“Aye,” he whispered.
Something akin to a breeze came as a draft through the rotunda of stone. It rustled his clothes and cooled him.
“To be a Ravinir is to be broken. To have the power to destroy the kingdoms of this world, one must bear the burden of the Oath magic. The kingdom you will break is a kingdom that has dwelled in the heart of a Sorian since the Dawn of Time. To break it, you must be broken. It is the law of the Oath magic. It is the price of the magic you wield. Suffer it, Son of Quicksilver. It will teach you many truths.”
–Claim me!–
“Look into the light that you may see the first truth.”
Thealos’ head was already bowed, so he leaned forward and plunged his face into the shaft of brilliance. The magic seized him as it had before, the sickening lurching feeling like plunging into an ice-crusted pond. Part of him fought against the surge of coldness, but he embraced the chill despite its burn.
The Foretelling washed over him in waves, speaking in soothing folds of magic as it buoyed him along. It was a different experience this time. It was not the river of magic bringing him to the past, but a glimpse into a single moment in time. The exact moment of him kneeling in the Silverkin’s lair. Like flower petals touched by the sun’s warmth, the thoughts and images unfolded as one, yet he could see them all individually.
Ticastasy clutched herself in the dark hallway, alone in the fetid tunnels, blind to even the glare of the warding that her human eyes could not see. She paced fitfully, chewing on her lip, fearing he would die invoking the magic and wondering if she should have confessed her feelings for him—wondering if she would ever be able to bring herself to do it.
Another petal. Xenon’s two quaeres were decimated. He alone survived of the Crimson Wolfsmen, and he fought like a Sleepwalker who had trained for a century. The Life magic of his companions sustained him, and dozens of Bandit soldiers had fallen like wheat to the scythes. His mind was a jumble of emotions, but a single thought shoved him along—his hatred for Thealos Quickfellow. His consuming hatred.
Then another—Flent Shago with a Shae war axe waving over his head as he bellowed at his full voice. He was just inside the gates of Landmoor, having brought them crushing down with a gift of the Mages of Safehome. A throb of pride went through Thealos seeing him hale and hearty. The Shae army advanced on the southern gates of the Landmoor. He could see them through Flent’s eyes.
The petals were all different. Tsyrke Phollen, clutching a bleeding scalp with one hand and holding his broad sword with the other, staggered down the tunnels, searching for Ticastasy and Mage, wondering why his carefully laid plans to surrender the city had collapsed in a heap of his own undoing. Thealos saw the truth of it blazoned in the darkness. It had not been a deception. Stasy was right about him. She had no idea how deeply his heart bled for her.
Justin, hands charred and screaming with pain, struggled against the Sorian named Mage in the tunnels beneath Landmoor. Justin’s mind was not his own, stolen and twisted by Miestri to serve her will. A minion of sacrifice to increase her own power while she waited safely in the Shadows Wood, well beyond the influence of the Silverkin’s magic. There was Exeres too, haggard and sweating, clutching a sphere the color of crimson and raising it above his head. Before him, on the floor, was a thing of the darkest magic, a Firekin orb—the source of a Sorian’s power.
“Now!”
He knew the truth instantly. Exeres destroying the Firekin would destroy the entire city too, killing everyone but Thealos, who was sheltered within the warding. The moorlands would be devastated for years, a stagnant hollow where evil would gather because of the taint of the land. A place of shadows and death for generations.
As he watched Exeres’ fist fall, he plunged his own hand into the center of the floor and grasped the cool shape of the Silverkin’s magic. He raised it from its nest as the magic sighed with freedom. The lights within the warding winked out, but the Silverkin itself shimmered with impatience, blazing in his hand like a fist of stars.
–You have come at last!–