Only then did he turn away as well.
Bellimar sat cross-legged on the huge expanse of ornate rug in the great hall of Morland’s estate. To his left, a pool of crimson seeped into the lavish material, casting a spreading shadow across the rich colors of its pattern. He did not spare it a glance. That work was done, and nothing remained there to hold his interest. To his right, a long, golden sliver of light stretched across the rug where the morning sun knifed its way between the heavy drapes that otherwise masked the towering window. His eyes traveled along that fiery line to where it passed within a hand’s breadth of him. His skin tingled and crawled beneath his robes, as if his very flesh sought greater distance from the killing light.
It was strange to fear the sun’s light again. He recalled when, all those centuries ago, he had forsaken such mundane pleasures as admiring the splendor of a sunrise in favor of a darker path, the path to power. After the Adepts struck him down and twisted his nature with their magic, he had been able to bear its touch once more; there had been some pain, certainly, but no lasting damage. He had been far too consumed with regaining his power and solving the mystery of what they had done to him, however, to waste time on such trivial victories. He found it ironic that now, with the restraints imposed so long ago lifting at last and his power rapidly returning, he craved most what was forever lost to him.
His hunger surged within, perhaps in response to his yearnings, and it railed against his inaction. It spoke to him, not with words but with inviting sensations. It was low and fierce and insistent, calling for him to follow the deaths he had dealt tonight with thousands more, and then a thousand times more after that. He was ancient and powerful, and only the blood of the masses could slake a thirst as mighty as his. He was fearsome and indomitable, and he would grind the trembling thrones of the world once more beneath his dark, remorseless heel.
It stirred ecstasy and need within him, and he was swayed. It burned through him like liquid fire, fuel for his ascension, and he exulted in the rapture of it. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring, a cruel smile twisting his handsome features.
But he did not move.
With a twinge of regret, he pushed it all away, pushed it to the back of his mind and locked it behind a barrier of iron will. His hunger shrieked and clawed and hissed in impotent fury. Why fight the inevitable? it demanded, and it was no small part of him that roused in response to the thought. The barrier cracked, but held.
Soon it would be over. No need to fight it much longer.
He summoned images to his mind’s eye. Amric, dauntless and driven, radiating a compassion and resolve that lent strength to those around him. Halthak, whose innocence and heart somehow withstood all manner of darkness around him. Syth, lost and mourning, drawing time and time again upon a well of courage and empathy he did his best to conceal. Thalya, as a wide-eyed child and later as the woman who was in some ways still a child, driving her conviction deep into him until it struck home and could not be dislodged. Her father, Drothis, a kind man driven out of fear and duty to actions that did not suit him. There had been others over his many lifetimes, but these were enough. They had changed him somehow, here at the last, and he built his fortitude upon his memories of them.
He would not become the monster that they feared, that he himself feared. He was strong enough to do what was required. All things must one day end to allow for new beginnings, he reminded himself. Sometimes it was necessary to have faith that a carefully planted seed would someday bear fruit.
Bellimar opened his eyes. He stretched his hands out before him, and there was only a faint tremble before they grew still. His hunger clamored at him, alarmed, but it was a distant, muted thing, of no particular import to him now. An abiding sense of serenity stole over him, and he smiled.
It was time to see the sunrise one last time.
He threw his arms wide in a sweeping gesture. Across the room, the heavy drapes flew open in response, flooding the great hall with the brilliance of the morn. Golden light washed over Bellimar where he sat, and he gazed in wonder upon the beauty that shone down upon him. The demonic part of him went berserk, howling in panic. Every instinct screamed for self-preservation, to writhe away from the killing light while there was still time. He convulsed in involuntary response to that most primal of directives, but he refused to succumb. He gritted his teeth and held himself rigid, motionless.
The light of the sun assailed him like a living thing, determined to seize him in its vicious grip and exact revenge for his centuries of defiance. It flayed at his flesh with relentless strokes. His pale skin cracked, blackened and burned, and still he did not avert his gaze. His shining black hair withered and fell from his head. Searing flame blossomed in his chest. His flesh began to fall away in flakes of black ash, and his robes sank inward as his tall form became wasted and skeletal.
There was less pain than he had expected, he noted with detached interest; a small mercy, that. Falling ash obscured his vision for a moment, and he waited patiently for it to clear. His sight continued to darken, however, and the golden light contracted as if the sun drew back from him. No matter.
Rest well, Thalya, thought Bellimar. Your mission is complete at last.
Then awareness faded, and the cavernous hall stood empty but for drifting black ash and the fading resonance of death.
Amric lay stretched out on the cool marble of the platform, gazing upward at the calming sky. He knew he had been dozing by the fitful, uneven leaps of the sun as it climbed to its mid-morning height.
The immense shadow of the Essence Gate fell across him. He did not glance at it. He did not need to. The Gate had not ceased its low murmurings to him since those first moments of contact, and he did not need to look upon it to sense its steady, quiescent thrumming. It was a marked transformation from the raging nexus of power it had been, but still it radiated deep, eternal patience that bespoke a readiness-an expectation-to awaken once more when called upon. Amric’s jaw clenched at the thought.
A less distinct change, but no less real, was evident all around the Gate. The storm had vanished; the clouds above continued to thin, and they had lost much of their sullen glower. The white mist, insolent in the face of the rising sun, still clung to the ruins of Queln below, but the eerie cries of its tortured inhabitants had subsided. An idle breeze wound its way through the forest that encircled the ruins, like a rustling sigh of relief.
It had been only a few short hours since the Essence Gate had been shut down, but the land was already breathing easier. Perhaps it marked the beginning of recovery. Even the pulsing rivers of energy far beneath him had begun to ebb somewhat. Several major ley lines converged here, and so Queln would always be a place of power, but it was no longer the crashing maelstrom of before.
Amric sighed. He was stalling.
He rolled to his feet and stood. The others were resting a short distance away on the platform, farther from the Gate. Valkarr and Sariel were on their feet an instant after him, their expressions expectant. Halthak lifted his head and blinked large, owlish eyes. Syth was sprawled out with his head on one folded arm, and his chest rose and fell to a light snoring sound. Amric smiled as he looked upon each of them, but he sobered as he met Valkarr’s gaze.
“We should have that conversation now, my friends,” Amric said.
Valkarr started on a good-natured retort. Then he paused, studying his friend’s expression, and merely nodded instead. Amric joined them, and they sat in a circle at the platform’s edge. The warrior considered his words for a long moment, and then began speaking in a soft tone.