“Such as escaping the authority of the Munam A’Dett?”
“Especially that,” Thaeson said, his lips turning down in distaste. “More foolish still is their belief that life beyond the Shield of the Fathers, a life spent amongst the deycath, would be better than a life spent amongst their own kind. For their sakes, we must never allow them to see the ugliness and horrors beyond our border. Targas is their home, and within the bounds of the Everlasting City of Light, they shall remain.”
“I understand,” Edrik said. “Still, maybe we should try to show the folk that we share their concerns, convince them that the Order is still powerful, and that they can rely on us to keep their best interests at heart.”
“Thinking like that might earn you the Staff of the Quidan, one day,” Thaeson said, speaking of the symbol of authority carried by the head of the Munam a’Dett Order. Edrik’s grin faltered when Thaeson added, “Or it might get you hunted down and killed by those who want no truck with the likes of us, the quidan, or the priesthood.”
Thaeson said nothing else until they came out of the forest, where he stopped dead at the sight of what was awaiting them. “This is why we must press on with our plans. Time, I’m afraid, has grown far shorter than any of us feared.”
“By the Fathers,” Edrik said, eyeing the band of white mist caught between the edge of the Sleeping Wood and the Shield of the Fathers. Beyond the trees, starlight filtered down through the barrier, turning the mist into a river of milk.
Edrik raised his eyes, searching. He found an undulating breach in the faintly glimmering wall. With a moaning sigh, frigid air poured through the gap that should not have been possible.
“How did this happen, Essan?” Edrik asked, having always believed the Shield of the Fathers was impenetrable.
“Wait here,” Thaeson said in answer.
Edrik caught his arm. “I can help, if you grant me the power to do so.”
“That time will come sooner than you think or want,” Thaeson said, sounding regretful. “But this, my boy, I must do alone. Do not come any closer, or you will die.”
Thaeson tottered off through the mist, leaving swirling eddies in his wake. Edrik dared not let his eyes wander. Shivering from the unnatural cold, he watched until the essan had vanished, his hand held before his face to ward against the bitter chill of the Iron Marches coming through the breach.
A long time later, Thaeson came back into view, a girl’s limp figure held in his arms. He struggled closer under the burden, then he abruptly knelt down amid the restless ground fog.
Edrik waited, tense, sure his bones were about to crack from the cold, sure that his master hadn’t knelt at all, but had collapsed. Should I go to him?
His answer was Thaeson’s earlier admonition to stay put, lest he die from proximity to the Shield of the Fathers. Every citizen of Targas learned the same from childhood. Even without the vizien patrols that kept watch on the Sleeping Wood, most folk never considered venturing too close to the wall, for fear of a terrible and painful death.
And here you stand, a mocking voice whispered, afraid as all your flock. Yet not an hour past, you thought of dying for your master, if he but asked it of you.
Edrik began to step forward, but an unpleasant gurgling sound halted him. His eyes widened as the rift in the Shield of the Fathers began to close. As the gap shrank, the gurgling noise became a hissing scream, like a well-heated teapot. As soon as the fissure cut off the river of mist, nighttime silence fell.
He was again considering taking his chances with approaching the Shield of the Fathers, when Thaeson stood up and moved laboriously toward him. The girl he had left buried in the mist. Edrik guessed Thaeson would send some others to fetch her remains. For the sake of secrecy, members of the vizien caste, perhaps even him, would bury her without ceremony. The girl’s family and friends would wonder what had happened to her, but the farmlands around Targas were extensive, the Sleeping Wood dark and deep, so it was not unheard of for people to go missing from time to time. And if she had told any accomplices she intended to flee, Edrik supposed they would assume she had made good on her word.
“By Blood and by Water,” Thaeson said, “we are yet safe.”
“How was the wall breached?” Edrik asked. Insofar as he knew, the Shield of the Fathers was as eternal as the Everlasting City of Light, and only those who drank of the precious Blood of Life could pass through unharmed.
Thaeson shook his head. “All that matters is that it’s whole again, and we’re safe.” Before Edrik could press his concerns, the essan added, “The hour to act as come.”
Edrik swallowed. “The Oracle’s foretelling?”
Thaeson’s answer was a simple nod.
“There is no other way?”
This time, the essan shook his head. “Quidan Salris has waited as long as he dared. When I tell him what has happened, he’ll sanction your journey to seek the man of which the Oracle foretold.”
Edrik imagined the endless cold beyond the wall, and how even the diluted touch of it gushing through the breach had threatened to freeze him solid. How can anyone survive out there? It was not the first time he had entertained the thought since learning of the mission he was to embark on, but now it seemed far more important. His fears got the best of him.
“Are you sure there’s no other way-is Quidan Salris sure?”
Thaeson put on a somber face. “We are sure because the Oracle is sure, my boy.”
“What if the Oracle is wrong?” Edrik demanded.
Thaeson caught his shoulders in a surprisingly firm grip. “Such questions are what have led us to the brink of calamity, boy! Do not allow such discontent to blacken your heart. You must believe what we do is right.” His face softened. “Trust in this, boy, if nothing else. After you’ve completed your mission and returned, you’ll see with your living eyes the darkness that infests the hearts of the traitors who stand opposed to us. You’ll understand the vile, filthy darkness they seek to sow into the hearts of the good folk of Targas. Keep your doubts if you must, but in time, you’ll learn that the Munam a’Dett is the only virtuous faction in our blessed city.”
Edrik nodded. “I must prepare myself … and tell Kyreen.”
“Tell your wife only that I’ve sent you and the others to the far side of Targas on Munam a’Dett business.”
Edrik bowed his head, seeing his pregnant young wife behind his eyes. Kyreen was his strength. He hated the idea of lying to her, but it was for her sake, and for the sake of their unborn child, that he had agreed to travel into the ugly and blasphemous world of the deycath. “Of course, Essan.”
Thaeson produced a small golden flask and placed it into Edrik’s palm. Gently, the essan closed the younger man’s fingers around it. “The Blood of Life will grant you, and those who join you, leave to pass through the Shield of the Fathers unharmed. Take a sip, my boy, and feel the power of the Munam a’Dett.”
The flask’s worn engravings pressed against his hand, but it was the heat of the object, warm as living blood, that drew his attention. The Blood of Life, he thought. The day he had donned his acolyte’s robes, he learned of the hallowed potion, its purposes and powers, but it had never crossed his mind that the Blood of Life might actually be blood.
Mesmerized, he pulled the stopper, raised the flask, and took a tentative sip. Just as he feared, the flavor of salt and rust swarmed over his tongue. The elixir was far thicker than blood. When he began gagging, Thaeson clutched his arm.