The Silverkin jolted his arm with the strength and rush of its magic, dazing him with its ferocity. He remembered gripping a Crimson Wolfsmen blade for the first time, the Silvan blade he had tricked from Tannon’s band. It was a drop of water compared to the ocean of feelings that awoke all at once inside him. The sea-swell of power broke loose from the rotunda room, as if a banked up river had shattered free. Magic flooded the tunnels, carrying a part of him as it went down every aisle and twisting passageway, slamming and splashing, bursting through the seams of the rocks.
Though it felt like an ocean, the magic had a sound to it—a chorus of notes pitched high and low, and some in between, building to such a crescendo of piteous beauty that tears pricked his eyes at the hauntingly sweet sounds. The magic spread, deeper and deeper through the tunnels, spilling up into the streets, tumbling down the slope of the hill until it engulfed every Kiran Thall poised at the brink of a slaughter. It stole every mote of Forbidden magic, every speck of it, smothering its stink. The Firekin orbs recoiled with shock as the Silverkin doused them, plunging their dark flames into its cool waters. The links between Justin, Exeres, and Miestri snapped apart—of Mage as well. Nothing could stop the Silverkin’s power, nothing could halt the flood as it shuddered the very foundations of Landmoor and exploded in the sky outside its walls.
Thealos became aware of the water-like magic halting, then sucking back towards him as if he were a sinkhole. The vastness of it he had just experienced—the distance it had gone in a single burst that lasted no longer than a blink. Rushing, churning, draining magic yanked its strings and the waters returned, rushing back to the Silverkin’s gleaming facets, rushing through Thealos as it was forced to obey the magic’s power.
Pain.
The pain of it started as little needle jabs all over his body. Every part of him experienced it, every pore of skin, every strand of hair. The pain came as a wall that made him cringe beneath its weight. The waters were laden with every kind of filth he could imagine. The purity of the waters were tainted now, sick and black and putrid. Every mote of Forbidden magic, every spark of desire to cavort with it—it all rushed through him in a crescendo of excruciating horror. He could not scream. He could not weep. The weight of it crushed him against the stones of the rotunda floor, his hand clenching the Silverkin until the facets cut his palm and fingers and made him bleed. And he could not let go. Sweet Vannier, how he wished he could let go! The weight of it increased, a solid wall of rock slamming down on him. He felt his arms break, his back break, his legs break under the strain of it. Still he could not scream.
He wanted to black out. He did not want to face the pain any more. A blizzard of memories choked and jolted him. Tannon’s band had cut and stabbed at him. But not even they had hurt him this much. His body was broken. He knew he would never walk, never practice the Way of Ice and Shadows. The knowledge would remain locked in his mind, awake but unused, for the rest of his life. Horror. His life would be a horror. No, the magic wouldn’t kill him. It would do much worse. It would let him live.
The flood of tainted waters ended abruptly as they settled back into the sapphire facets of the Silverkin. The pure blue stone was mottled with inky black, with shadowy forms that writhed inside it.
On the floor, in pain beyond anything he could describe, he understood the next truth. The evil was not destroyed—it was only imprisoned.
Thealos still could not scream. His lungs would not open.
He was dying after all.
Let it be soon. Let it be soon.
Chapter XXXIV
Allavin Devers clenched the rein straps so tightly he knew they’d leave marks on his palms. His stomach roiled from the bucking wind and the alerion’s reaction to it. The Kiran Thall gathered in a single line, their mounts skittish. It looked like a rippling black snake along the base of the hillside. The knights responded with three lines, outnumbering the mounted troops four to one. Yet the odds did not feel right to him. The Bandits were too confident, too eager to face a superior force.
Shearmur’s command banner flapped in the breeze as he rode down the lines, raising his shield. The knights hunkered down, blades and spears in the crook of stirrups and ready for action. Allavin knew they were going to be slaughtered. The agony of it tortured him. What would the king of Dos-Aralon do when he learned of it? What would the Dukes of Amberdian and Sypher say?
The front ranks of Kiran Thall started at a firm clop, riding leisurely to close the distance between them and the front ranks of the knights.
It’s over, he thought. Nothing can stop it now. He had hoped against reason that Thealos would make it to the Silverkin in time, but the opportunity was lost. The moment to prevent the devastation had passed. The victory would ring in the halls of don Rion’s palace like…
The alerion banked up, shrieking, arching its back so sharply that Allavin felt the straps strain as he was thrown back. He heard the alerion’s rider—Korane—curse in Silvan and then gasp. He jerked the reins and nearly took the alerion upside-down to bank low and dive.
“Do you hear it? Do you hear it?” Korane screamed. He pointed down to the city, lurching forward to jab the sky with his finger.