Broken Crescent (29 page)

Nate sat on his cot and shook his head.

Yerith said, “The appearance of the Angel of Death foretells the end of Mankind.”

“Bullshit.” Nate said in English. “I am not this world’s fucking Antichrist.”

T
HE TRAVEL from Manhome to Zorion took two sixdays. The Scholar Uthar Vailen traveled as an anonymous acolyte with a plain robe and an unadorned white mask. Those outside the College didn’t question him, and those from inside the College were satisfied with a few words that referred to the Venerable Master Scholar of Manhome.

As far as the College of Man was concerned, the Scholar Uthar Vailen was on an overland journey toward some provinces north of Manhome. Those who cared to watch him would be satisfied to see Uthar’s mask and robes on the northbound wagon. So much of the College relied on forms and ceremony that it would not occur to observers that the man behind the mask was not Uthar Vailen—not any more than it would occur to the servants of the College of Man that the rankless acolyte facing them was perhaps the second most powerful man among the scholars of Manhome.

Even so, this kind of travel was a risk not to be taken lightly. Years of effort had gone into creating Arthiz. The conspirator that Uthar had manufactured was meant only to appear briefly, then evaporate back into the College. That was a trivial exercise in Manhome, where the College was everything and acolytes were thick on the ground.

In Zorion, seat of the Monarch himself, the College was less conspicuous, which made Arthiz more so. However, it was unavoidable. Uthar’s long years of effort were close to completion, and when the events he planned began to unfold, he could not be anywhere near Manhome or the main force of the College.

So, the white-masked Arthiz strode through the nighttime streets of Zorion with the arrogance that even the lowest member of the College of Man was trained to display before outsiders. Even here, at the opposite pole of power from Manhome, the people deferred to his mask. No guard challenged him, and even the beggars shied from his path.

He walked a crooked route to the ancient ziggurat that was the center of the Monarch’s rule. Most of the entrances were well-guarded and even an acolyte of the College might face challenge upon entry. However, the ziggurat was ancient when the first man strode the earth here, and there were many ways inside.

Uthar walked down a hole that led under the old streets several buildings away from the massive structure. He followed the damp tunnels until he was deep under the ziggurat. From there, he followed hidden stairways and passages up toward the chambers of the Monarch himself.

He was expected.

Uthar emerged from behind a false pillar and into a great room dominated by frescoes and a vaulted ceiling. A throne carved from a single stone sat on a dais overlooking the massive chamber.

Facing Uthar upon his entrance were about twenty guardsmen, weapons drawn. Uthar froze, and was glad that his mask hid any displays of shock or emotion. His first animal urge was to retreat, however fruitless that effort might be. Instead, he stepped fully into the room and stood facing the guards, consciously feigning confidence as he mentally searched for an incantation that would extract him from the situation.

“Arthiz?” called a youthful voice from behind the guardsmen.

“Yes,” Uthar managed to say with as much dignity as possible.

The guardsmen parted to reveal a young man in a rich set of robes. The Monarch was barely a man, smooth-cheeked and weak-looking, but there was a hardness in his eyes that was much older than he was. Arthiz was in the presence of the one man who had enough temporal power to challenge the College on any level. The Venerable Master Scholar might be disdainful of this callow youth, but Uthar knew better.

“My apologies for the display of force,” said the Monarch. “Many rumors spread, and prudence seems to be in order.”

“I am here for my Master’s service. I defer to your wisdom.”

“So you do.” The Monarch waved a bejeweled hand, motioning him forward. “We shall talk while my men assure themselves that you were not followed.”

Behind his mask, Uthar smiled slightly. Fear drove the Monarch almost as much as the Venerable Master Scholar. Uthar liked fear. It was a useful emotion.

“Why is it that we wait?” asked the Monarch when they were safely inside an audience chamber. The room was more lavish than any in the College, with seats of carved woods and cushions made of exotic fabrics. To Uthar, it felt as if the Monarch compensated for the discrepancies in power by amassing wealth.

The Monarch sat on a heavily embroidered sofa while Uthar remained standing.

“I am awaiting your reasons,” he prompted.

“I have long been your obedient servant and adviser. The College rots from within, slowly consumed by its own paranoia and corruption. When you move, the blow should be quick, decisive, and final.”

“You have given good counsel, Arthiz. But only to a point. Wasn’t it you who pointed out that the College’s greatest weakness was its belief in its own invulnerability?”

“To this point, the Venerable Master Scholar believes that no earthly force can challenge them.”

“We squander that advantage.”

Uthar frowned behind his mask. “I do not see what you mean.”

“My dear Arthiz, do you think that the Monarch of all Mankind has no mind for strategy, no eye for tactics?”

“Not at all . . .”

“I understand your own motives better than you think I do. Not that I begrudge you them, as long as they parallel my own. Reconstructing the College of Man with you as the Venerable Master Scholar, or the equivalent, isn’t it?”

“I serve at the Monarch’s pleasure,” Arthiz said. The meeting wasn’t going quite as he had planned. He had the unpleasant feeling of growing danger, that he walked a precipice that only now became visible.

“This is my problem, Arthiz. I have massed armies, trained and housed them within a sixday ride from Manhome itself. Every passing day is another day when the College might open its eyes and see a knife at its throat. At the same time, your masterful stroke of abducting their Angel of Death has begun the College cannibalizing itself, looking for you.”

“The plan proceeds even more swiftly than anticipated.”

“Much more swiftly, Arthiz. You know as well as anyone that a blow too late is as costly as a blow taken too soon. It is time.”

“No!” Arthiz snapped before he could stop himself. “Please, may the Monarch forgive my outburst.”

The Monarch waved his hand as if Arthiz’s insubordination was beneath his notice. “I am aware how you feel.”

“It will be another year at the soonest before your Shadow College is equipped to take over.”

“Arthiz,” the Monarch shook his head, and he no longer looked young. His expression was ageless and cruel, like an old ghadi statue. “Your Shadow College is a path, not a destination. It serves so I can break the grip of Manhome and the College of Man. So it will do so.”

Arthiz shook his head. “I don’t understand. No scholar there is prepared to combat the College. We only just captured the stranger, and we haven’t yet uncovered what advantage he can bring us.”

The Monarch laughed.

Uthar stood there, completely dumbfounded.

“Oh, that was impolite.” The Monarch’s smile was worthy of Ghad himself. “Arthiz, you are a genius in planning, conspiracy, and the manipulation of events to your own advantage. I think the vast intricacy of your vision prevents you from seeing the simple, the basic, and the obvious. Will it surprise you to know that I can tell you precisely what advantage the Angel of Death can bring me? How this thing will spell the destruction of the College of Man?”

Uthar was silent a few moments before he quietly asked, “How?”

“The death of the College will be in the fear they place in this creature. The fact that they will move the path of the sun itself to capture this strange being will be in itself enough to undo them.”

Uthar shook his head.

“I see you do not understand. Shall I recast it? Your Shadow College will, you have said, be ready to take on the scholars defending Manhome in a year’s time. Why should I wait if—at this very moment—they can draw the main force of Manhome away from the College, leaving it nearly undefended?”

What the Monarch planned to do sank in. “You cannot mean to waste years of work.”

“If Manhome is taken, it is not a waste.”

“But—”

“You understand now why I require your presence, and why you will stay here.”

“Please reconsider this path. You are casting aside years of patient effort. You are casting away the Angel of Death itself before it has revealed anything to us.”