Before long, his course was clear. They needed to recruit.
Usually, the Abidan only allowed recruitment of those who had ascended beyond their Iterations of their own power. Every deviation from that was a slight violation of Fate, which could tip the world that much closer to chaos. The Abidan interfered in mortal affairs only in dire need. And often not even then.
Now, risking a bit of causal instability was by far the lesser evil. It was that or eradication.
Makiel willed it, and his Presence stirred to action, appearing in Sector Control headquarters for Sectors One through Twenty-one as a purple eye the size of a head. It delivered his orders.
An action of this scale would often require the permission of the entire Court, but in this case, it was an order to bend Fate to preserve Fate. Well within the remit of Makiel.
In world after world, the order went out and was obeyed: encourage recruitment.
In Sanctum, this would take the form of open screenings and recruitment drives for the Abidan. In Jubilee, the Court would offer wishes in exchange for service. In Solitude, they would contact the Wise Serpents that ringed the world and ask for a gift of talented recruits. In Obelisk, they would wait at the top of the Tower, surpassing Threshold and taking in people directly.
Their efforts would be tailored to each of the hundreds of worlds, but it would result in thousands of new Abidan over the coming years. Their ranks would swell to more than the Court had seen in centuries.
They would lose some Iterations, and such deviation from Fate would create an unprecedented surge in corruption. But the new Court would handle it.
Then the Mad King could not destroy them. They would survive.
With a heavy heart, he finished delivering the message.
He concentrated special attention on Sector Eleven. Not only did they protect Asylum, which would surely be a top-priority target for the King, they defended Cradle. And Cradle would be among the most delicate of worlds to recruit.
Of all the Monarchs in Cradle, every one had already refused recruitment by the Abidan already. They would no doubt encourage others to do so as well. The Abidan would have to descend personally, representing the heavens, and appeal to the Monarchs’ successors. The next generation. They would have to offer a prize of great value, and the result might be only one or two new Abidan.
But it would be worth it.
Now, more than ever before, the Court needed soldiers.
~~~
Even as Lindon dashed through the heavily decorated tunnels beneath the arena, the whole building shook with cheers. The Ninecloud Soul would be replaying highlights from the fight, instructing the crowd and following the match with hours of feasting and entertainment for the rest of the day. The next match wouldn’t be for a week, but the Court turned the time between rounds into a festival.
Yerin would be mobbed by strangers. Enough people had tried to talk to Lindon already, mostly from the Akura family, that he could only imagine how many wanted a moment with Yerin. He needed to get back to her side as soon as he could.
Suddenly the building went silent. He slowed his steps, looking around, but the others in the hallway looked as confused as he did.
A moment later, a sound like birds screaming tore through the Ninecloud arena. Lights flashed from the walls in all colors, and the Ninecloud Soul’s voice resonated out of nowhere, sounding panicked: “All guests, prepare for imminent spatial transfer—”
Lindon dashed backward, trying to get away from whatever was about to happen, but a blue light consumed him.
Just like when he met Suriel, the world was replaced by a river of textured blue that pressed against him in all directions. He couldn’t breathe, and Suriel’s marble in his pocket suddenly grew painfully hot, but in less than a second it was all over.
He stood around the edge of the arena beneath the Akura viewing tower, sunlight beating down. The arena was quiet, the towers completely empty. Whoever had transported him here, they had removed the spectators at the same time.
He saw the other eliminated contestants against the wall close to their original towers; Pride and Naru Saeya stood next to him, Grace and her team nearby, the Frozen Blade students drawing blades. Everyone looked wildly around for an explanation.
Fifteen young Underlords stood in the center of the arena. The remaining participants in round four. Lindon was the only one to have been eliminated so far, and whatever was happening, it pained him that Yerin and Mercy were facing it while he was looking in from the outside.
Fourteen of them looked ready for battle, but Sha Miara was the lone exception. She stood staring at the sky, wearing a grave expression.
One by one, everyone followed her lead. The viewing-towers that held spectators during each round were quiet and empty, but the Monarch platforms floating overhead were still active.
Figures hovered in the air above the platforms. Over the Eight-Man Empire’s plain tower, a circle of eight gold-armored men and women hovered. Akura Malice stood in midair over her mountain, shrouded in shadow. The Dragon King’s cloak rippled in the wind as he flew over his throne, Reigan Shen lounged on the roof of his palace with a goblet of wine in hand, and even Northstrider stood with his hands behind his back above his dark globe of water.
The Arelius tower seemed doubly empty by contrast, its storm flashing blue but no one hovering above it.
The very presence of so many Monarchs made the air feel thick. Every second pressed against Lindon like a knife against his throat, and Dross’ silence felt heavy, as though the spirit was afraid even to think.
Moment by moment, the Monarchs stayed motionless. Quiet. Waiting.
Lindon couldn’t imagine what was happening. Was this a plot by one of the Monarchs? If so, how had they trapped the others in it?
Then, for the second time in his life, Lindon saw a blue light descending from the sky like a sapphire dawn.
He fell to his knees a step sooner than everyone else in the arena below Monarch. It was the only proper thing to do; Lindon felt the awe in his soul. Even Sophara fell to her knees, groveling with head bowed. Sha Miara went to one knee, but she turned and looked to the Ninecloud’s rainbow tower—the feminine figure hovering over it was hidden by nine-colored light.
Seconds later, the heavenly messenger emerged. He was so far up that a Gold would barely be able to see him as a distant figure, but Lindon’s Underlord eyes could make out his features.
He felt almost blasphemous for the thought, but compared to Suriel, this man was a disappointment. He had the features of an ordinary human, a pinched face with a thin beard, and dark hair cropped close to his head. His eyes were the beady black of a rat’s.
But he wore the same eggshell-smooth white armor that Suriel had, and over his shoulder drifted an eye with a purple iris. It looked like an Akura eyeball the size of the man’s whole head.
The eyeball turned in a circle, looking at the Monarchs, but the man didn’t. He looked down to the gathered Underlords.
“Children.” He sounded as though he stood right next to them. “I am Kiuran of the Hounds. Do not be bound by this world. The most talented of you will one day be offered the choice to leave, to emerge from this cradle and truly live. Do not take the example of your elders. When the invitation comes, accept it, and let your eyes be opened to the real world.”
Northstrider’s spirit stirred, and his gold dragon eyes glared. His muscles strained against each other, as though he was fighting not to speak. But he said nothing, and the messenger did not address him. Reigan Shen gave a smile, baring a fang or two, and took a long draught from his goblet.
“The Court of Seven occasionally sponsors this tournament,” the messenger went on, “to give promising young recruits a taste of the world beyond. You are blessed, for now more than ever, we wish to nurture your talents.”
He extended his hand, palm-up. “I give you the new grand prize of the tournament: a weapon of the gods.”