The Source, a huge, perfectly symmetrical red crystal, hung unsupported in the air, perpendicular to the smooth stone floor. Its facets hummed with power, power that kept an entire city afloat.
The hemispherical chamber in which the Source had lived and dreamed and felt and hoped for thousands of years had no doors. The Source’s home was a cyst in the core of the mountain on which Sakkors floated, an abscess, with no means of non-magical ingress or egress. The Source glowed red, bathing the large chamber in light the color of blood. The fading but still regular waves of its mental emanations struck Magadon with the regularity of a heartbeat.
The semicircular ceiling of Source’s chamber was crafted into polished rectangular plates that reflected the image of the Source over and over again, reflected Magadon’s image over and over again, a reminder of the thousand lives they’d lived together in the Source’s dreams.
Magadon did not draw on the Source’s power, not yet, but the air was so rich with it that some diffused into him without his intent. His mind expanded. His thoughts sharpened. His power doubled, tripled. He smiled at the rush, but held onto himself, held onto his purpose.
Please take Sakkors toward Ordulin. As fast as you can.
The Source did not respond. Its consciousness was floating deep in its dying dreams.
Magadon drew on some of the power suffusing the air around him, used it to burrow his thoughts deep into the Source’s mindscape.
Can you hear me, my lovely? There’s nothing to fear. Can you take Sakkors toward Ordulin? As fast as you can? Can you do that?
He smiled with relief when the Source answered him.
The entire city lurched as it suddenly slowed, stopped, changed direction, and flew toward the Ordulin maelstrom at speed.
He hoped Sakkors’s citizens would realize that something had gone wrong and start leaving the city. If he had to, he could use the Source’s power to augment his own and send everyone on Sakkors a powerful mental compulsion to leave. Whether they would be able to get off a floating city zooming through the sky was, of course, another matter.
Brennus cursed in frustration. Even with the rose holy symbol in his hand, his scrying spells could not pick up Vasen Cale.
He was about to start another divination when Sakkors lurched to a stop, causing him to stagger. His scrying cube shifted position, its weight causing it to score the stone floor as it slid, the sound of its movement like a scream. Through his windows, he heard stone crack outside, the rumble of a collapsing building, the shouts of citizens. His homunculi, sent skittering across the polished stone floor, loosed a string of expletives.
“What just happened?” he asked, but there was no one in the room to answer him.
Without warning, the city started moving again, to the southeast, and fast, faster than it had ever moved before.
More cracking and rumbling from outside, more shouts. The city’s structures were not built to withstand such movement.
Brennus ran to a window, trailed by his homunculi. He saw nothing to indicate an attack, nothing to. .
And then he realized what must have happened. Something was wrong with the mythallar that powered the city. He knew it was sentient, unlike the mythallar that powered Thultanthar. Had it gone mad? Was it being controlled?
And then he realized something else.
Sakkors was moving directly toward Ordulin, toward Rivalen. He cursed, hurriedly composed a sending to his father.
Something is wrong with Sakkors’s mythallar. The city is speeding toward Ordulin. Rivalen may have control. Come if you can.
“Stay here,” Brennus said to his homunculi. He renewed the various magical wards that protected him, drew the shadows about him, pictured in his mind’s eye the chamber in which the Source floated, and moved himself there.
The moment he arrived in the chamber, a knife stab of pain in his skull sent him to his knees. He groaned and the shadows around him whirled.
“Rivalen!” he said through gritted teeth. Somehow his brother must have. .
He felt a consciousness sifting through his brains, sorting through his thoughts. Not Rivalen, then.
“Prince Brennus,” said a voice. “I wonder if you remember me.”
The voice sounded familiar to Brennus, but he could not quite place it.
“You and your brother took me prisoner and tortured me. Long ago. Forced me to awaken the Source.”
“The Source?” At first Brennus did not understand the reference. “You mean the mythallar?” Realization dawned. “You’re the mindmage. Magadon Kest.”
A spike of pain in his temples made him wince. His head felt as if a hot poker had been driven through his skull. He could not organize his thoughts enough to raise a defense. His wards were useless against mind magic.
“The mindmage,” Magadon said. “Yes.”
Shadows roiled angrily around Brennus. He tried to section off a part of his mind to give him a moment to raise a mental screen or shadow step from the room, then. .
“I can’t allow that,” Magadon said.
“Get. . out. . of. . my. . head,” Brennus said.
“I can’t do that, either,” Magadon said.
“Why are you. . here?” Brennus said. Blood dripped from his nose, spattered the floor. He lifted his head. “What are you doing?”
The mindmage sat cross-legged in the center of the chamber, directly under the mythallar. Long horns jutted from his head. He regarded Brennus with his unusual eyes, the dots of his black pupils floating on otherwise colorless orbs. His face looked entirely at peace. Above him, the huge, glowing crystal pulsed with power, tremulous lines of energy moving along its length at regular intervals.
“I’m here to stop you and your brother.”
The words sounded sincere but made little sense. Brennus endured the pain in his head and slowly climbed to his feet. “My. . brother? Rivalen?”
“Of course, Rivalen,” Magadon answered, and another stab of pain drove Brennus back to his knees. He felt warmth in his ears. Blood.
“Stop. . us. . from. . what? I want. . Rivalen. . dead!” Brennus said.
“Liar.”
“Look for yourself! See if I’m lying! Look!”
Magadon’s brow creased in a question.
Brennus felt mental hands moving through his mind, examining, probing. He did not resist. He let Magadon see everything, feel the depths of Brennus’s hate.
“He murdered your mother,” Magadon said softly.
“I saw him do it,” Brennus said.
“I know,” said Magadon, his voice surprisingly sympathetic.
The polished reflective planes in the chamber showed the meadow where Rivalen had murdered Alashar. She lay among the flowers, a hand outstretched.
“Hold my hand,” she gasped.
Brennus averted his gaze. “Please, I don’t want to see it!”
The images vanished.
“He showed that to you, your brother. And you showed it to me.”
The pain in Brennus’s head subsided. He could only nod.
“I’m sorry,” Magadon said. “You have to leave now, Prince Brennus. . ”
Hope lodged in Brennus’s chest. “No, let me help-”
The shadows deepened to Brennus’s right and the Most High stepped through them, his platinum eyes ablaze, darkness swirling around him. Magical wards sheathed him, so powerful they distorted the air around him. He took in the scene at a glance, leveled his staff at Magadon, and loosed a bolt of black energy that would have withered an archangel.
The energy slammed into Magadon’s chest and drove him across the chamber. He hit the far wall with enough force to audibly drive the breath from his lungs. But it didn’t kill him. His eyes focused on the Most High and a violet light glowed around his head.