Prologue
THE RUINS OF THE ANCIENT CITY lay undisturbed in almost
unbroken darkness. Sunlight did not trouble its roads, and
the
moons, with their scant silver light, were likewise
invisible; the sky was a
thing of curved, uneven rock.
Great stone slabs and the bases of statues lined empty
streets; crevices,
created by the slow shift of the earth beneath those
streets, had widened
into a darkness so complete that even demon eyes could not
easily
penetrate it. But in the ruins, there was a silent,
funereal majesty that
demanded, and held, the attention. Echoes of voices that
had perished
centuries ago existed in some of the small statues and
maker’s works
that still adorned deserted buildings— rotting floors in
the dry, dark air
notwithstanding.
There were gardens in this city that had been swallowed, at
once, by
the abiding earth, but they were not living gardens; no one
tended them.
Nor had they any need; they were creations of stone that
suggested the
fragile and enduring beauty of memory, not life. That they
were modeled
on living things signified little; they were not, and had
never been, alive.
Which is why they endured.
Lord Isladar wandered through the subtle pathways of this
garden,
slowly examining flowers, delicate trailing ivy, shrubs,
and the stone legs
of benches; the actual seats had long since rotted away.
Everything here
had been carved in stone by the hand of the maker- born,
but the stone
seemed to move and breathe and grow; it was an artful and
pleasing
illusion.
He was alone not because it was safest— although in the
Hells of his
experience this was often the case— but because he had no
desire for the
company of his kin; the world had opened, had allowed him
entry, and he
had accepted it. He had forced from it a shape of his
choosing, neither too
tall nor too short; it was slender and seemed much like the
form that had
been his when he had first left childhood behind.
Childhood.
He bent, his fingers brushing dust and webs from the
delicate curl of
open petals before he rose. He admired what remained of
this hidden city,
but it was not for the city that he had been summoned from
the side of
the Lord of the Hells by the ambitious, and surprisingly
competent, Sor
Na Shannen so many years past.
No, Lord Isladar had been chosen because he was one of the
few who
understood the men who had made gardens such as these; who
had
watched and encouraged them, in his fashion, during the
ages when the
gods had walked the world. It was for his curiosity, his
observation, and
his ability to predict what the merely mortal would say— or
do— when
placed in a difficult position.
The kin understood pain. They understood how to break
things. Even
cities as glorious as this one at its height had not been
immune. But mortals,
especially those born to the gods in their ethereal
Between, were still
capable of posing a threat, and if not mortals, then the
others, firstborn
and hidden.
Mortals.
Isladar smiled. Regardless of the danger or the consequence
of the summoning,
mortals played their fraught games of demonology. They did
not,
of course, understand what lay at the base of those games;
they merely
understood that it was both forbidden and powerful. Could
he but choose
one avenue to open up the world to the demonic kin, again
and again,
it would be that one. It was convenient, then, that the men
and women
charged with guarding against just such uses of magic
understood their
own kin so poorly.
This time, a mortal mage, sequestered in the relative
solitude of a rich
man’s manse, had taken forbidden texts and cobbled together
just enough
knowledge that he might begin the summoning of lesser
creatures. He
understood the spells and protections but, again, did not
understand that
what he was opening was a small door through which
something might
walk. Yes, demons— but as relevant to the Kialli lords as
rats might be to mortals— came at his call, and they danced
his cautious tune until they
were returned to the Hells.
There, they made their way— as all denizens of the Hells
must— to the
foot of the mountain upon which the Lord of the Hells
ruled, in the heat
and the sway of the charnel winds, beneath the angry sky.
They were expected
to make the climb on their own, and they were expected to
survive
it; not all would, but this was not considered a loss.
In Isladar’s opinion, it was. Because word of a possible
mage, a possible
entry into the world that was ever on his Lord’s mind,
would thus escape
detection for many years, and by the time the existence of
such a mortal
reached his Lord’s ears, the mortal would likely be dead—
of the consequences
of his own ambition or of age.
If the mage was foolish or of middling will, he would
escape detection
completely; if the lesser kin escaped that mage’s control
in mortal lands,
they would seek vengeance and cause inestimable pain— and
death—
before they were apprehended by other, less foolish mages
and sent back
to the Hells as dust.
But their vengeance would open no doors, and it was a
single such door
that was required.
And so it went. Here and there, the promise of a particular
mage’s
name would be whispered in the throne room upon the peaks,
and Isladar
would listen and nod. He would take the measure of the kin
who made
his enraged report— for who among their kind willingly
submitted the
whole of their will to another and, at that, a lesser,
being?— and in so
doing, would gain some measure of the summoner. But the
powerful were
not summoned often, and if they were, they did not return
to the Lord in
a way that provided useful information.
Instead, they lived in the mortal world, evading both
detection and the
absolute grip of the Lord’s rule. It was as close to
freedom as the Kialli
could now come.
Time passed in the Hells, as it passed everywhere: slowly.
The screams
of the damned, or their whimpers, were sedating and
soothing; they
brought comfort and peace to the kin. Not so Lord Isladar,
although he,
like any of the kin, felt the call strongly. What he
wanted, what he had
wanted from the moment he had first set foot upon the
plains of the
Hells and understood just what his service had brought him,
was more
complicated.
To his surprise— and he, like any of the Kialli, abhorred
surprise, be-cause it was so often the final emotion in a
powerful existence— Sor Na
Shannen, a cunning but ultimately insignificant demon, had
been summoned
by an enterprising and ambitious mage. It was not the first
time
she had been summoned, and it was unlikely to be the last,
for even mages
had their base desires, and she had littered her name
across the ancient
texts and reliquaries with deliberate malice; it was not
hard to find. She
had not returned, but in her captivity she had found the
privacy and the
time to call her Lord’s name across the divide. He heard.
He heard, and he informed Isladar of both her captivity and
her master:
Davash AMarkham, a mage- born mortal in the city over which
the godborn
now ruled in relative peace. It was not the ideal
geographic location;
it was too close to the most dangerous of their enemies and
far too close
to those who might detect such summoning and end it
abruptly before
larger work could be done.
It was Isladar’s suggestion that she subtly provide the
mage enough
information to summon one of the Kialli lords in the stead
of a less powerful
creature. Only the lords— and even then, not all— had the
power and
knowledge to open gates and to struggle with the names and
the will of
those they summoned, binding them.
But Sor Na Shannen had, again, proved clever and
resourceful, and
perhaps it was a gift that she was not a significant power
in the Hells, for
she was accustomed to both the loss of dignity and the
cunning indirection
necessary for those who could not contest power in any
direct fashion.
She had captivated the mage, reducing him, over the course
of months,
into a willing servant, transferring lust for power to a
more malleable lust.
What she could not do, she was not willing to summon a
greater Lord to
do; she now demanded the mage give her the knowledge she
lacked, and
she learned.
Over the months, molding her power and her understanding of
the
mortal world in which she increasingly moved freely, she
studied, practiced,
swallowed her pride— such as it was— and became one of the
few of
the kin who might summon her kind to the mortal plane.
The Lord of the Hells had bid her summon Lord Isladar. Had
he not,
had Isladar not witnessed the command himself, he would
have destroyed
Sor Na Shannen for her arrogance and her hubris the moment
he reasserted
his existence in the lands of the living. As it was, it was
close, far
closer than he cared to admit— for she had attempted to
control him, to
subvert his ancient and unfaltering will to her own.
She had, of course, failed. He played at subservience,
thinking it was
useful; he had played at the contest, allowing her some
sense of her own
worth. But it was never in doubt; only she could assume as
much, if vanity
dictated such an assumption. It did, of course, and he
allowed it.
After Isladar, she had summoned— again at the behest of the
Lord—
Karathis. She did not even attempt to control him; the only
compulsion
Karathis felt at all was the compulsion to travel to the
point at which she
stood, and even prepared for it, he was enraged. But he was
also well apprised
of the Lord’s growing regard for the resourcefulness and
the knowledge
of this singular lesser kin; he held his hand.
Holding it, he had watched Isladar. Isladar had said
nothing, indicated
nothing; he observed, no more, no less.
I will kill her for her presumption, Karathis had whispered.
Yes. But not now. Not yet. She is needed. Come, brother,
let us open the ways;
we will disinter the oldest of our cities, and we will find
what we need there. Do
you not wish to walk its streets? Do you not wish to see
what remains of its glory?
Karathis had not replied.
Nor had he need; the only one of the Kialli who might
openly express
such a foreign desire to see the site of their greatest
failure was, indeed,
Lord Isladar.
But there was beauty in failure. It was an understated,
attenuated beauty;
it could be seen only if all pride could be cast aside.
Isladar alone of his
kin had both the memory of the city in its living glory and
the ability to
cast aside the rage and the fury caused by its fall, so it
was Isladar who
walked these streets, guided by memory, even when that
memory failed
to unearth the map of what now remained. It was Isladar who
could see
the promise of the city as it had once been; it was Isladar
who could remember
the beauty of its heights, could hear the echoes of the
whisper of
the wild wind as it drove them to those heights at their
command; Isladar
who could see the ghosts of the great statuary erected in
reverence and
fear of Allasakar.
It was Isladar who could see the beauty not in defeat but
in the strange
dignity of defeat, in the effort to grab and hold what
little remained.
There, he thought, fell Siandoria, who could not— would not—
bow to the
will of the conquering gods. He could mark the spot,
although it now lay
shadowed by fallen rock and natural darkness.
Siandoria, bloodied but calm, his face white, his hands
mailed, his eyes a flashing silver gray. His armor had been
rent as if it were cloth, and the
wild wind no longer heard his voice, but these were simple,
calculable
losses from which he might recover in time. His shield had
been riven and
his sword, broken, their light forever guttered.
Yet without them, he fought.
Siandoria understood that he faced death; he had no hope of
survival
and needed— at that moment— none. As if memory were stone,
Siandoria’s
expression was now chiseled, in just the same way the
garden had
been, into the hollows of Isladar’s mind. He could look and
see its exact
likeness, and feel life in it, although it spoke only of,
always of, death. Not
for Siandoria surrender; not for Siandoria the choice to
follow or abandon
Allasakar in his defeat.
Siandoria, we will not see your like again. There was pain
in that. But in
pain, there was also beauty; no architect of the Hells
could deny that. He
bowed his head a moment before he continued to traverse
these empty
streets.
They had worked to open the ways, and the work was long and
arduous.
It was not work that Sor Na Shannen could sustain for long;
indeed, it was
work that, in its entirety, depended upon the powers of
Lord Isladar and
Lord Karathis— and it was not to Karathis’ liking to be
sent to dig in the
dirt like the least of human slaves. Karathis was quick to
show displeasure,
and Isladar intervened in his subtle fashion to ensure the
survival of
Sor Na Shannen.
But if Karathis had the arrogance and the power of a Duke
of the Hells,
he also had wisdom and cunning; he understood that she was
necessary. It
chafed. But any form of dependence on others always did.
The first such labor undertaken by Karathis and Isladar had
nearly destroyed
the Cordufar manse, for Lord Karathis had attempted to
leash the
Old Earth in their service. It was a mistake he would make
only once, for
that was the nature of mistakes: If one survived, one
learned. Many did
not survive, but that, as well, was the nature of the Hells.
Isladar could still hear the echoes of the Old Earth’s
voice; it was angry.
Slow to wake, it was also slow to sleep, and the rumble of
its anger, its
sense of betrayal and loss— had they not, in the end,
chosen to disavow
it, to leave forever the lands under which the Earth held
dominion, in its
fashion?— lingered for weeks.
So the excavations under Cordufar were undertaken the
arduous, slow way, and Karathis did not suggest, then or
ever, that the Old Earth be
invoked. Do you feel the loss, brother? Isladar thought,
and had thought. If
he did, he did not expose it.
Those excavations were the most complete; they were the
most heavily
guarded. The first door opened, foot by onerous foot, into
the most
ancient of cities.
Even Sor Na Shannen, not notable for her tact or her self-
control, fell
silent when they had first set foot not into dank tunnel or
new earth but
into the streets of the city itself. Only the lesser
buildings now remained,
and of those, only the ones that had relied less heavily on
wooden beams
and supports. Facades, however, stood in the black day of
the city. Glimmers
of ancient magic, contained by stone shapes, statues,
gargoyles,
could be felt or detected, but it was not for these that
they had come.
No.
They had come for one thing and one thing alone, and
although it
took weeks, they finally found it: the coliseum. “Here,”
Isladar told them
softly. “We will build here.”
The stone, of course, had proved problematic. To build the
arch, to enchant
the stone, to inscribe it in the necessary fashion, had
been both difficult
and costly. In this impoverished, mortal world, there were
no great
quarries; the mortal quarries were simple things of dead
stone, and it was
not dead stone that they required. Even so, Lord Isladar
had traveled to
several quarries to the east of Averalaan; he had inspected
both the visible
rock and the rock that had not yet been broken, seeking
some hint of the
ancient in their sleeping forms.
It was not to be found, not there.
Sor Na Shannen was ill pleased. Karathis might have been as
ill
pleased, but her foul humor often amused him. What, then,
shall we do,
brother? he asked.
I will retreat, Isladar replied gravely, to the Deepings,
if they even remain. If
not, we will work with what we can obtain.
It is too much of a risk.
It is a risk, he agreed. But if we have no choice, we will
take it. The arch will
either hold, or it will not, and it is my suspicion that we
will know before the long
summoning begins. If you desire, begin your construction
and your invocation now;
I will search while you . . . experiment.
That had been to Sor Na Shannen’s liking. Although she,
like the rest of the kin, did not age, she was nonetheless
impatient. Such impatience
had often been their downfall; Isladar had no intention of
allowing it to
run unchecked here.