The fact that he had lent out his Scythe at all shocked Makiel. He would have said that Ozriel would rather die than leave his weapon to someone else, even his closest friend on the Court.
After all, Ozriel could have left his Scythe to Suriel before, to be used in case of emergency. Instead, he had hidden it.
Beneath Makiel’s home.
“What are you going to do?” Suriel asked quietly.
Makiel watched the possibilities spill out into the future. He saw Fate split and twist, fork and turn.
The power to decide the future now rested on him. This was the responsibility of Makiel, the Hound.
He saw clearly what he would have to do.
The odds of reaching Ozriel in time now were slim, next to impossible. As fast as Suriel had made it here, it would be absurd for her to make it back before Ozriel’s death. Makiel had to be prepared to face the Mad King, which meant he needed the Scythe.
And Suriel wouldn’t give it to him. Those possibilities were so small, so remote, that they weren’t worth considering. He would have to strike her down, leaving her alive if possible, and then contact Zakariel—
His thoughts were cut off when Suriel reversed the Scythe and held it out to him.
The weapon struggled in her grip, but she held it with a firm will. “Enough. He lent you to me, and I lend you now to my ally. The strongest among us.”
Suriel, the Phoenix, met his eyes. “I have faith in him.”
Makiel knew what she was doing. She was seeking to patch over the oldest wound in the Court of Seven. Even this, she sought to heal.
She wouldn’t be able to do it. This wouldn’t lead to change.
He took the Scythe anyway.
6
Ziel sat before the Paths of Heaven, the eight profound caverns recorded by Lindon from the bottom of the labyrinth. Just a glance at any of them gave him a headache, but the second one was more tolerable than the others.
Therefore, that was the one he activated the most.
Its form was rock-solid but hard to grasp. It was as though the symbol shifted before his eyes, though he knew the rune wasn’t changing its shape. His eyes kept sliding around it.
The symbol reminded him of a shield, or a castle wall, though it looked very little like either. It was a comfort, like catching sight of a safe haven while being chased by monsters.
Ziel felt a sharp pain in his eye and had to look away, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. Even as an Archlord again, it was all he could do to gaze on the symbol for a few seconds at a time. This wasn’t its full power, either; no depiction of Lindon’s could carry the total significance of the original. Not unless Lindon comprehended it fully.
He leaned back against the wall, cycling madra to soothe his eyes. Once he was back to good condition, he would try again.
And again and again. As many times as it took.
The Weeping Dragon was on its way.
They had to slay it themselves, which was the first impossible task. He had faced the burning sky of the storm Dreadgod before, so he knew its power as well as anyone.
After that, they had to face down the Monarchs. The second impossible task.
If he wanted to do the impossible, he couldn’t shy away from a little pain.
Ziel needed to comprehend as much of these truths as he could. To avoid distraction, he’d set up walls of Forged madra. It was a temporary shelter, little more than a box, but it would prevent the others from bothering him.
In theory.
There was a polite knock at the panel of madra that served as a door, though the knock was only a courtesy. Ziel was doing nothing to veil his spirit, so he could sense Lindon outside as well as Lindon could sense him.
“Pardon the interruption, but would you help me for a moment?” Lindon called.
Ziel deactivated the Path of Heaven and shoved his way out of the shelter. “You don’t have to ask. You’re the boss here.”
Lindon stood taller than Ziel’s little shelter, and he wore an apologetic look that was spoiled by his burning, inhuman eyes. Those eyes widened into an expression that would have, on someone else, looked like embarrassment.
“If you were too busy, I could have come back later.”
“Have you heard of being too polite?”
Lindon dipped his head. “Apologies.”
It wasn’t wrong that Lindon acted so respectfully. In fact, it was probably a good thing. But it still irritated Ziel from time to time. “Do you know what it feels like when you can punch Monarchs and Dreadgods but you bow your head to me?”
“What does it feel like?” Lindon asked, and Ziel got the impression he was genuinely curious.
“It feels like you’re mocking me.”
“Pardon, but that’s not my intention.”
“I know. That makes it worse.”
Lindon’s black-and-white Dreadgod eyes blinked as he visibly processed the words, and Ziel sighed. “Never mind. Take me wherever you were taking me.”
Lindon spread his left hand and gestured for Ziel to join him at his side, which gave Ziel another jolt of irritation. He really was incapable of throwing his weight around, wasn’t he?
Then Ziel remembered Lindon drifting into Shatterspine Castle, levitating the entire building while suppressing a Herald’s Remnant.
No, he was capable of acting his advancement level. He just chose not to.
Ziel thought back to his own time at the head of the Dawnwing Sect. He hadn’t used his position to crush those beneath him, but then again, he hadn’t lowered himself to their level either. Maybe he should have.
Idle thoughts, and they didn’t distract him much. Lindon asked polite questions about his progress as they walked, which Ziel answered with one- or two-word responses.
They headed underground, through marble tunnels and into a cave which Lindon had sealed off with both scripts and a layered wall of earth madra Forged to resemble golden metal. The wall melted away as Lindon activated a construct, and they both walked through.
Inside, there was a small cylindrical tank—roughly the size of a large dog—surrounded by other devices, elixirs, and constructs. It looked like Lindon had assembled most of these tools himself, rather than taken them from the Monarchs.
Dross was bustling around the opening of the tank, humming to himself as he levitated containers of liquid and poured them in. The liquid was pinkish-purple and clear, shimmering in the light.
As the fluid filled up the tank, five objects floated upward. They were tiny balls of white madra, so dense with the aspect of dreams that they made Ziel flinch back. His spiritual sense tingled in their presence, and he had to veil himself to stop his thoughts from spinning into some kind of delusion.
“Apologies, I should have warned you.” Despite his words, Lindon looked fine.
Ziel pointed to the tank. “Are those pieces of the Dreadgod?”
[They were,] Dross said cheerily. [Now they have been processed and combined with some of my own, less-potent-but-still-impressive madra. They’re beautiful little seeds that just need watering. Isn’t that right, little seeds? Yes, you just need water, don’t you? Don’t you?]
He resumed humming to the seeds floating in the tank as he continued pouring fluid inside.
Lindon’s Dreadgod arm flexed, and he opened and closed his fingers. Ziel didn’t think he was aware of doing it, but the presence of the Silent King’s modified madra must have been stimulating the arm’s hunger aspect.
“So these are mental enhancements,” Ziel said.
“They will be. I’d love to make a mind-spirit like Dross for each of you, but I think it might be more reasonable to give you some of his benefits. We have to alter the madra before it’s suitable to use as materials, though, and the only method I’m aware of takes many years.” Lindon turned to Ziel. “That’s where I thought you might come in.”