Miya stared at Galen as though she might shake the answers from him. “Did he give it to them? Tell me now!”
When Galen didn’t answer right away, his wife, Sheloran, did. “Yes,” she said. “He did. Gadrith would have killed you, Lady Miya. And Kihrin couldn’t stand for it. So, he gave them what they wanted.”
The vané flinched.
Therin frowned. “I don’t understand. Why is a vané tsali stone so important?” He shook his head. “I used to buy them just to destroy them and release the souls, but that can’t be why Gadrith wants one.”
Tyentso gave Miya a cold smile. “Do you want to tell him or should I?”
The vané woman seemed defeated and deflated. She had a look of numbed horror on her face. Finally, she seemed to realize that Therin was waiting on her answer. “He wore the Kirpis Stone of Shackles.” She shook her head. “It’s powerful. I understand better than anyone. But to go through all of this…”
“They took Kihrin,” Galen said. “They said they’d need him to summon a demon.”
The room was quiet although the sound of muffled sobbing continued from the survivors. Galen looked at the High Lord, Lady Miya, and Tyentso: all three wore an expression that said louder than any declaration that he had just told them grim news.
“I see I came late to the party,” Teraeth said as he stepped into the room. All his illusions had been dropped. He once more looked like a Manol vané.
Lady Miya looked at him, and turned, hand raised as though to cast some kind of spell.
“Now now,” Tyentso said. “This is a friend.”
Miya lowered her hand. “My apologies. It’s been a rather—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but looked over at Therin. “We must find Kihrin.”
“Easier said than done,” Teraeth commented. He held up the necklace of star tears. “The mimic guarding the front had this on her. I’ll take that as a bad sign.” He nodded at Tyentso. “Spike worked like a charm.”
“At least one thing’s gone right,” she agreed, but she looked furious as she said, “We have no idea where they might have taken him.”
Galen raised a hand, like a child answering questions from a tutor. “… I think I know.”
* * *
Therin led the way into the underground chamber, through a secret door in the palace grounds, which he had thought unused for over a decade. He realized his mistake as he saw the runes painted in blood on every surface and the mage-lights that still lined the ceiling in spinning glyphs.
Miya gasped as she saw Kihrin’s body on the altar. They hadn’t moved him. They hadn’t even removed his shackles. Kihrin had just been left there, abandoned. The blood oozing from his chest, from the gaping hole there, was all the evidence anyone needed about his fate.
He was dead.
“Ah, hell,” Tyentso muttered. “Why didn’t he join the damn Brotherhood when he had the chance?”
Teraeth looked haunted. “Wouldn’t have mattered for a demon sacrifice.”
She and Teraeth both rushed over to look at the body, leaving Therin, Miya, Galen, and Sheloran. Therin stood there with a stony expression, his fists clenched into tight balls, his jaw clamped so hard that the skin there was white. Miya breathed fast and shallow, like an injured deer, unable to look away from the sight on the altar.
She turned her head toward Therin and whispered, “This is your fault.”
The tendons on his neck strained, but Therin didn’t respond.
Tyentso took the necklace from Teraeth’s hand and looked at the stones with a critical eye. “We could try anyway.”
“It’s risky,” Teraeth said. His voice was flat.
“Might work is better than won’t work because we didn’t make the attempt.”
Tyentso turned to Therin and Miya. “Help us out here. We need to carry his body over to the temple district.”
Therin shook his head and snapped out of his stupor. “He was sacrificed to a demon. You can’t resurrect someone without their souls.”
Teraeth looked ready to slit throats. “He was gaeshed while he was a slave.” He pointed to the necklace in Tyentso’s hand. “That contains his gaesh.”
“He was what—?” Miya stiffened. “What?”
“Gaeshed. You should be familiar with the idea,” Teraeth snapped at her.
“Haven’t lost your touch for diplomacy, I see,” Tyentso muttered. She held aloft the glittering chain of jewels. “This contains a sliver of his soul. Not much of it, but a tiny piece. The rest of his soul is enjoying the company of a demon prince, but if we can send this part to the Land of Peace, there’s a chance that Thaena can heal the damage.”
Miya rushed over to the body. “I’ll help,” she said. She concentrated, using magic to break the shackles and lift Kihrin’s corpse. Therin nodded as he followed her.
“I don’t understand something,” Galen said.
“This isn’t the time,” Therin snapped.
“No.” Galen shook his head. “I think this is important. If the demon didn’t get his soul—didn’t get his whole, entire soul*—that means the ritual failed, right? The demon isn’t bound?”
Everyone paused.
Therin looked at Tyentso. “Do any of you know who they were summoning?”
Tyentso examined the runes and glyphs painted into the walls. “Xaltorath.” She blinked then. “That mimic was telling the truth. Xaltorath … there’s no way he would have just grinned and swallowed down a partial soul. That means…”
“He’s not under their control,” Miya and Teraeth said simultaneously.
“Is that good?” Galen asked.
Tyentso shook her head, looking bemused. “I have no idea. I suspect the only person who knows is Xaltorath.”
* * *
The group formed an odd sight, sprinting through the streets of the Upper Circle. They would probably have drawn more attention from guards (albeit as an escort) if it were not for the plumes of smoke lifting into the night from the west, near the docks. A few tried to interfere with the group or question them, but given the presence of a High Lord, no one thought about it for long.
The Cathedral of Thaena was one of the largest of the temples in the Ivory District, only to be outdone by the Church of Khored. This had been financed almost entirely by the D’Lorus family as an apology for the actions of their wayward Lord Heir. The closer they journeyed, the heavier Therin’s feet felt, until it was all he could do to lift one foot and put it in front of the other.
Others had had the same idea, for by the time the group arrived at the church, it was already crowded with bodies. Priests in white robes wandered the thin space between corpses as they performed last rites. One man, tall and thin with straight, wispy black hair, saw them walk inside and performed a visible double take. He rushed over to them. “Therin, is that you?”
“Kerris,” the High Lord said as he clasped the man’s hand. “It has been a long time.”
“Too long,” the priest protested. “What has—” His eyes fell upon the body.
“He is my son,” Therin said. He paused, and then added, “He is my only son. Devyeh and Bavrin are both dead.”