As the high priests completed their parts, Raomar raised his head. Tears gleamed in his eyes as Staravan’s presence filled the empty void Enshul had left in her anger.

  Power and comfort flowed through him, soothing the hurt of her rejection, but leaving the sadness of their separation. For that, Raomar was grateful. There were some things not even the gods had a right to touch, some emotions best left for mortals to deal with in their own time and way.

  “Thank you, my lord,” he managed, his voice husky with emotion. He inclined his head to Enshul. “My Lady…”

  His voice faded as he tried to find the words to express what he felt. When he found them and drew breath to say them, a shadow fell over the hall, and his voice died a second time.

  A darkness swept over them, one saturated with evil, and even the gods turned toward its source, disquiet in their eyes. As they did, Staravan groaned, his presence flickering in and out of phase.

  The shadow about them laughed.

  * * *

  The shadow’s laughter echoed through the king’s temple in Deverath, and the king laughed with it. As High Priest Azdravan, he gestured to the ironbound doors that led from the cells to the temple sanctuary where the altar stood. They opened, and he laughed again.

  “Bring me another!” he commanded, and one of the creatures standing just inside the doors shambled into the corridor beyond.

  A dark-robed figure followed it, and he settled to watch for their arrival, feeling the anticipation of Walshira wash through him.

  From beyond the opening came the jangle of keys and the resounding thump as the door was flung open. A moan of terror followed, and then sounds of struggle as another of the newly arrived prisoners was dragged from their cell.

  The panic increased from struggle to a scuffle that echoed up and down the corridor until one of his priests grunted with effort and a whip crack was answered by a half-choked cry of pain.

  “Walk!”

  A moment of quiet followed, then another grunt, and stumbling footsteps after. The dark-robed priest and creature entered the sanctuary after a short interval, a yellow-robed priest staggering between them. Seeing his king waiting, the king’s servant released the whip from its grip on the priest’s throat and gripped the man’s arm instead.

  “There,” the king ordered, pointing at a pillar surrounded by a raised base.

  It was one of several evenly spaced pillars lining the temple’s walls, each one adorned by three sets of manacles, chains and shackles. As his servant turned the priest so his back was to the pillar, the creature gripped the man’s throat and pinned him in place.

  He stumbled as he took the step upward, his eyes widening in panic as his feet caught on the gutter running the circumference of the base. Blood stained its edges, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.

  Opposite him hung the priest who’d preceded him, his remains flayed and gutted, his blood gleaming a rich dark red from around his feet. Seeing his fate, the priest moaned in terror, his struggles rattling the chains as the king’s servant secured them around him.

  He struggled harder when the king turned to regard him with solemn eyes.

  “Patience,” the king soothed. “Patience. You will not suffer alone.”

  The priest tried to protest, but the creature’s hand tightened, choking him to silence.

  The king turned away, clicking his fingers as he faced the iron doors once more.

  “Bring them all,” he commanded, lifting his voice so it carried down the halls beyond. “Our master demands their terror before he feeds tonight.”

  The chained priest’s shriek was no more than a croak, but the chains still rattled and Azdravan once more looked in his direction. The man’s struggles renewed, and the high-priest-king tutted, moving swiftly to the pillar.

  The priest shuddered.

  “Be still,” the king soothed, laying gentle fingers on the man’s cheek. “There is nothing for you to fear.”

  His body blocked the man’s view of the pillar opposite, and Azdravan took the moment to capture his captive’s eyes with his own. Raising a hand in front of the man’s face, he touched a fingertip to the center of the man’s forehead, drawing it down his nose.

  “There is nothing for you to fear,” he promised. “Rest now. There is peace upon you. Now, rest.”

  The priest’s eyes closed, and did not open when the king gently patted his cheek. As soon as he sagged in his chains, Azdravan returned his attention to the iron doors, crossing the temple floor to stand before them.

  Above the chained priest, terror gathered, seeping from the priest’s mind into the pocket of space created for it. The king had not removed his fear, merely redirected it to where it could be stored until it was needed. While it was no longer felt, it was still present, and would return so that Walshira could drink his fill of it.

  When he reached the doorway, Azdravan raised his voice and hands in a chant. His lilting words rose and fell in an ancient rhythm that swelled and rolled down the corridor, flooding the cells that lined it. Heartbeats of time followed, but gradually all sounds of struggle ceased, and the fear-filled cries stilled.

  Feeling his spell take hold, the king lowered his hands.

  “Come!” he ordered, and the shuffle of obedient footsteps followed.

  Watching them emerge from their cells, walking in terrified calm beside his priests, the king stepped back from the door. None of them spared him a second glance as they passed, allowing themselves to be gently guided onto the pedestals at the pillars’ feet. Not a single one of them protested as Walshira’s priests chained them in place.

  The king watched, observing the pockets of their unfelt fear float above them, before starting the chant again. It might be tiring, but it was worth the expenditure to have his sacrifices prepped and ready in a fraction of the time it would otherwise have taken. He held the spell as long as it took for his priests to make sure of their bonds, then let it fade.

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  “Begin the ceremony,” he ordered when his priests had gathered before him. “I will fetch the apprentice.”

  His servants inclined their heads, and moved to take their positions around the sanctuary center. All knew their role, having practiced it many times over. Soon he would select one to grace Walshira’s altar of transformation so they could serve his master better.

  The one with the most to lose from life, he decided, wondering which that would be, and knowing the more they lost, the better the transformation’s results, since bitterness would lend the spell more power. I will need to see what my researchers have uncovered.

  The apprentice would be tonight’s last sacrifice, since only she had the necessary reservoir of power the Old One required, and it was her spirit that would strengthen Walshira’s reserves more than any single priestly soul tonight.

  Those were necessary to provide the mass energy of their suffering, and for the potential their destruction held to weaken the lord of gods. Glancing back as he passed the altar and entered the small room beyond it, the king surveyed the crowded pillars and smiled.

  The apprentice waited, and she knew he was coming. She knew the agony of her fate, too.

  He had made sure of that.

  * * *

  Azdravan was correct in thinking the apprentice waited, and he was right to think she feared.

  The cell had been placed near the temple’s sanctuary for a reason, containing a chain-wreathed seat placed before the slit window that provided an all-too-clear view of the altar. Xanthia had seen much in the days since she’d been taken, and the altar had flowed full and fuller than usual.

  Seeing the king walk past it, she shuddered and began her plea, again.

  “Oh Sophriel,” she whispered. “Lady of Magic Divine, hear me now…”

  Air moved around her, but it stank of the temple and the darkness saturating it. Silencing her words, she continued her prayer in her mind.

  The king was coming again.

  Xanthia wondered what he’d say to her this time, what death he’d offer, what ‘pleasures’ he’d promise at his own hand… She shuddered, again. Most of the time, he spoke on his own behalf, but sometimes she felt the presence of his god, an ancient being so steeped in evil her soul wanted to flee her body before it could be found.

  How can anyone serve something like that? she wondered.

  She flinched as the door to her cell opened, and footsteps stopped on the threshold. She flinched again when he spoke.

  “Greetings, little maid.”

  She rose to her feet and turned to face him, fear racing through her at the sight of the long, dark robes he wore.

  They were a sure sign the temple would be busy, tonight.

  He stepped toward her, and she forced herself to hold her ground. She was holding it well, when he lashed out and wrapped one hand around her bicep.

  “Tonight, you will hear the screams, again,” he told her, “But you won’t be forced to watch.”

  Relief surged through her at his words, but fear swiftly followed. For him to offer such a reprieve meant only one thing. Seeing the look on her face, the king smiled.

  “Tonight,” he promised, seizing her other arm and yanking her against his chest. “Tonight, my dear, the last of those screams will be your own.”

  Xanthia felt her skin cool as shock rolled over her.

  “No…” She hadn’t meant to speak, but the denial leaked out in a whisper.

  She had known the time would come, but had hoped… She had hoped her mistress would return for her before it. Where had her mistress gone? Why hadn’t she come?

  In her heart, she knew Alessia wouldn’t be coming back, that there was no way her mistress would be able to kick free of the king’s pursuit in time, but the reality…

  A sob ripped through her, and the king drew her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as though in comfort. His voice rose and fell in an all-too-familiar chant, and her fear lifted.

  “There, now,” Azdravan said comfortingly. “There you go. There’s nothing for you to fear.”

  He released her slowly, sliding a gauntleted hand down to take hers.

  “Come, little maid,” he invited. “I’d like to show you something.”

  Xanthia followed the draw of his hand, letting him lead her into the short corridor outside and then out into the temple sanctuary. The sight of the altar didn’t scare her, nor did the view of the priest-bedecked pillars set around the walls.

  The charnel stench of the temple servants flanking the altar didn’t make her heart race faster, and nor did the memory of what she’d seen them do before. She gave a squeak of surprise when Azdravan swung her into his arms and sat her on the altar top.

  "Stretch out for me," he instructed. “You’ll enjoy this.”

  Xanthia frowned, sure that somewhere a small part of her was screaming and urging her to run.

  But where to? she wondered, eyeing the temple and its attendant priests, undead servitors and guards. I wouldn’t get very far.

  She knew that fact alone should terrify her, but didn’t feel a thing. Instead, she stretched out on the altar top, and let the dark-robed priest chain her ankles and wrists to the altar corners and strip her robes from her body by the simple expedient of cutting them away.

  Like every other captive waiting Walshira’s pleasure, she waited, wondering at her surroundings and her lack of fear—right up until the king spoke the words that broke the spell holding their terror from them.

  “Let the ceremony begin.”

  At his servant’s signal, Walshira lifted the defenses from around the temple and prepared to receive the strength he needed. At that moment, as her terror crashed around her, Xanthia sensed them go and lifted her mind and voice in one great cry.

  “SOPHRIEL!”

  She managed it only once, before one of the undead horrors shambled to her side and laid its rotting hand across her mouth.

  Once was enough.

  * * *

  In Wildejun, the gods’ avatars were fading, but the gods’ presence was strengthening.

  The shadow lifted, forced back by their combined will, and as it did, the priests learned to breathe, again.

  Staravan’s high priest heard one final command from his god before Staravan’s manifestation disappeared.

  “Hurry!”

  “Brethren,” Jasrian began, raising his voice to be heard above the murmurs growing in volume around him. He ignored the kevarag priest standing beside him, focusing instead on those gathered around the dais. “Brethren!”

  Some glanced toward him, and encouraged, he continued.

  “You know the ways from the temple. You know where we will be met. Be swift. Do not panic. The gods will protect us.”

  The murmurs became louder and more confident as the priests moved purposefully toward the exits. Only one took the entrance into the atrium. His terrified shriek drew the attention of those closest the doors and they promptly slammed those doors shut, the suddenly-stilled gurgles of their companion witness to the wisdom of their action.

  The earth weird had claimed its first victim, and the doors would not hold for long.

  Knowing Raomar stood beside him, Jasrian turned.

  “You must go,” he said. “There is a window outside the wizardess’s quarters. Take that, and any who wish to go with you. The priests know where to meet.”

  He paused, clasping the kevarag’s shoulder and shaking him gently.

  “You…” He sighed. “Staravan will guide you, but you must head upstream along the Wildejun.”

  He squeezed Raomar’s shoulder, then released him.

  “Go. And may the gods be with you. You will be in my prayers.”

  Raomar managed a short bow in return, then pivoted to do as he was bid. He caught sight of Brianda in her hiding place as he did so.

  “Hurry!” he told her, not fazed by her presence. “We have to fetch the others.”

  She scooted out from beneath the brazier and hurried to join him.

  The high priest opened a door at the rear of the dais and beckoned for them to go through. As they obeyed, he waved at a young girl in the robes of an acolyte to attend him. She had been standing beside the niche containing the brazier in which Brianda had hidden, and still looked perturbed by the half-elf’s sudden appearance.

  “Father?” she asked, glancing at the open door through which Raomar and the half elf had disappeared.

  She waited as Jasrian waved at the newly-exchanged priestess of Skarsht and her escort.

  “This is Linna,” he said, when they hurried over. “Take her and her escort to the docks through the mirrored way, then go hide with the fishermen. They will protect you. Do as they say. Someone will come for you, and Staravan will not forget your care.”

  The girl nodded hurriedly.

  “Yes, Father.” She waited until the priestess and her companion looked toward her, then gestured for them to follow. “This way please.”