Diablo III: Storm of Light (2 page)

“The Angiris Council is not required to notify you of anything,” Auriel said. The light surrounding her changed slightly, pulsing like a heartbeat. She was not often so brief; the impact was all the greater for it. “I will watch over the stone. Now, go.”

Balzael hesitated a moment and gave a slight bow. “As you wish,” he said, then turned and disappeared through the arch, his light fading away to darkness.

Auriel and Tyrael were left alone. After a few more pulsing beats, she turned to him. “He has grown arrogant after his promotion.”

“Bravery and arrogance are close cousins,” Tyrael replied. “He showed great heroism against the Prime Evil and sent more demons back to the Hells than any other. Imperius made the obvious choice. I would have done the same.”

“Perhaps.” Auriel’s light grew softer and warmer as she studied him. “I would assume you are here to meet, except there is no Council meeting. You look . . . weary, my brother. You cannot sleep?”

“Would that I had no need of such a thing.”

“Ah, but you do,” Auriel said. “I sensed your inner conflict. It drew me from the gardens. Balzael, he . . .” She made a motion, as if to dismiss the thought. “The Heavens are not the most forgiving place or the most sensitive. The angels might not agree with what you have done, Tyrael, but that does not make the choice any less valid.”

Auriel removed Al’maiesh, the Cord of Hope, and reached, the embodiment of light itself, her armor and flowing robes ending with fingered gauntlets. As she draped the cord over his shoulder, warmth flooded through his mortal flesh, a sense of calm and well-being along with it.

Time ceased to exist as the cord tightened around him. Then Auriel withdrew, and the warmth faded.

“You are concerned,” she said after a time. “About me?”

“Never,” Tyrael said. He struggled to remain impassive, in keeping with an archangel’s bearing. He could not answer her with the truth. When he slept each night, he dreamed as mortals did: not the visions of angels but a far more immersive and fluid state that took him places he had never been. At first, these dreams had been joyous, filled with reflections of the High Heavens and his former immortal existence. But as the nights passed, they began to change, the brilliant light and music of his dreamscapes turning darker, more sinister. He dreamed of something chasing him that he could not outrun, a shadow that was relentless and icy-cold, that clenched him tightly until his beating heart was still. He dreamed of entire human cities being wiped away, the screams of people in agony as their mortal bodies were pulled apart piece by piece, as buildings collapsed and the very ground cracked and tore itself to dust.

Auriel could not possibly understand these dreams. Tyrael was mortal, and the divide between them was too great. And yet his mortal weaknesses led to insights that the rest of the Angiris Council did not possess. The archangels’ pride left them unable to sense the danger they faced now.

Auriel coiled Al’maiesh at her side, the ribbon of light becoming one with her being once again. “You are Wisdom,” she said. “And yet you do not rest among the pools. You have not yet accepted your role. Your guidance can help us rule the Heavens, should you choose to embrace it.”

“And if the Council chooses to listen.”

“The others sense your conflict,” she said. “They do not understand why you shed your wings. If you are clear about where your allegiance lies—”

“What about the allegiance I have pledged to build between angels and men? Many centuries ago, our votes saved Sanctuary from destruction. Humans have much to offer us now. Without
the nephalem, the Prime Evil would have destroyed the Arch, and the Heavens themselves would have fallen!”

“And without humans, such a thing would never have been created,” Auriel said, motioning toward the stone on its perch. “The Council will debate this, Tyrael. That is the proper place for such a discussion.”

“The debate will change nothing,” Tyrael said. “Imperius will not be swayed from his position. I believe Itherael will vote against Sanctuary’s survival. This is not what I envisioned for our future, my sister. Together, angels and men can push back the darkness forever.”

She turned away as if to go, but Tyrael blocked her path.

“The decision rests with us. Will you stand with me now, as you did before?”

It went against the Council to speak so plainly of this outside of a formal session, and Auriel did not answer. Tyrael sensed a rigidity and coldness in the archangel’s demeanor that he had never felt before. She had always supported the survival of humanity, and he did not understand her silence.

But he feared what such silence might mean.

They stood together for a moment. He had gone too far. Saddened, he stepped aside, and Auriel swept by him without another word. He let her go, the ache in his chest expanding as she disappeared through the arch and left him alone. Their friendship had survived for millennia, and this reaction from her was like a thousand tiny cuts. He felt everything more strongly now, felt the archangels’ growing distrust deep within himself.

Tyrael turned back to the Black Soulstone. It sat silent and lifeless, as if mocking him. He studied it more closely. Its appearance had changed; he was certain. Had it swollen in size since he had first arrived at the chamber?

It is reacting to my presence, just as I suspected
. If so, time was already running short, indeed.
A darkness has pervaded the Heavens in a way it never has before. This is not like the Prime Evil’s brazen assault on the gates but something far subtler and more insidious . . . a creeping evil that only I can sense
.

Wisdom feared for the future of the High Heavens and of Sanctuary and believed now, more than ever, that terrible things were in store for them all.

In the shadows beyond the Angiris Council chamber, Balzael watched Auriel leave, waiting until the glow from her wings faded away to nothing. He had not heard every word.

But he had heard enough.

The halls were silent at this time; angels did not sleep, not the way mortals did, but there were quiet periods of contemplation and study when the music of the Heavens softened and their inhabitants grew still. By all rights, he should have been among them. But he had been given an important task, and he meant to fulfill his duty.

So far, events had occurred exactly as they had been predicted by the Guardian. Each step would have to be handled perfectly for the Guardian’s plans to succeed. Until then, Tyrael must be carefully monitored, regardless of Auriel’s recent interference.

Moments later, Tyrael emerged from the chamber. Balzael shrank back, shrouding his wings to keep from being seen. Mortal eyes were weak in many ways, but they picked up the light well. He watched Tyrael walk away from the Council’s meeting place, his footsteps echoing in the corridor. The meaty stink of flesh poured off him. Balzael resisted making a snarl of disgust. How such a legendary archangel could fall so far, so quickly, he did not know. But it would not be much longer before the stench was wiped away forever.

Balzael waited until Tyrael’s footsteps were faint in the distance and then followed, keeping himself carefully hooded. He
would brief the Guardian later and receive counsel on what to do next. Tyrael did not know it, but he would play a vital role in a matter of life and death for angels and men, an end to the Eternal Conflict, the war between the Heavens and the Hells.

Above all, Tyrael must not be allowed to stop the darkness that had begun to creep across the realm of angels.

The future of the Heavens themselves hung in the balance.

“The entrance to the tomb was black as a thresher’s maw,” the fat man said in a low voice, leaning forward as if imparting a terrible secret. “Our torch revealed only the first few steps before the dark swallowed it up. The smell of rot from the hole spoke of things dead and wanting to stay buried.”

He looked through the smoke-filled, flickering light at the circle of faces turned toward him, making eye contact with each one to draw their attention from the whining notes strummed from the lyre at the far side of the tavern. His frock coat and trousers might have indicated Caldeum gentry, but they were well worn and patched in several places.

The number of those gathered around the fireplace grew by one as a woman in a dress sewn from a root sack tossed a jingling coin into the upturned pigskin cap set on the table. The smell of yeast and sour milk wafted over them as she took a stool.

“What’s this got to do with the boy emperor?” a man called out. “You were going to explain the uprising and the evacuation of the city, you said.”

“No mystery to it,” another said from halfway across the
room. “Some say it was a Lord of the Hells raining green fire, but Zakarum priests are in league with the trade consortium council and want new leadership. They were behind it, I say! Lucky for Hakan he survived.”

“Let him tell it,” the woman in the sack dress said, motioning toward the storyteller. She grinned, exposing black gaps where her front teeth should be. “The city’s got troubles enough. We could use a good story or two.”

The bartender, built like a barbarian, scowled and resumed scrubbing the bar with a dirty rag, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

“It’s no story, I assure you,” the narrator said quickly. “Every word is true.”

The fire was hot at his back. A trickle of sweat ran from a receding hairline down his temple. He nodded once at the woman, his gray-whiskered jowls twitching with the slightest smile, before settling back into a proper expression of abject terror.

“Where was I? Ah, yes. This was the lost tomb of a powerful Horadric mage, mind you, one who had been corrupted by the most
foul
evil and who conspired with
demons
. The mage was long dead, but my master had confirmed through extensive research that his resting place was surely haunted and protected by deadly spells. We all suspected what might await us belowground was not of this world, and not one—man, woman, or the young lass who had helped lead us to the cursed place—was willing to go first. And yet we had to proceed, because the very fate of Sanctuary itself depended upon it.

“ ‘Twas then that an
inhuman
cry came from below, like some kind of creature tortured upon the rack and torn limb from limb! The sound of death itself. I was consumed with a fear that bled the strength from my bones, but al-Hazir grabbed the torch from the wizard and marched to the steps. ‘Hurry up, then,’ he
said. ‘I may be only a poor travel scribe, but I shall provide the first light upon this black demon’s hole!’ ”

His voice grew louder as he described the descent into the tomb. The crowd murmured, and the sound of scraping stool legs momentarily drowned out what the fat man said next as more patrons turned to face him. Several more coins jingled into the hat; many listeners shook their heads and laughed at such nonsense, while others smiled uneasily. Caldeum was a city in turmoil, and tales of black magic and demons always served to spark the imaginations of its citizens.