence poses a greater risk than you are expected to face in training. You and the other Prioriates are to return to Axiom immediately.

Kalis slumped. When he first learned that they were hunting Komorese scouts, he feared this outcome. An olive-skinned hand squeezed his shoulder. He looked up at Sentinel Mysere, eyes wide.

Don’t take this as a reflection upon your abilities, Kalis. You are one of the finest Prioriates I have ever trained. If it were up to me, you’d be staying out here.

Kalis straightened with pride. Meeting the Sentinel’s gaze squarely, he dared to ask, What do you think the Komorese are doing?

Mysere’s face darkened, and he withdrew his hand. I have my suspicions, but I would like to be proven wrong in this instance. The Sentinel waved in dismissal. You have your orders. Leave as soon as your solendrakes are rested.

Snapping a quick salute, Kalis spun on his heel and went deeper into the cave searching for Arinna. His eyes traced the rippling layers of sediment that formed the cave’s walls. Keeper’s beard dotted the striated surface in brown and yellow clumps. The scraggly plant sprouted from niches where trace amounts of moisture had collected. An underground spring, like the ones used by Axiom, lay at the rear of the cavern. Kalis passed several other Prioriates on his way there, exchanging brief farewells as they saddled their mounts and departed for the Sondrinel capital. When he reached the spring, he found Arinna conversing with another Prioriate.

Mark my words; this is a prelude to war, the other trainee was saying. Kalis recognized the tall, slender woman as Bria. She waved as he approached. Good to see you, Kalis. 

And you. Kalis crossed his arms over his chest. What’s this about war?

Arinna frowned. It’s just hearsay.

From a Councilor, Bria shot back, hand on her hip. Unless you doubt my source?

She referred to her mother, who represented the Eminents Guild in Sondrine’s governing Council. Kalis had heard rumors that her mother’s connections allowed Bria to join the Sentinels, but regardless, she was a more than capable fighter—and reliably had access to secret information.

I didn’t mean it like that, Arinna grumbled. I’m just saying that no one really knows for sure what Komor’s motives are.

A shrill laugh burst from Bria. If we can be certain of anything, it’s that Komor thinks they should rule over all of Etherea.

Seeing the wounded look on Arinna’s face, Kalis jumped in. True, but the one thing that has stopped them so far is our command of the life force. Nothing has changed on that front, which makes this sudden aggression even more peculiar.

Bria tilted her head. Nothing has changed...that we know of.

Kalis and Arinna raised their eyebrows at each other. What do you mean by that? Kalis asked.

Their fellow Prioriate leaned in close and whispered. You absolutely cannot tell anyone that you heard this from me, but rumor has it Komor has some kind of new weapon.

Arinna looked skeptical. What kind of weapon?

Shh! Bria glanced to either side. They say Komor has a weapon powerful enough to match the life force.

Kalis blinked twice as he considered this possibility. If that’s true, then we’ve lost our only advantage over them. Their armies are huge in comparison with ours. Even if we combined our forces with Heathström’s, we’d still be outnumbered.

But Komor doesn’t use the life force, Arinna pointed out, they think it’s some form of sorcery.

Bria’s eyes flashed. Exactly. So what did they find? What could be more powerful than the life force?

An ominous silence descended on the group, broken only by the gurgle of the spring. Kalis was a fighter, not a scholar. His knowledge of the life force was limited to techniques that assisted in combat or survival, but he knew his people employed the essence of all living things for myriad uses, from healing to communication. It seemed impossible for anything to match such power, let alone exceed it.

Arinna was the first to speak. I don’t think such a thing exists. Sondrine was founded by the most powerful life force user there ever was. Nothing has ever come close to matching her strength—which is also our strength. If Komor wants to test themselves against Kadaan’s legacy, let them come. 

Bria shrugged. An admirable sentiment. I just hope you’re right. Well, see you back at Axiom.

Kalis and Arinna said goodbye and began preparing their solendrakes for departure. They exchanged a few words. Kalis assumed she was as lost in her own thoughts as him. He had always imagined a lifetime among the Sentinels culminating in an honorable retirement, at which point he would be free to spend time with the family he planned to start. Now that he was twenty-one sidereals old, it would not be long before his parents arranged his betrothal to a woman from another Sentinel family and that part of his dreams became reality. But that dream seemed unlikely now. It was expected that Sentinels would engage in the occasional skirmish with bandits or raiders from Komor—who selectively ignored the peace established by the Waverling Accords—but war was another prospect entirely, one that could overshadow all his hopes for the future. He heaved a sigh and braced himself for a long ride back to Axiom.

A soft plop from a stone plunging into water let Kalis know he had found Lyna. He descended the steps, hewn from solid rock, that led down to one of the underground pools that fed Axiom’s water supply. The sound of his footsteps made her turn. Lyna’s face lit up. Looking at her was almost like looking in a mirror, with her vibrant blue eyes and slender, patrician features. She would probably come close to his six feet once she stopped growing.

You’re home early.

Kalis joined her where she was perched on the ledge, feet dangling over the pool. Yes, I am, little sister. Your powers of observation never fail to astonish.

That earned him a jab to the ribs, but it was tempered by a smile. Lyna tucked her long hair behind her ears and looked directly at Kalis, her eyes the same pale blue as his own. Your sarcasm aside, I’m glad you’re home.

Kalis threw an arm around his sibling and squeezed her. Me too.

They sat in silence for a long while, enjoying each other’s presence and the serenity of the pool. Lanterns glowed around its circumference, each containing a crystal infused with the life force. Natural diversity in the crystals resulted in a spectacular array of colors. The pool’s clear water reflected shades of turquoise, ruby, gold, and azure. Kalis could sit here for hours with Lyna in the tranquil oasis, far enough removed from the bustling center of the cavern that housed the city that they would remain undisturbed for some time. No one came to draw water from the pools—it had been many hundreds of sidereals since Axiom’s residents needed to do that—so only those looking for a moment of peace ventured here.

A school of tiny lambent cavefish swam near the place where Lyna dropped the rock, their sensitive whiskers twitching as they investigated the disturbance. Although there were warnings about feeding them, Lyna always secreted some breadcrumbs to toss their way. She produced some from her pockets now and sprinkled them into the water. The flurry of activity that ensued made her giggle as the fish devoured the morsels. They lingered for a few moments once the food was gone, their slender bodies twitching this way and that, before giving up and retreating to a dark corner of the pool.

Kalis’s sister sighed and clasped her hands together. I wish we could do this as often as we used to.

The wistful note in her voice was like a dagger to Kalis’s heart. I know, he murmured, giving her another gentle squeeze. I do too. Whatever they may tell you, growing up isn’t fun.

I know that, silly. Being an adult is boring. All you do is work and pretend to be nice to people you don’t like.

Kalis guffawed, the noise reverberating from the stone around him and his sister. He shook his head. Lyna, you are too smart to be only thirteen, you know? Withdrawing his arm from around her, he plucked a loose rock from the ground and tossed it. The projectile skipped across the pool’s surface, leaving concentric ripples in its wake until it finally vanished beneath the water.

We’re a lot like those rocks, aren’t we? Lyna crossed her legs beneath her and idly traced circles on the ground with a finger. "We skip through life, making a splash here and there, until one day we