His eyes found hers and finally lingered. His hand strayed near the collar of his suit again.
“Churls. You have to understand this above all else. There is no return from this decision.”
“No return,” she agreed, crossing the space between them. “I understand that.”
EPILOGUE
The battle with the outbound mage had left Adrash physically drained, a state he had not experienced in many millennia. He needed time to recover before gathering the spheres.
Secrets had been stolen from his mind. A new god had announced himself. The corners of Adrash’s mouth curved upward. He closed his eyes, but despite his exhaustion could not still his thoughts. A renewed lucidity had come upon him, as though the encounter with Pol Tanz et Som had lifted a veil from before his eyes. He floated above the surface of the moon and let his mind drift through thirty thousand years of being Jeroun’s god, alighting here and there on an event, examining it for its potential. Memories that had become indistinct over the centuries now opened for him, unfolding in his mind with such dizzying, ecstatic clarity that ghosts breathed, extinct species lumbered across plains, and crumbled cities rose from the ocean.
He longed for the heat and chaos of battle, and then he longed for sensual delights. He caused his vision to become a combination of both, displacing events so that they flowed seamlessly into one another. The culminating moments of the Battle of Keyowas led to the orgy he had hosted in Knos Min to celebrate his adopted son Iha’s coronation. The feast of Nwd’al’Kalah, where he had eaten his first tinpan fruit and battled his first hybrid wyrm, resulted in the destruction of The Seven Cities of Omandeias. With a memory as vast as Adrash’s, the permutations were nearly endless. He added flourishes, changing faces, identities, and geographies on a whim. He acted out the parts of hero and villain, or simply observed as events transpired, powerless as any man.
Regardless of these alterations, the exercise soon became mundane, for he could not stop the cycle of history from repeating itself. The names and places changed, but the patterns stayed the same. The rekindling of his memory served only to drive this truth home.
After all, how many variations could be expressed in arrogance, deception, and greed? How many in faith and honor?
He alone could answer these questions, for he had been with mankind from its origin—had witnessed every one of its faltering steps.
In the beginning, he had found the divine armor. Assisted by its strength, he cracked men from their hundred iron eggs. He taught them the use of tools, and then watched from afar as they huddled miserably around cooking fires. Mankind was naive then, unprepared to inherit the earth. Too used to the comforts of their eggs, the reality of survival nearly destroyed them. They adapted, of course, through hardship. They became strong, became worthy of his notice. Yet with time, their concerns shifted from the preservation of their species to the deception of a business partner, the conquest of a neighbor’s husband or wife. They returned, ever and ever, to the source of ease, to laziness and avarice and self-destruction. Though all traces of their true nature and history were soon lost, they could not resist becoming what they had once been.
The world was theirs. It always had been.
Men were not evil, Adrash knew. They were simply lazy and opportunistic, courageous and virtuous in very infrequent bursts.
He searched now for those moments of courage and virtue. He delved into his mind and summoned the best of humanity, reliving the moments wherein men had proved their worth. During the siege of Shantnahs, he watched Neaas Wetheron rouse her army to defend the jeweled city. Her voice carried like a bell from atop the mile-high tower she called home. He felt himself swayed by her speech, as indeed he had been twenty-two thousand years ago—but this time he switched sides to turn the battle in Wetheron’s favor.
During the destruction of Grass, he watched the valiant efforts of its people to find shelter from the volcano’s toxic surge of gas and rock. Not just for themselves, but for their neighbors. As he recalled, he had let the city burn, for its people had turned their backs on him. Now, he placed himself in the path of destruction, turned it away like a man brushing lint from his sleeve. No, it did not satisfy even a little to do this, for the past could not be changed. Nonetheless, he did it, as if to affirm that he would not make the same decision a second time.
Other memories he did not change. Sometimes failure was in itself a form of victory: the act of having tried. He conjured up the original city of Zanzi—a shining ornament of suspended walkways and crystal towers built by magicians only seven generations removed from their egg—and tried to save it once more. His power had just been a small thing in that primordial time, when vast herds of fire dragons still roamed the continent. While he fought one of their number, the people of the Golden City ventured from cellars into the streets, dragging bodies to safety even as the many-legged beast crushed their glass homes and dripped acid onto their bodies. Adrash watched them die. He tried to pull hope from their futile acts of charity.
It was insufficient, and his brittle hope in mankind faltered yet again.
At times his faith had failed completely, and on these occasions he had dredged material from the far side of the moon to build another sphere, another weapon. Try as he might, he could not forgive the men of Jeroun their pettiness, their squabbling, their ridiculous and violent worship.
But he could not condemn them completely. Not yet. There were signs. Still, small thoughts that needed pushing, encouraging. Selfless acts gone unnoticed by the rest of the world.
Sometimes, Adrash imagined he heard the whisper of a familiar voice.
The call of a soul that resounded even in the void. A threat and a temptation.
A catalyst.
‡
With the renewed clarity of recollection the battle with the outbound mage had gifted to him, understanding dawned upon Adrash.
He had been a fool to doubt the existence of prophets. He had imagined nothing: No seers had been conjured from the dust of his mind in order to forestall another cataclysm. True, time and isolation had dulled his ears to the sound of the singular voice in which such men and women spoke, but he should not have allowed himself to believe it never existed.
The memory of Eloue, the first to assume the voice of a prophet, bloomed within him.
He had been young, a god for a mere two thousand years. Haughty yet capricious in his hungers, he neither sought nor turned away those who would worship him. He visited Knoori and the thousand island-homes of man that rose out of the shallow sea, besting creatures and performing miracles. Reveling in his power and the thrill of physical conquest, the blood hot in his veins, he found love easily.
After spending a bracingly crisp autumn on Herouca, the lush, sugar maple-covered island that would in time become known as Little Osa, he chartered a yacht cruise around Doec Lake to celebrate the arrival of winter. He discovered the woman alone, leaning far out over the deck railing, staring into the deep luminescent waters, half of which were covered by a shelf of rock—all that remained of an immense cave system the elders had carved into the side of Mount Lepsa, king of the Coriel Range.
He admired her beauty in shadow and light. Soon thereafter he became her lover.
Her name meant “white stone” in a language only Adrash remembered. She lived in the Old Quarter of Tiama, and made her living by way of deception. While a small portion of enchanted blood moved within her, allowing her to read thoughts as easily as normal men read books, healthy minds bored her. Thus, she rarely told her customers the things they needed to hear. Instead, she used her unique skill to obtain power, make money, and amuse herself. She seduced men with her lies and charm, and then took delight in breaking them.