His mind awhirl, Varis cautiously asked, “And who are you?”
Her rising laughter filled the chamber, even as the cries of the demonic spirits abruptly grew still. “I am the Precious One of the Three, Prince of Aradan, their very first and greatest creation. I am a being of spirit, made wholly in their image. In the beginning, I was free to explore the mysteries of the universe, but after my creators made Geh’shinnom’atar and destroyed the flesh of the Fallen, Pa’amadin created a means to cleanse the taint of sin from the wretched souls of men-this, so that he might enjoy their pure and childlike presence in Paradise. He forced that task of refinement upon me, and bound my spirit to the Thousand Hells. Only the smallest ways can I reach beyond my realm.”
She paused, letting her words wash over Varis, then went on.
“Men, in time, with all their emerging wisdom,” she said in a sardonic tone, “deduced my purpose and named me Peropis, Eater of the Damned. As the sins of men are my meat and wine, my title is accurate. Pa’amadin’s curse-an unrighteous punishment contrived simply because I was the first and strongest creation of his own wayward children-is that I must sup upon the poison of men’s souls before they join him. In his twisted judgment it is better that I, alone, though innocent, should be condemned for the sanctification of many.”
The hatred in her words seared Varis, but his dismay had nothing to do with her ire. That he stood in the presence of the Fallen horrified him, but having Peropis in his mind was another trouble entirely.
The temple walls seemed to be closing in, and the scant light was fading, wrapping him about like the bindings of a death shroud. He struggled for breath, began backing away. All thoughts of ruling an empire fled his heart, and the glory that awaited the one who wielded the power of gods was but a pathetic dream in the face of dealing with a being steeped for eons in the essence of absolute evil.
Before he could flee, Peropis spoke in calming tones. “No matter that children’s tales claim I ride the winds of midnight storms in search of innocent flesh to devour, I cannot don the mantel of my own living flesh, for I am and have ever been a being of spirit. Geh’shinnom’atar is my home, and the world of the living is denied me by the power of Pa’amadin. Rest easy, Prince of Aradan, for terrorizing mortals has never been my desire.”
After a few more halting steps, Varis drew up short. Peropis, by her own admission, would never trouble him, nor desired to.
“If I accept your offer,” Varis asked, “will I become as a god?”
“Indeed,” Peropis answered without hesitation.
“And what do you gain?”
“Vengeance,” Peropis growled.
“Against whom?”
“Pa’amadin.”
Varis mulled that for a time, then decided that a war between gods was nothing to him.
“Tell me what I must do,” he said, failing to hide his eagerness.
“You must prove yourself. Your worth must be tested, Prince of Aradan. And, too, your strength. The human weakness of your spirit and mortal flesh must be stripped away. You must come to me-into Geh’shinnom’atar. I will devour your failings, replace them with an indomitable spirit and incorruptible flesh. I will make you immortal.”
“And if I should fail this test?” Varis asked, cautious again.
“If you were so weak,” she declared, “I would not have drawn you to me.”
Drawn you to me? Varis bit back an acerbic response. Without her, he had found the ancient tome, with its secrets about the Well of Creation. Without her, he had gleaned from its ancient writing what holding such power would mean for him. Only after he had found the tome, and murdered the few doddering fools who had unknowingly guarded that secret knowledge, had Peropis made herself known to him. In truth, she had come to him like a beggar hoping for a morsel?
Or has she controlled my actions from my very birth? a speculative voice asked.
“I grow impatient,” Peropis warned. “For long ages have I waited for the birth of one as strong as you, a man after mine own heart … someone on whom I can bestow the powers of gods. Come to me, now, and take what I have held safe.”
I will be as a god, Varis thought again. His heart fluttered with anticipation. As if from a dream, a few words written in the tome drifted to the forefront of his mind, words meant as a warning, but were to him a promise: Within the Well of Creation are hidden powers to remake a man into a creator and a destroyer, the ruler of all.
Varis edged closer to the crumbling granite vessel, halting when his thighs pressed against the cool, rough surface. Distantly, he noted that the temple floor shifted with the sound of cracking stone. It was nothing to him, a trifle far, far away. He glided his palms over the rim, careful to keep from dragging his fingers across the shimmering membrane that held in check the creatures below it-the Fallen, the mahk’lar.
“Come to me,” Peropis urged. “Pass through the veil, my prince. This day, gods will die in men’s hearts, and another will rise. Come to me.”
Pushing aside all his inborn caution, Varis plunged his hands into the undulating shroud of silvery, blue-white radiance. His eyes widened as the fluidic barrier between two worlds closed over his wrists with an icy grip. The veil grew brighter with every beat of his thudding heart, bathing his stunned features in a frosty glow. The demonic howls climbed to a fever pitch. At the same instant, a column of blue fire burst from the Well of Creation, melting the flesh from his bones. Before his smoking corpse could fall, misshapen hands caught hold of his charred skeleton, and dragged it into Geh’shinnom’atar.
Chapter 2
With an irritated growl, mercenary Kian Valara hurled his dagger at a mossy tree several paces away. The blade flashed end for end and struck the trunk with a loud thud. On either side of the quivering blade hung two halves of the same leaf. The satisfaction of a fine throw did not lessen his frustration with his charge, Prince Varis Kilvar. Highborn fools of any land, he concluded for the hundredth time that morning, were barely worth the gold they paid for his services. And Varis was the worst of the lot he had ever had the misfortune of guarding. Of course, if he had trusted his instincts, he would not be idling about in the swamp.
His first experience with Varis was at a clandestine meeting in Ammathor’s most sordid district, the Chalice. The prince, a whip-thin, somewhat snaky youth who was too pretty by half, had been vague about his destination, saying only that he would pay a king’s ransom for protection along a secret journey. As to how his absence would be explained, Varis assured Kian that he would deal with the issue. Against his better judgment, Kian had obliged. Gold, after all, spoke with a powerful voice, especially when just half of what Varis had promised was enough to buy a throne in Kian’s homeland of Izutar.
After the company set out from Ammathor, the princeling ordered a fast march due west across the Kaliayth Desert. Varis’s continual study of the horizon at their backs told Kian that he feared the House Guard would come riding after them, no matter his assurances to the contrary. But after three days with no pursuit, the prince had relaxed, and so did Kian.
Afterward, Varis kept himself aloof, not uncommon for an Aradaner noble in the presence of men of lower birth, especially Izutarians. Such was something that used to anger Kian, but he had learned to take an Aradaner’s veiled insults and haughty manner as easily as he took their gold. Broad, brutish smiles and the occasional grunt ensured his employers never suspected that he loathed them as much as they loathed him. Still, crossing leagues of sun-baked rock, sand, and scrub with a prince in tow, had worn thin Kian’s practiced brutishness. Of smiles, he had none left to give.