His tone was stern. “Verial, unless you look at me, you will have no part with me.”
Reluctantly, she raised her eyes. Might as well get it over with. Yet he was not glaring at her, though, nor did he seem to be appraising her.
“Do you still believe that you can make yourself good enough for me?”
“No, Lord. How could I ever be good enough for you? Those men,” she waved a rough hand toward the table. “Those men have given their whole lives to you. They deserve you more than I—”
“I am the Creator of all that is,” he cut in. “Of Rhyvelad. Of the Eastern Lands and the West. I put the howl in the voyoté and the humor in the munkke-trophe. I, not Zyreio, made men, women, and children to feel as I can feel, see as I can see, and choose as I can choose, so that one day, we would be together as a family. Do you truly think that any member of my creation can earn my affection more than it has already been given? Can a newborn infant earn its father’s love?”
Her reserve faded, to be replaced by anger. With all the injustices she had seen and perpetrated, how could she listen to platitudes? “But we’re not infants! We have hated, perverted, and chosen poorly, over and over again! Even your own Advocate Vancien is capable of being selfish and rash! None of us, not even this girl here,” she pointed harshly to Teehma, “is a helpless infant.”
Teehma did not know how she felt about Kynell yet, but if he was a god, then surely he would put this lady in her place. But he did not look offended. Rather, he had picked up a stick and started toying with it. Then he used it to draw a short line in the dirt.
“Vancien is not innocent,” he said. “He knows that he has been forgiven of his faults and his poor choices.” He drew another line. “We know Amarian is not innocent. But he sought me out, and I have forgotten his crimes.” He drew another line. “Chiyo can be a hard man. But he has never assumed that he could earn my love.” He drew another line. “Telenar is proud, but he humbles himself before me.” He drew another line. “Lucio is young, proud, and afraid. He needs guidance, as well as the deliverance that only I offer. He knows that.” He drew another line. “And my beloved Gair battles against fear and often loses. But still we have made our peace.” He started to draw another line, but stopped. “Verial has run from me her entire life. She has chosen against me, denied me, cursed me, and rejected me. Can she believe that I will ever forgive her? Or will she run away yet again, piling crime on top of crime?”
Verial did not answer at first. Instead, she glanced back at the table, where Gair was looking in their direction. Kynell followed her gaze.
“It is impossible to be by his side until you make your peace with me.”
As he waited, recent images of Zyreio flashed through her mind. There she was, standing by him, terrified of his every move. Then Gair appeared, but she had known that Gair was not enough. Zyreio had tried to make her think that he was, but she knew better. Gair could take her to the farthest corner of Rhyvelad, but he could not cleanse her past, nor could he guarantee her future. Kynell could. But just look at all the wrong she had done! She was the consort of Obsidian! How could the Prysm forgive her for that?
After another tense moment, Kynell made her look at him. She was surprised to see that he looked sad—very sad, as if he had lost something very precious. “There is a price to be paid for every wrong committed in Rhyvelad. But if you trust me, you will not have to pay that price. I do not want you to pay it.”
Her vision started to blur with tears. What a gift it would be not to have to pay for her own crimes! To not feel, every day, her past chasing her like a monster that could never be satisfied? Why would the god of the Prysm offer this to her? Especially if it caused him such pain?
He was speaking again. “Time is short, my dear. Do you trust me or not?”
Through a haze of tears, she nodded, then gave a little cry as he hugged her. He was smiling and she began to feel as light as a feather. She almost floated back to Gair.
Kynell remained with Teehma for a few more minutes. Nobody heard what he said to her, nor what she said to him. Yet she returned to the table a quiet and changed young lady. When Lucio asked her what they had talked about, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and said she would tell him later.
Kynell followed her back, taking his seat just as they finished dessert. He looked a little more sober than before, and he spoke with a quiet urgency.
“My children, I have a great deal to say to you, and I am sure you have some questions for me. I won’t always be with you like this, so let us talk together now. I have chosen you out of all Rhyvelad, not because you are the best,” he inclined his head toward Chiyo, “nor because you are the least.” He nodded toward Verial. “Take careful note of the words I am about to say. If necessary, I will carve them onto your hearts.”
They began to murmur as he continued. “I have chosen you to do my bidding until I come back.”
“Are you going somewhere?” Lucio chirped.
“I am. And I am leaving you with a hard road to follow. There will be many who do not understand what has happened, and you must tell them. Most will not listen, even those who seem to have loved me in the past. They will become your enemies, but I require that you love them. You must serve
them
,” he pointed to Lascombe, then to the world in general, “as humbly as I have served you today. Tell them what I have told you. Keep telling them until I return.”
“And what have you told us?” Telenar blurted out. “Where could you possibly go?”
“I tell you what you already know: all of my creatures have become stained with Zyreio’s corruption, and with their own. But I am going to heal Rhyvelad for every man, woman, and child who desires to be healed.”
Telenar opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it. Amarian had gone silent and pale, while tears glistened in Vancien’s eyes. Teehma and Lucio fidgeted under the Prysm god’s weighty pronouncements. Only Gair moved with any sort of purpose. He stood up, limped over to Kynell’s side and knelt at his feet. When he spoke, his voice was choked.
“Lord of the Prysm,” he began as formally as he could, “please do not leave us, not so soon after having arrived. But if you must leave, I will wait day and night for you to come back. And I will tell anyone who will listen what you have said, though I don’t understand it.”
Kynell, who was crying now, placed a hand on Gair’s head. “My dear Gair. How much you have already gone through for me! Speak to those who will listen, and let your actions confirm what you say. And though I will not be as I am now, I will still be with you.” He bent down and touched Gair’s shoulder. “Remember me by this.”
Gair nodded stiffly, moving to resume his seat. But as he rose, strength and flexibility flooded into his limbs. He looked down in amazement. Not only was his crippled leg whole, but his prosthetic limb had been replaced by flesh and bone. He stepped down experimentally on it, relishing the delightful tingle of his restored nerves. With a cry of joy, he fell back down at Kynell’s feet.
“Thank you! Thank you! THANK YOU!”
Kynell laughed. He dragged Gair again to his feet then wrapped him in an enthusiastic embrace. With an arm still draped around Gair’s shoulders, he addressed the rest of them. “My children! I will give you strength to live as I desire and love as I love. I will never leave you. But right now I am going to die for you.”
As one, they jumped to their feet, shouting their protests. But Kynell was already starting toward the army. Sirin, Ragger, and Bedge followed him, only to be stopped after a few paces by his upraised hand. “Continue to serve my children,” he told them. “Be generous with them and remember the Sentries.”
They nodded as Kynell resumed his march. Vancien was the first to run after him, followed by a light-footed Gair and the others. But they were all stopped by the three creatures, who had become very hostile.
“Bedge!” Amarian barked. “Get out of the way! We’ve got to stop him!”
Sirin cracked his knuckles. “Might as well stop the sea from churning, human.”
Chiyo muttered under his breath to Telenar. “They are only three. We can easily take them.”
But Kynell’s wisdom had already started to seep into Telenar’s spirit. “No, I don’t think that would be smart. He obviously meant for us to stay here. Besides, have you seen Bedge fight?”
“So we’re supposed to just stand here and watch him die?” Lucio demanded.
Vancien eyed the short sword Ragger had pulled on them. The three creatures looked ready to kill, or at least neutralize. “Maybe he’s just going to fight Zyreio,” he suggested hopefully. “He’s God. He can’t die.”
So eager were they for reassurance that they all accepted his theory without question. They forced themselves to watch as Kynell drew closer to the figure pacing in front of the Chasmite hordes. After a few moments, Amarian cajoled Bedge into allowing them to move closer in order to at least see and hear what was happening. The fennel agreed, although the munkke-trophes only followed suit after Lucio and Teehma tearfully begged them to do so. So the whole group skirted slowly to the south, gaining an oblique angle from which to view the proceedings.
To Amarian, it was all moving too fast. He had felt the fear of the Prysm from the claws of the Ealatrophe. He knew Kynell to be the stronger. But then why was everything going wrong? The only conclusion he could come to was that his crimes had shaped these events. If Kynell had to die, then surely Amarian had caused it. He was Darkness. He deserved darkness.
The light could not tolerate him, and now it was about to die to escape from him.
“Kynell!” he shouted.
Kynell stopped and looked back at him.
“Take me!” Amarian continued, calling out as loudly as he could. “Kill me instead! I deserve it!”
Kynell shook his head, and Amarian felt something inside him break.
“Then forgive me! I cannot live knowing that I caused this!”
Kynell did not open his mouth, but Amarian felt a verse from the Ages press down onto his heart:
Kynell overlooks the crimes of those who love him, who are called according to his will. By the blood of the Prysm, the sin and the sinner are separated.
Amarian had never understood that passage before—how could the Prysm bleed?—but now the truth of it was obvious. Neither a chunk of glass nor an idea could bleed. But a person could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The orbs were setting as Kynell approached the Obsidian line. The Chasmites had stopped their festive, tormented jubilation and now stood as calmly as their anguished spirits allowed. In front of them paced Zyreio, who was shifting shapes every few seconds. He stopped pacing, however, as Kynell drew near, settling on his jovial king costume.
“Well met, brother!” he called.
Kynell stopped within a few paces of him. A moist early autore breeze was blowing, giving the air a slight chill, not that either of them felt it. The fading orbs cast the whole scene in a rosy light, and their position behind Kynell forced Zyreio to raise a hand to cover his eyes. Kynell watched him, but did not speak.
“Being in the flesh sure does have its weaknesses, doesn’t it?” Zyreio persisted, “The glare and all that, I mean.” Nerves were giving his voice a waver that he was trying to hide. “Not that we let it affect us, of course! We are stronger than the flesh, you and I. Sure, we have our turn on Rhyvelad now and then, but ultimately our home is elsewhere. Don’t you agree?”
For a moment, it looked as if Kynell would continue his silence, leaving Zyreio to watch him hungrily. Then the Prysm god spoke.
“Do what you have come to do.”
Zyreio assumed an air of royal innocence. “Do? I’m not really doing anything different than I usually do. Just taking my turn, that’s all. My turn at Rhyvelad.”
Kynell slowly unwound a cloth that had been wrapped around his wrist. “Rhyvelad is not yours. It never has been. And we are not brothers.”
“Co-rulers, then! Mighty monarchs who rule at turns with an iron or a velvet hand. Rhyvelad is blessed to have us!”
Kynell did not answer. Instead, he continued to unwind the cloth until he held a long linen ribbon. This he began to twist in his hand until it became a tightly wound cord.
“So what do you say? Why don’t I and my army take a bite out of that city there? When we’re through, you can come along in about five hundred cycles and fix it all up again. Is it a deal?”
Kynell shook his head, the cloth hanging limply by his side. “No deals, Zyreio. Do what you have come to do.”
Zyreio’s kingly facade faltered as he ground his teeth in frustration. “Listen, I don’t want to fight you. Just let me pass!”
“I will not let you pass.”
“Come on, Kynell! It’s my turn!”
Kynell crossed his arms and remained silent.
“You force me to do this!”
“I force you to do nothing.”
With a growl, Zyreio stalked up to the Prysm god until they were nose to nose. “You know I cannot beat you,” he hissed under his breath.
“That has never stopped you before.”
“Fine!” With that, Zyreio swung around and grabbed a blade from the nearest Chasmite. He held it up as if preparing for a duel.
Kynell flicked his wrist, sending the cloth in his hand spiraling around the sword blade. Then he yanked the weapon out of Zyreio’s grasp.