The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet (17 page)

“An’ I called Father, I did!” Cedric returned breathlessly.

Sure enough, behind the lad came an august gentleman at least a decade older than Uldyssian and dressed in flowing brown and black robes that immediately stirred distrust in the farmer. Was Cedric’s father a cleric of some sort?

“Calm yourself,” Achilios quickly said. “‘Tis a trader much like Cyrus. Probably even knew him, in fact, if the boy was correct.”

“This them, Ced?” asked the would-be hunter’s parent. The steely-jawed figure swept back silver and black shoulder-length hair and studied the newcomers. His eyes paused on Lylia, but froze on Serenthia.

“I know you, though you be all grown up! You’d be Cyrus’s little girl…Sara, was it?”

“Serenthia,” she responded, her face becoming overcast.

Cedric’s father immediately noted this. His tone more formal, he said, “I am sorry, lass. I shall not ask you about it.”

A silent Serenthia nodded gratefully.

Other townsfolk had begun to pause in the vicinity, curious about the new arrivals. Part of that curiosity clearly had to do with the man greeting them, whose status in Partha was surely prominent.

“Friends, my name is Ethon ul-Garal, and although I regret the passing of my old comrade, I heartily welcome those of kin and companionship to him.”

Uldyssian eyed Achilios. “They both seem very certain that we were coming.”

“I took a chance that you’d say yes, that was all. When Cedric mentioned that his father was an important merchant, I used Cyrus’s name—my apologies for that, Serry—because I recalled how he seemed to know everyone in the region who shared his trade. Cedric said that he would run and tell his father about us and tell him what I said about the old man—”

“Many’s a good haggle I had with Cyrus,” threw in Master Ethon, eyes twinkling at old memories.

“Anyway, after our path led us so near, I figured Destiny wants us here.”

“Malic
wants us here, Achilios. Remember that.”

“My friend,” called the merchant, clearly seeking to prevent an argument between the two. “Is there something wrong?”

“Nothing that can be spoken of here,” Uldyssian remarked in a low voice. “It’d be best if we spoke in private, Master Ethon. Your headman should also hear.”

“As I am also elected leader of Partha, that shall be a simple matter to deal with! But come! Who do I have the pleasure of meeting? I knew dear Serenthia as a child and there is no mistaking her beauty even now. You—” He gestured at Uldyssian. “—have a vague familiarity about you, too, but the others do not.” Ethon’s eyes again lingered over Lylia. “Some, especially not, and I am known for my memory for faces.”

“I am Uldyssian ul-Diomed—”

“Ah! Diomedes of Seram! A strong-hearted, outspoken man of the earth! You look his part, too. You’d be his firstborn, if I’m not mistaken.”

Acknowledging the older man’s excellent memory, Uldyssian introduced Mendeln and Achilios, then, grudgingly, Lylia. He expected the merchant to fawn over her, but Master Ethon merely bowed and said, “By the garments and the face, you would be from the north of the great city, yes?”

She dipped her head in turn. “Yes.”

Cedric’s father clearly expected more of an answer, but when Lylia remained quiet, he took it in as much stride as he had Serenthia’s silence. Instead, he looked to the group as a whole. “Well, now that we are friends, you shall come with me to my humble home!”

At first, Uldyssian wanted to turn Ethon’s offer down. The man meant well, but this was not a social visit. Yet, if he was both its most prominent citizen and its leader, then there was no one better to warn concerning any possible threat to his people.

Uldyssian only hoped that Cyrus’s old friend would not throw his daughter and the rest into a cell once he learned the truth. After all, it was they who brought the danger, in a sense.

As Ethon was on foot, the party dismounted, then led their horses after him. Uldyssian noted that the populace now treated the five as if they were visiting dignitaries, bowing as they passed. Master Ethon was clearly a man highly respected not only for his position but for himself.

That the man had come without a personal guard bothered Uldyssian. Were the people of Partha
that
trusting? Or was there something more sinister involved? If this was Malic’s doing, it was a very convoluted trap. Uldyssian could see neither rhyme nor reason to it. These seemed
good
people, honest people. In addition to bowing, many of them also nodded pleasantly at the group. Some of those behind the party had already begun returning to their own tasks, clearly not at all suspicious of the strangers.

“I have not been in Seram for many years,” announced Ethon to his guests as they walked through the busy streets. “How fares it? It was always a tranquil stop. I admit I used to go there in part because I savored the peaceful nature of it as much as the heated bargaining with Master Cyrus!”

“There was a fierce storm there recently,” Mendeln interjected. Uldyssian quickly glanced at his brother, but saw that Mendeln intended no further comment.

“Indeed? I suppose that would be the most exciting thing to happen in Seram, lucky for you! I love Partha, but there are so many, many matters on which to keep a careful eye, you know. At times, I would have gladly exchanged places with your father, Mistress Serenthia.”

Uldyssian decided to check something. “And do the clerics of the Temple and the Cathedral offer any help with guiding your efforts here?”

“Them?” Looking over his shoulder at Uldyssian, the merchant chuckled. “Hasn’t been a blessed one of them in Partha for over a year. They’ve nothing we want. We’re quite satisfied with our lot. They can save their words for someone who wants to hear them, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

Uldyssian nodded in appreciation, Master Ethon’s words verifying what he had so far noted about Partha and its inhabitants. He saw robust men and women cheerfully going about their chores or taking a break to eat or converse with friends. He saw clean streets of stone and well-kept structures of both wood and rock. There was no one who was not dressed neatly, whether in simple robes or in more elegant garments. It was a good town with good people.

That was not to say that all was perfection in Partha. There were infirm and maimed among the inhabitants. An elder with barely a tooth remaining hobbled along on one leg and a crutch. Uldyssian also saw a young boy whose left arm was a shriveled version of his right, clearly a defect at birth. Another man with the look of the farmer that the son of Diomedes knew so well from his own face bore savage scars across his arms and neck from what had likely been some accident.

None of them appeared to be shunned by their neighbors and, in fact, all had companions assisting them. Partha under Ethon was evidently a very tolerant town, something even Seram could have learned from them.

He looked again at the child. The poor limb reminded him of his youngest sister, Ameli. In her case, the right arm had been of proper length, but it had been bent back and had always been as thin as a piece of straw. Yet, Ameli had been the most cheerful of the family, the most wanting to help—

The boy passed out of sight. Uldyssian gritted his teeth at the bitter memory. Men like Malic walked the earth living as lords while children suffered because of either chance or some capricious spirit, perhaps—

He stopped in his tracks. “Mendeln.”

His brother hesitated. “What is it?”

“Here.” The older brother thrust the reins of his animal into Mendeln’s hand, then whirled back in the direction from which they had come.

Unaware of what was taking place behind him, Master Ethon started pointing out some of Partha’s landmarks. “It may interest you to look upon that crested building yonder…”

Lylia said nothing as he passed, but Uldyssian caught a smile of understanding. Serenthia and Achilios barely had the chance to register him before he was far behind the party.

Making the best of his height, Uldyssian looked among the locals. Most paid him no mind, but a few watched the stranger with mild interest.

Uldyssian grew frustrated as the object of his search evaded him. He tried to recall just where he had last seen—

There! Heart pounding, the son of Diomedes pushed past a startled shopkeeper in the midst of arranging his wares. Ahead stood a woman he recognized from earlier.

As he neared, she turned. Next to her, the young boy with a ruined arm followed suit.

Now ignoring the woman, Uldyssian knelt down in front of the child. “May I see your arm…please?”

With the innocence of his age, the boy stretched it forward as far as it could go. However, his mother naturally looked concerned and pulled him back out of the newcomer’s reach.

Uldyssian glanced up at her. “Please. I mean no harm. My sister was like this. I won’t harm him. Just let me study it for a moment.”

She had no reason to do as he asked, yet, the woman’s expression softened and, with a nod, she allowed Uldyssian to examine the arm.

His fingers gently probed the limb. Up close, he saw that it was in even worse condition than his sister’s had been. Thinking of Ameli again brought a sudden rush of emotion to Uldyssian that only at the last did he understand had been bottled up inside him for those many years. Tears drowned out his vision. He wished that he could have done more for his sister…for his
entire
family. With all the power that he seemed to wield now, he could have perhaps saved
some
of them from the monstrous wasting disease…

Tears drenched his face. Without realizing it, he kept his hold on the boy’s withered limb. To Uldyssian, though, it was as if time had turned backward and he now clutched Ameli’s arm. She, of all of the family, had been most mistreated by life. First being born so, then dying before she could even have had much of a chance to experience
anything
.

His mind filled with images of his lost sister, but with one difference. She had a healthy body now. Two healthy arms. He imagined her catching things or, better yet, hugging him tight.

Only belatedly did Uldyssian sense that someone
was
hugging him. That brought him back to the present…where he realized it was the young boy.

With
two
good arms…

Uldyssian looked past the child to his mother. She, in turn, stared at him with an expression of disbelief. Tears ran down her cheeks. Behind her, several other townsfolk had gathered, they, too, eyeing the farmer with astonishment.

Disengaging himself from the child, Uldyssian looked at the people surrounding him. Harsh visions of the reactions in Seram haunted him and he stepped back in concern. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t meant to—”

But he
had
meant to. He had noticed the child and had been filled with the sudden desire to see if he could do for the boy what had not been possible for Ameli. As it turned out, Uldyssian had been able to do just what he had hoped.

And now, Partha, too, would turn on him, call him a sorcerer or worse…

The boy’s mother lunged at him…and covered the stunned farmer with kisses and hugs. “Thank you! Thank you!”

Beyond her, one man in the forefront of the growing throng bowed. Another followed suit, then another, and another, and another…

Someone then chose to go down on one knee. That became the impetus for the rest to do the same. Within moments, everyone around Uldyssian knelt before him as if he were a king.

Or more…

Clad in floor-length robes of white, their heads lifted high, the six golden-skinned young women sang his praises as he lounged on the down couch in his private chambers. Although none were related or even physically looked like one another, there was that in their fanatic expressions that somehow made them all still seem identical.

Their adoration for him was absolute and each would have gladly accepted his advances…not that such would ever happen. That they were beautiful meant nothing to him save that they were as the vast murals on the walls and ceiling or the intricate vases standing atop the crested marble stands. They were part of an overall design, one to help him relive, in some minute—
very
minute—way, the wondrous past that he had willingly left far behind.

The Prophet’s luminous silver-blue eyes gazed up at the masterfully-painted images of ethereal winged figures fluttering through the sky. The artisan had been excellent by most standards, but he could never have understood the true depth of what his patron desired. Still, the results of his long labor let the Prophet imagine a little of what had been…and of what he had forsaken.

He barely looked old enough to be called a man, though looks could be and were most definitely deceiving. His ivory skin was unmarred by even the least stubble and his golden locks flowed well past his shoulders. The Prophet was lithe and very fit, although not overly muscular like the Inquisitor guards standing at attention outside his sanctum doors. He was, by the opinion of all who had seen him, simply
perfect
.

He wore a look of innocent contemplation, yet tonight he was anything but serene. The impossible had come to pass and he would not stand for it. He was too close to achieving his desires, too close to re-creating the paradise he had lost.

Near the area of his repose, four senior clerics clad in the collared silver-white robes of their station knelt with heads down in prayer. Each man looked old enough to be his father or even grandfather, yet, just like the women, they treated
him
with the utmost veneration.

The Prophet suddenly found the many voices annoying to his ears. He raised one hand and the singing ceased. The praying stopped a moment later as the clerics became aware of the shift in mood.

“I must compose myself before the next sermon,” the Prophet declared, his own voice flowing like the music of a lyre.

The singers filed dutifully out of the chamber, followed immediately by the clerics.

The Prophet waited for a moment, then reached out with his thoughts to make certain that his sanctum was sealed off from any who might wish to enter or attempt to hear within. Satisfied, he stared again at the fantastic images above, especially those of the magnificent fliers. A slight frown escaped him as he studied the details. Their wings were feathered like a bird’s, the closest a mortal mind could come to the truth…and yet so very far from it. The countenances were akin to his own, youthful and unmarred, but somehow, at the same time, ancient and knowing. He credited the artist for that touch, it perhaps being the most accurate portrayal, even if also wrong in so many ways…

It had been years—nay,
centuries
—since he had revealed the truth, even to himself. Part of the reason had to do with his ongoing attempt to forget the past, to go on only forging a future that would be rid of any taint, any imperfection.

But a greater part of it had to do with
her
…and her terrible betrayal. He had never wanted to be reminded of what had been or what might have been. It had taken him several lifetimes just to thrust her to the back of his thoughts, then twice as many to bury her memory deep to pretend, on occasion, that she had never existed.

Yet…now it seemed that all his efforts had gone for naught.

So be it. He would unleash his righteous fury and she and the others would learn what it was to dare plot against him. They would be reminded of just
who
and what he was…just before they were annihilated.

The Prophet raised his hands high…and both he and the chamber were enveloped in light. The paintings, the murals—everything on the walls—faded away as if dew caught by a hot morning sun. Vanishing in their wake was literally
all
else—the intricate vases and the grand marble stands beneath them, the long, tapering rugs, the garlands of fresh flowers draping every wall…even the very couch upon which he had reclined. There remained
nothing
but the Prophet.

With but another thought, he next reshaped the chamber itself. From the very top of the ceiling to the floor beneath his feet, every inch of the room took on a gleaming, mirror-like finish. The Prophet stood reflected a hundred thousand times over, his glory undiminished no matter how great the distance the image was from the original.

But it was still not the true him. Unfamiliar emotion filled the Prophet. Desire. The desire to gaze upon his long-relinquished form. It suddenly became too much to bear. He stared at the foremost reflection, remembering, then, in the next instant, made his memory reality once again.

The light he had earlier summoned focused upon him. It grew so bright that any normal man would have been immediately blinded no matter how well he covered his eyes. Even then, the light continued to strengthen, first taking on an aspect akin to searing white flame…and then becoming it in truth.

But the flames did not harm the Prophet, for they were a part of him as he was a part of them. He bathed in the white fire, let it melt away the false image of a youthful human that he had worn for far too long.

And in its place there stood revealed a towering, hooded figure with wings of that same flame, a figure who had no face as mortals understood it, but rather a wonderful radiance beneath long flashes of silver light that in their shaping somewhat resembled a magnificent mane of hair shadowed by the hood.

The other flames receded, allowing him to fully view his glorious image over and over. His long robe was pure sunlight, his great breastplate the shine of copper. Some would have recognized his as resembling a knight, but clearly of no mortal order. Even if the fiery wings that now stretched almost the full width of the chamber had not been a part of him, it would have been clear to any that his kind did not generally walk among something so lowly as Humanity. The light shimmering from within the hood was the true him, a unique combination of pure energy and tonal resonance that marked him as one distinct being even among his own illustrious kind.

And slowly he whispered the name that he had left behind on that fateful moment, the name which had once been sung in praise by the highest of the high.

The name she had oft murmured in love.

INARIUS…INARIUS…
came a voice that was not a voice, but rather a sensation simultaneously experienced in mind, ear, and soul.
I AM INARIUS AGAIN
.

And in announcing it to himself, he felt a rush of jubilation. He was again
Inarius,
once of the Angiris Council, once a commander of the Heavenly Hosts!

Once a rebel against both the High Heavens and the Burning Hells…

The last remembrance doused much of his pleasure. Much, but not all. He had done what he had because both sides had become so mired in conflict that they could not see the ultimate futility of their struggle. Since the dawning of reality, when the two celestial realms had come into existence and, shortly thereafter, discord, their vast forces had fought one another for the control of All. Anything of value became the focus of attack and counterattack, generally to its destruction. Angels—as his kind would have been called by humans—and demons alike perished by the legions, all in the name of the Angiris Council—they who ruled the High Heavens—and their eternal adversaries, the Prime Evils.

But Inarius had grown sick of the endless battles, the plotting and the counterplotting. Nothing was gained. Had he been in charge of the Council, he would have done things differently, but even his brother—brother in the sense that their resonances, their beings, held a distinct similarity compared with others’—would not see reason. Even Tyrael, he who was the essence of Justice, could not or would not understand the truth.

And so it was that Inarius at last chose to abandon his part in the struggle. Yet he could not help feeling that there had to be others like him, even in the Burning Hells. Making contact with such—either those of his own kind or, especially, the demons—proved a tricky situation, but Inarius had not been an advisor to the Council for nothing. He understood the machinations not only there, but as they would be in the Burning Hells, and that allowed him to circumnavigate the watchdogs of both. He soon began to locate those others and gather them secretly to him. To his surprise, there were far more than even he had dreamed, far more who saw no sense in battering away at one another throughout eternity. Even more astonishing, there had been among the demons one who had thought like Inarius long before the angel himself had dared to do so.

Her. The one who would awaken love in him as he would do in turn. The one with whom he would help forge a world, a place known to his band of rebels as
Sanctuary.

The one who would turn his dream of a paradise into a nightmare of blood.

Inarius gazed at the mirrored images and saw her at his side again. She would not be wearing the form he recalled, not now. If she had truly found her way back, it would have been in a masked shape, female likely, but possibly male. She was cunning, beguiling…and a threat to all that was by right
his
.

YOU SHALL NOT TAKE FROM ME SANCTUARY,
Inarius reprimanded her memory.
I WILL NOT LET YOU AGAIN DESTROY MY DREAM! SANCTUARY AND ALL IT CONTAINS WILL NOT BE YOURS, EVEN IF I MUST DESTROY IT MYSELF…AS IS MY RIGHT…

After all, it had been Inarius who had kept it all from collapsing after her heinous betrayal. It had been he who had countered the plots of the Prime Evils and Lucion when they had discovered the realm and he who continued to keep the Angiris Council ignorant of all. The fate of this world and all the brief lives on it were
his,
no one else’s!

The angel dismissed the vision of her with what in humans would have been bitterness but what in Inarius was certainly no such base emotion. He was above all that, of course. He reacted only as events demanded, no more.

In fact, Inarius had
already
set into motion steps against her return. She kept herself veiled well, but not well enough. She could not hide from him; he knew her even as her brother did not. Having divined that she had in fact returned to Sanctuary, Inarius had then calculated where she had to be located. That had turned out to be no difficult matter, not given her obvious plan, a continuation of her ancient obsession.

I WILL NOT BROOK THE STIRRING OF THE NEPHALEM AGAIN,
he thought, recalling what had happened last time.
SUCH AN ABOMINATION WILL NOT SEE FRUITION AGAIN!
He suddenly swelled up in size. His wings filled the vast chamber and the entire Cathedral shook with his anger, though his followers would blame that on a mere tremor.
YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE DARED RETURN, NOT DARED TO INFLUENCE THAT WHICH SHOULD HAVE BEEN LEFT BURIED SO DEEP…

Inarius stared at his reflections. Humanity did have one advantage and he chose to use it again. With a thought, the angel altered his appearance, re-creating beneath the hood glimpses of a face akin to that of the gold-tressed Prophet. The eyes were still pure energy, but the rest had some semblance of mortal life.

More important, Inarius now had a mouth and on that mouth he set an angry edge, a scowl. It better allowed him to display for his own satisfaction his fury.

“You should not have dared return,” the angel repeated, savoring the harsh movements of the mouth and the coarse tones that accented his words better. The scowl deepened in a yet more satisfying manner as Inarius added, “And you should not have dared try to cross me again,
Lilith
…”

They brought him gifts of flowers, food, and goods. Many of the gifts were simply discovered at the gates surrounding the estate of Master Ethon, left there by anonymous folk who had heard the tale from others.

“Partha has had its share of preachers and clerics talking of healing the body and soul,” their host told Uldyssian. “Yet none of them were ever able to back their words with anything but emptiness!”

“I only did—I only did what I wished that I could’ve done for my sister,” the son of Diomedes explained helplessly, not for the first time.

The tale of the boy’s healing had spread like wildfire throughout the town. Without exception, it was called a miracle, especially by the grateful mother. According to Ethon, she had gone from place to place, showing off what he had done for her only child and singing Uldyssian’s praises to the heavens.

“I know the woman. Bartha is her name. That child’s her treasure, her only love. His father died just before he was born. Fall from a horse.” The merchant and headman smiled sadly. “She always feared for the lad, though I know she never let him see that. Tries to teach him to be strong…”

“They have to stop leaving all these things,” Uldyssian interrupted, staring out the window overlooking the gates. Even as he watched, a furtive figure in a cloak dropped a basket that appeared to contain loaves of bread and a flask of wine. The guards there pointedly looked the other way, not helping Uldyssian’s situation. From what he had seen, they were as awed by him as the rest of the citizenry.