“So they think we’re about two steps from murdering babies, true?” Yerin observed.
Eithan gave a brief shrug. “They have reason to think so, considering the Mad King.”
“And you’re certain we won’t end up like him?” Ziel asked.
“Certain…” Eithan mused. “Certain…”
Before they’d been brought into the Court of Seven, Eithan had expressed his confidence in them. The previous Executors had been left to operate independently, treated like disposable weapons. It was no surprise that they would eventually fall.
By contrast, Eithan assured them he would take care of his Reapers.
Yerin believed that. Leaving his students alone wasn’t in Eithan’s nature.
But she wasn’t confident it would be enough.
“I will say that I am not relying solely on my supervision and your strength of character,” Eithan continued. “If we can prove the viability of our operation, I intend to steadily lessen the burden on you through recruitment.”
“You’ve got more students we’ve never heard about?” Yerin asked.
“I had to be selective when choosing my personal team.” Eithan beamed at them. “As we expand, my criteria will get broader. There are others who would make excellent Reapers once we have laid the foundation.”
The light of the planet had already left them behind as they continued past the sky and into the darkness. A vast artificial mountain hovered in space, a vaguely triangular slab of metal and stone.
Yerin nodded to it. “We about to crash?”
“In fact, that is to be our base of operations.”
Mercy made a disappointed sound. “Aw, that’s okay. We’ll make the best of it.”
“The other divisions got golden pyramids,” Ziel pointed out.
Eithan held up a finger. “Not all of them! One has an entire planet.” He leaned out the window. “It may not be the most attractive or comfortable, but it also isn’t the most secure. It’s sufficient for our needs, of course, but it’s…I suppose the best description would be ‘a floating pile of garbage.’”
“You’re not popular, are you?” Yerin asked.
Eithan ignored that. “This station was left over from an ancient war, cobbled together from outdated pieces to protect an outpost of early Abidan. It failed and everyone died. It is often called the Grave.”
Yerin looked between the Grave and Eithan’s self-satisfied expression. “Who named—”
“I did, just now.”
Yerin had thought so.
Eithan clapped his hands. “Now, given that our time—and Lindon’s—is very limited, I feel that we should begin with on-the-job training. You will all follow me into a world on the brink of destruction, and we will reverse its course together.”
“Do you have a world in mind?” Ziel asked.
A shadow passed over Eithan’s face; the unfamiliar sadness that had come to him with his scythe and white hair.
“For now, it doesn’t matter. They’re all falling apart.”
That brought the mood down further, so Yerin grabbed the conversation by the collar and hauled it along. “Then why not head out from here? What’s in there that we need?”
Eithan raised one eyebrow. “Your armor, of course.”
32
Lindon constructed his meeting-space out of the authority of the Void Icon and pure madra. As a result, it resembled an inhospitable blue-white void with an invisible floor, but it was more inviting than it would have been if he’d made it from Blackflame.
He shifted nervously in place. He would have preferred to have this meeting in person, but despite his recovery, he still couldn’t move through space. At least, not without causing significant problems.
Lindon didn’t even want to use the labyrinth, though that was for unrelated reasons.
So he hosted a spiritual meeting and extended invitations. He expected most people to attend peacefully, but alternatives buzzed through his mind like clouds of irritating flies.
Fighting a high-level battle before he was ready could set him back months of progress, but he’d do it. If they made him.
Seconds after the space was established, a pair of figures in golden armor manifested and strode toward him.
Larian spread her arms wide in welcome, one hand clutching her bow of gray driftwood, smiling as widely as Eithan would have. “Lindon! Do you have my bow?”
“Forgive her,” said the man at her side. “It is good to see you are recovering well, Void Sage.” Del’rek of the Shann was head and shoulders taller than Lindon, a sacred elephant in human form, and spoke over a pair of tusks.
Lindon inclined his head to them both. “Bow Sage. Mountain Sage. Dross tells me you kept trying to take pieces of the Dreadgod corpses.”
Del’rek edged away from Larian.
“They were just sitting there!” she protested. “Rotting!”
“I warned her,” Del’rek said.
[Yerin also warned her,] Dross added. [And I warned her too. There were lots of warnings.]
Larian put on an offended look. “I was trying to preserve these unique pieces of Cradle’s history! For you!”
[If I didn’t like you, I would have let Lindon’s unconscious body kill you.]
That was a story Lindon had heard months ago. Apparently, in the day or two after losing consciousness while killing the Dreadgods, Lindon had attacked anyone who got too close. The only one who had tried more than once was Larian.
“I learned my lesson,” Larian said humbly.
“She didn’t,” Del’rek said. “We had to stop her two more times.”
Larian gestured as though putting something to one side. “He said, she said, who’s to say what the truth is? It’s all very murky. The point is, the Dreadgods are all packaged up and on their way to you, and only a very small fraction of their most worthless parts has mysteriously gone missing. More importantly, I believe we agreed that you owe me a bow.”
Lindon looked from her to Del’rek. “I invited all of you. Can you two speak for the Eight-Man Empire?”
“We can,” the elephant said. “The others are not as…reliable.”
Larian threw up her hands in imitation of terror. “‘Oh no, he’s a monster, he’s going to eat us! I have nightmares about him! I don’t want to ascend because I think he’ll follow me to the heavens and steal my soul!’ Cowards, all of them. Not a single one has the guts to look you in the eye and show you the respect you’re due for making me such an amazing bow.”
Lindon was unexpectedly hurt. “Is that really how they think of me?”
“I don’t.” Larian placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I think of you as a brother.”
“She has greatly regretted giving up the Dreadgod bow,” Del’rek added.
“I had it in my hands! Why did I have to give it back?”
Lindon took a step back and regarded them both. “I will need a soul oath from you all. You will be invaluable in keeping the peace here, but if you are going to prevent the rise of Monarchs, you can no longer conquer.” He made sure his black-and-white eyes burned. “It’s that or ascend.”
He expected resistance, but the change in Larian was immediate. “I swear on the souls of the Eight-Man Empire that we will forfeit all territory and dedicate our lives to the exclusion of Monarchs, for as long as we wear the armor. Let our Empire stand now in defense of the Dreadgods’ return.”
The soul oath resonated until Lindon accepted it, finding it surprisingly solid.
More informally, Larian continued. “We’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. We’re prepared for it, though we won’t be enough on our own.”
“I’ll leave behind as many measures as I can,” Lindon assured her. “And Emriss Silentborn left some plans as well.”
Dross drifted out and shrugged. [None of it’s perfect, of course. Anything we put into place has a decent chance of being abused within a hundred years. But we’re hoping we can pop down ourselves occasionally, to keep an eye on things.]