And only the Man with Mirrored Eyes could give it to her.
"Your city dies." His voice was resonant yet oddly melodic, as though his lips caressed the words that flowed through them.
She nodded. "It is the nature of humanity. The strong trample the weak, and every civilization exists to be supplanted by the next."
"That is because they lack the direction to guide them. Without a united vision, all that they accomplish will be meager at best and destined to crumble. But that does not have to be their destiny. This world is full of sleeping minds, Masiki. But they will awaken to a vision I have engineered." He paused to study her through the lens of the oculus with a gaze so penetrating that she nearly trembled.
"Your hand guided the Hikuptians from shivering in tents to basking in towering pyramids. Do you suffer from regret, Masiki? Does the fall of your creation haunt you?"
"No, Master. The rebellion was necessary to have Titien liberated from its hiding place. The Godslayer has it in his possession now, and soon it will lead him to the three Geods that remain hidden."
"The Godslayer." The Man with Mirrored Eyes' face revealed his amusement. "How these humans heap grandiose titles upon each other, all the while oblivious to the strings that guide their every movement. Myriads of strings, each and every one invisible to their eyes, leaving them ignorant that their chaos is in fact a prewritten symphony. I take it that Leilavin has finally summoned the courage to venture from her abode in Everfell to create another Reaver?"
"Yes." Masiki marveled inwardly. There was nothing that the Man with Mirrored Eyes did not know, it appeared. "With her powers reduced she was forced to use a human host."
"Marcellus Admorran. I know." His gaze grew distant. "As he has served my purposes in the past, so he serves again. He has been such a valuable instrument, has he not? It is a shame his part in this symphony is nearly finished."
"Is…it necessary to cut him off so soon?" Masiki nearly winced as her voice betrayed her concern. The expression on the Man with Mirrored Eyes' face turned coy, revealing that he instantly noticed it.
"Have you grown fond of your champion? Small wonder considering his role in your liberation, albeit ignorant of your true nature. Still, even a powerful player must be sacrificed to prevail in this game, Masiki. Just as this city was sacrificed for a larger purpose. As an untold number will yet be sacrificed." His eyes bore into hers, reflecting her visage across their mirrored surfaces. "Do you still believe, Masiki? Do I still have your complete devotion?"
"You do, Master. I am yours with all of my heart and soul." There was no reason to fear detection because it was the simple truth. She would do whatever asked of her if the end meant assuming the mantle of power her Master currently possessed.
"Then continue as instructed. I will handle the Champion of Kaerleon myself."
Masiki gazed at him in shock. "How will you be able to do so when he is here, and you are…?"
"I will bring him to me, Masiki. Just as with Alaric, I must be sure to implant my instructions directly into his mind."
"How can you be sure he can even find his way to you?"
The Man with Mirrored Eyes smiled. Light glinted from his irises and his gaze sharpened, as though beholding the ever-shifting waves of the future.
"Strings, Masiki. Strings."
Chapter 28: Valdemar
Valdemar Basilis smiled at the man that meant to kill him.
Oebarsius was head and shoulders taller than Valdemar, with long arms and a sinewy musculature capable of nightmarish speed. His armor was lightweight — boiled leather overlaid with metal discs, and a heavily gilded dome-shaped helmet was strapped to his head. His dark eyes studied Valdemar's movements closely. Two black streaks were painted in vertical lines down his face. In one hand was a sickle-shaped, one-handed sword. The other gripped the straps of his steel-plated roundel shield, which bore the Aracville standard of a black tower against a fiery sun.
Castle Basilis was at Valdemar's back. The towering walls felt like a protective shadow, assuring him of Deis' blessing and the approval of his people. He knew soldiers and residents lined the ramparts, thousands of bodies packed in to witness Valdemar's triumph or defeat. They waited in silence, the hushed anticipation practically palpable. The heavy, iron-wrought gates of the castle were closed. They would open only to one of the two combatants, and whoever it was would be the lord of Bruallia.
Valdemar's heart pounded. He loved the feeling before a duel. The rush of blood that left his hands trembling, the sweat that broke out of his pores and trickled down his chest and back — it was always exhilarating to be unsure of one's survival. In a way, those moments were the only times he ever felt truly alive. Everything was his to control, every movement capable of resulting in destruction or salvation.
He was the master of his destiny.
His lamellar armor creaked as he stepped forward. The rectangular pieces of steel were laced in scale formation and protected his shoulders, chest, and midsection on the vest he wore over a shirt of glittering ebony mail. The rest of his armor was light — protective vambrace and greaves embellished with scarlet dragons. Another dragon was emblazoned across his chest. Disregarding all counsel, he wore no helmet. He preferred that his people view their lord clearly, with no doubts as to who it was that fought for them.
Especially since the contest would be over so quickly.
His hand strayed to the grip of his sword. The wind tugged at the silken ebony cape that hung from his shoulders as he advanced toward Oebarsius, who assumed an offensive stance with his legs bent and his blade at the fore. The warlord's teeth were gritted, his eyes narrowed. He uttered a wild roar and charged.
Valdemar tightened his grasp on his sword grip as time slowed to a crawl. Oebarsius seemed to take a long time coming, allowing Valdemar time to anticipate his attack, the direction of his swing, the perfect point to counterattack. The metal holders in Oebarsius' braided beard clicked as they bounced against his armored chest. His mouth was open; spittle frothed at his lips as he roared wordlessly. The curved blade glinted in the light of the sun as his arm drew back.
Valdemar leaned back on the soles of his feet, allowing Oebarsius' sword to whip by his face. His daito blade rasped against the scabbard as he unsheathed it. So many of his hours had been devoted to mastering the act of drawing the blade and striking in a single motion. The endless training made the act itself as natural as a drawn breath. His stance shifted in perfect harmony with his blade as he answered with a blurring counterattack. Only the tiniest jolt registered a blow had landed, but it was enough. He dropped to one knee and sheathed the sword in the same unbroken flow of movement.
Oebarsius' severed arm struck the ground a second later.
The lord of Aracville fell to his knees with a stifled howl. His shield slipped from his arm as he made a futile effort to clamp his hand over the stump that ended at the bicep. Blood jetted from the wound, spattering to the dust in scarlet rivulets.
Valdemar rose and stood before Oebarsius, who stared up with a mixture of pain and utter disbelief on his battered face. His teeth clamped together as if to refuse the howls of agony that might erupt were he to open his mouth. Sweat slicked his face, and his chest heaved as he waited for the deathblow sure to follow.