The Burn (21 page)

"Always."

"You're a sadistic son of a bitch."

"The spell allows her to be controlled," the Necromancer replied, his voice smooth. "She pursued me relentlessly, a brave champion of mankind. I am certainly a sadist and more, but I killed and preserved her like this to satisfy your lust, not my own."

Seth narrowed his gaze, feeling a blind rage take hold. He pushed to his feet and swung at the figure in front of him, his knuckles connecting with bone. The Necromancer's head snapped back, his body reeling.

Seth hit him again and kept hitting, the strikes solid enough to drop most men immediately. His anger tore loose, fathomless and unquenchable, the violence he was capable of suddenly more than he cared to control.

The Necromancer lurched against the wall, taking each punch with a hiss of breath. Catching one of Seth's fists with a flash of unnatural strength, he lashed back, delivering a crushing hit to Seth's cracked ribs.

Seth staggered against the altar, wheezing.

"Foolish," the Necromancer rebuked harshly. "Whatever damage you do to me is quickly healed. You, however, are still human and I cannot be the one to kill you. No one can spill your blood without being forever damned for it."

Seth clenched his teeth, pulling a strained breath.

"You still do not remember," the Necromancer mused, moving to stand above Miranda's bloodied ghost. "The power you once had here, over the Goddess of War, over all of them."

Passing his hand slowly over the image on the altar, the Necromancer restored Miranda's ghost to perfection. Her wounds disappeared, her ivory skin glowing to soft purity, the waves her hair brightening around the delicate curve of her cheek.

Seth grimaced, finding it harder to breathe. His chest was growing heavier, the pain more acute.

"One of your lungs has been punctured," the Necromancer said without looking up. "It will fill with blood."

Seth winced, having already figured that part out.

"Fortunately, there is still time."

"Time for what?"

The Necromancer pushed the crypt closed and backed away from the still image of Miranda on its surface. "We will leave her to her peace. She will only interfere if we wake her now."

"She'll try to save my life, you mean."

The Necromancer looked at Seth, a cold confirmation in his eyes. "You would spare her that, I think."

Seth dropped his gaze, supposing that he would.

A figure appeared in the doorway behind the Necromancer, the outline of a warrior with a golden mask. Seth released a pained breath, his body shuddering with the hard ache in his chest. He slid one arm around his waist to steady himself, trying desperately to focus.

The Necromancer stepped back, gesturing toward the armored figure in the hallway. "Come," he said calmly. "Your destiny awaits you."

* * *

Miranda woke to the sound of the wind. She blinked, pressing her lips together in confusion. The sand of the playa stretched out before her, its vast emptiness shimmering in the heat. The sky above was blue, the wind soft. The mountains in the distance appeared parched, their gentle slopes folded like soft leather under the sun. It was the same desolation, the same banishment.

"Seth," she murmured, pushing up from the dry silt.

He had attacked the Khagan, trying to protect her.

Now he was alone.

"Seth," she said desperately, rising to her feet.

Thin voices whispered on the breeze, their words mingling as they swirled past her. They spoke her name in rich tones of emotion, calling her a goddess and a guardian.
The Rathvam.

She shook her head. "Where is Seth?"

They responded softly, telling her that he was in the Gate. He was home. She merely had to understand. She had to see.

Miranda turned in the direction they beckoned.

A golden tower appeared from the sunlight behind her, its arched entrances and cloistered balconies lustrous in the heat, its ringed center catching light and shadow like the facets of a crystal.

It was an earlier version of the Gate, she realized, something smaller and more elegant, without the dark steel corridors and heavy locks. This version was open and luminous, its lack of complexity seeming far more powerful, as if crafted with greater skill.

Miranda walked toward it and paused at the entrance, reaching out to touch the metal with her fingers. It was bright, like true gold, but seemed lighter and more porous, as if made from some kind of metal she had never seen before. Peering inside, she could see corridors formed from the same material. Every surface was adorned with thousands of Rathvam symbols, their curves and lines glittering in the light, their whispers slipping into the gentle current of the wind.

She shook her head. "Where is Seth?"

Rathvam words swirled around her, begging patience. They had sought her here. They had shown her this version of the Gate for a reason.

They were trying to help her understand.

"Understand what?" she asked.

The world around her changed.

The open sky above morphed into a cavernous ceiling of rock. Moist walls formed around her, dripping with pale stalactite teeth and shining pools of black water. She was in a cave.

The Gate sat in place before her, its cloistered balconies shining with firelight. It had been hidden here. It had been protected and sheltered here.

Miranda pressed her lips together.
A memory, one of the collective memories of the Gate.

Human figures in medieval armor began to appear around her, some standing guard, others walking along a narrow staircase that had been cut in the rock, the light from their torches dancing across the still water of the pools.

The smell of blood wafted in the air.

She grimaced, cutting her gaze to the darkness beyond the glow of the torches, sighting bodies lying in abstract piles, pale limbs and hollow expressions caught in lifeless decay. She stared at them in horror, slow to tear her gaze away as two armored figures walked into the light beside her, their attention fixed on the walls of the Gate.

"It is not enough to simply take it," the first one said, his voice chillingly familiar. He removed his helmet, allowing the thick white braid of his hair to fall loose over one shoulder. His pale eyes narrowed on the Gate, his words clipped and accented when he spoke. "He is not some lowly priest. He will not negotiate with us. You must act now."

Necromancer.
Miranda retreated a step, aware that it was a memory, but startled all the same.

"I must offer terms, Asmud," the other man said evenly, his voice also familiar. "You know that."

"Those rules apply to humans."

"They apply to kings and I will not make lesser of myself to suit your impatience. The man will yield, or not. It makes little difference now."

"He is not a man," the Necromancer insisted. "He guards a treasure beyond human imagining. He was expressly chosen for this purpose. If you underestimate him, you will fail."

"You forget yourself," the other figure warned. "I've listened to your fables all my life and loved them well enough, but your teachings have no authority here." Reaching up, the speaker removed his helmet, revealing a strong profile and sweat-dampened knot of long blonde hair. His features were stark and Nordic, but his armor and adornments were clearly Eastern in influence.

"Khagan," Miranda whispered.

"My 'fables' have always been offered for your own protection, my lord," the Necromancer argued tightly. "He is not a human adversary."

"He looks human enough." The Khagan gestured at his guards.

Miranda turned in the direction he indicated, catching sight of a man being dragged toward them by his arms, his dark head bowed.

He appeared to be in too much pain to resist his captors, enduring their rough hold as they pulled him across the stone steps and dumped him front of the Khagan. He fell to his knees, pulling a hard breath through his teeth, the thick black strands of his hair veiling his eyes.

"It is over," the Khagan told him. "We are in possession of this artifact now. No one else needs to die. I can offer you terms, conditional upon your surrender. Submit to our demands and you will be spared."

The man looked up at him, his hair falling back from his face. His eyes narrowed, their beautiful hazel color darkening with anger.

Miranda caught her breath, staring at him in shock. "Seth."

It was him. The same face, the same man, though the Seth she knew appeared to have no memory of this.

"Seth," she whispered. "Who are you?"

S
eth collapsed on the floor grate as they released him. He closed his arms protectively over his ribs. Drawing a difficult breath, he glared into the shadows. The chamber around him was small and dark, lit by the glow of a solitary lantern.

"The Gate grows stronger with each goddess we awaken," the Necromancer said. "There are only two left now, which means that your role in the Enlightenment will shortly become critical. Pain will help you to remember."

"You're gonna torture me now? Kick me a few more times in the ribs?"

"There are many kinds of torture."

Seth glared at the black outline above him, searching for the meaning behind the words. The Necromancer turned and melted into the darkness, taking his soldier with him. The chamber's metal door screeched shut, followed by the sound of heavy locks sliding into place.

Seth felt his chest heave, forcing a wet, rasping cough, the pain excruciating. He seized fitfully, enduring the hard shudder of his body and the desperate pull in his lungs. Its grip eased in merciless degrees, allowing him to draw a shallow breath. Sinking back against the floor grate, he pressed his head to the metal and closed his eyes.

"Seth?" a woman spoke from the darkness. "God, Seth."

He winced, recognizing the voice. "Cil?"

She began to cry, a horrible, wrenching noise in the close confines of the chamber. He opened his eyes, seeking her in the shadows beyond the glow of the lantern. She was barely visible, a sliver of her slender body cast in the flicker of candlelight.

He rolled onto his side and pushed up with difficulty, ignoring the pain as he swayed to his feet. Walking was strenuous and dizzying, but he found her.

She was huddled against the wall, clothed in her torn silver bra and tight shorts, her hands tied behind her back with thin rope. Her dark hair was damp, falling in front of her eyes in shining strands. Her body trembled.

He knelt beside her, putting his hand on her back. She jumped, sucking in a sharp breath.

"I'm here," he said. "Just me, okay?"

She made a pained noise, looking away from him as he yanked the rope knots around her wrists free. Her hands came apart and she leaned forward against her knees, hiding her face from him.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked.

"I'm not."

"Cil."

"I'm not." She shook her head. "I'm not hurt."

"I saw him draw blood."

"He did everything," she said through her teeth. "He did things a nice guy like you wouldn't dream of and I enjoyed every minute of it. Don't you understand? That's the worst part."

He watched her for moment, not knowing whether to believe her or not. Touching her hair, he brushed it gently back from her face, grimacing at her pallor.

There was a moist sheen to her skin, a sickly gray color caught in the mix of light and shadow from the lantern. Her eyes were red rimmed, her lashes wet. Her lips were swollen.

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do. It's my fault."

"No."

"Seth," she laughed humorlessly. "You don't get it. You coming here is completely my fault, okay?"

She looked at him, a dark intensity burning in the depths of her eyes. "You were always your own person, you know? You never needed me like I needed you. Those things you built, all those hours you spent in your studio…that was your world. I used to sit there and watch you work, knowing that you didn't even realize I was still there."

He stared at her, confused.

"You seem so patient, you know?" she asked, her voice pained. "So laid back and centered and generous. But inside, you're the most selfish guy I've ever met. You've got this entire world that talks to you and you disappear into it. When you're designing your sculptures, you don't need anyone else. Building those things pulls you into some other place and you don't care how many hours you spend there, or how many people you leave behind."

He frowned, having known this about himself for some time. The process of finishing a sculpture was in an all-consuming act for him, one that held onto him for days at a time. She had it wrong though, when it came to not caring about the people in his life. He had always known that she was there. He had always been acutely aware of her eyes on him while he worked, her disappointment that he was not the man she had hoped for.

Whether that made it better or worse, he didn't know.

"I was lonely," she whispered desperately. "When he called, I was lonely and just sick of it, I guess."

His hand went still on her back, an uneasy realization forming in his heart. "When who called?"

"He said you were special," she said haltingly. "He had just bought the two big sculptures that were in that gallery in Scottsdale. He said that he was a collector of your work. He said things, you know, weird things about how you were very important and you didn't realize it. At first, I thought he was crazy, but the more we talked, the more I thought maybe he wasn't. We met a few times and things got a little carried away. He was rough, you know, but it made it clear there was more to it than that. He said I had place with him, like maybe we were soul mates, but he needed you to meet him here."

Seth shook his head, not wanting to believe it. "You set me up? You brought me here and you didn't even warn me?"

"You woke her up, right?" she argued, as if to herself. "He said that it was a sign. It was proof."

"And the beating I took for you? Also proof?"