Seth turned, so fast it shouldn’t have been possible, and threw his broken sword at Mondral.
The demon priest reacted in self-defense. Or, rather, his demon did. Whatever Jacen had done had stunned Mondral, must have hampered his ability to control it. Only instinct remained—and power.
Mondral flailed and gasped. His face contorted strangely, then unnaturally, his jaw lengthening and unhinging sideways as though caught between two encroaching walls. His right eye burst from its socket, dangling by the optic nerve. Armor crunched.
His skull split like an overripe melon. Bones creaked, snapped, splintered out of his skin, ripping apart muscle and armor. They shot out from him in a cluster of pale, bloody javelins, imprecisely aimed at Seth.
Jacen dove out of the way. Ysira threw herself back, over Neri. Bony shrapnel pierced her skin. A hail of blood and shredded flesh rained over them. Through a haze of shock, an inane thought struck Ysira: That’swhat his demon does.
She shoved regret and horror away, deep into a corner of her mind where they could not impede her. No time for that. There was never time.
A jagged section of bone protruded from Seth’s shoulder. He appeared not to notice. He reached for part of a rib that had embedded in his thigh and snapped it short with a grunt.
“You are strong,” he said to Jacen. Turil’s voice rang through, clear as ever. “But not strong enough.”
Ysira clutched the shaft of her glaive, struggling not to retch as she wiped something warm and pulpy off her face. Jacen was unharmed but covered in gore. A bit of brain slid down his temple like a bloody maggot.
He faced Turil, trembling. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first. “Come now, Brother. You know the rite. Three priests to an exorcism. You don’t stand a chance on your own, not against me. Surely, you remember that!” Seth’s eyes flicked up to the mezzanine above. “My reinforcements are here. I suggest you surrender the boy, or else we’ll kill you rather messily, and Lord Semira will awaken to amostupsetting scene.”
Jacen stood his ground. He put himself between Seth and the Gate. Heavy boots thumped across the mezzanine, but Ysira did not dare look up. Behind her, Neri pushed himself shakily to his knees.
Something hurtled overhead, bright as a comet. It landed in front of Ysira with a crash that shook the temple, sending spider cracks shattering across the stone. A man, white-haired and clad in shining silver armor, rose from a crouch. He had to be over seven feet tall. He surveyed Ysira, an imperious sneer on his deep grey face. Violet eyes in seas of black—the eyes of a god—peeled her apart, dissecting her weaknesses.
Seth was cackling madly. Rakalem, Lord of Fear, stepped through the bloody pile that had been Kanan Var Mondral. Metal boots squelched on viscera. The god smirked.
“This ought to be fun.”
35
APOTHEOSIS
YSIRA
Knife-like fear rent its way through Ysira. She whipped her head around in search of Neri, to find he’d crawled further back toward the wall. He flexed his fingers, staring at the space between his hands.
He had never consciously summoned Naxal’s power—not enough to matter. He wasn’t ready, and after the spider . . . he was more afraid than ever. Ysira could only hope the threat before them would prove enough pressure, push him far enough to save them all from a grisly end. But as the Lord of Fear strolled toward Seth, Jacen eyed Ysira with something just shy of resignation.
“I don’t like this look on you,” Rakalem said to Turil, in a smooth, thunderous tenor. “It’s rather common. And is that a bit offemurstuck in your shoulder?”
“It’s temporary.” Turil extended Seth’s arm, examining it. She plucked out a shard of bone and rolled his shoulders, testing out the damaged muscles. “Still functional, though, and uncommonly good in a fight.”
Ysira cast another sharp look over her shoulder. “Neri,” she said urgently. Uselessly.
Turil knew it too. She picked up Seth’s broken sword, tossing it hand to hand as she said, “He won’t do it. Tharanoth looked inside the boy’s mind, and I know everything this one knows about him.” She pointed the blade at Seth’s chest. “The child clings to his humanity. He hates Naxal’s power, he fears it—and he will not surrender it.” She chuckled. “He’s locked away your finest weapon and thrown the key into a chasm.”
Ysira shifted her stance, struggling to decide where to strike first.
Rakalem watched her bemusedly. “Tharanoth said your exploits on our station might have instilled a false sense of confidence. Allow me to relieve you of that. You caught us unawares at an inconvenient time. We’ve also learned a great deal about you since your escape.” He paused. “Your ancestors named me the Lord of Fear. Would you like to know why?”
He extended a hand and advanced on her.
Cold sweat slithered down Ysira’s spine. Something itched in her brain, deep in the grey matter where she could not reach. It itched and itched and before she realized what she was doing, her nails clawed at her scalp. The attack was so subtle, Iyelekirin barely managed to warn her before she scooped out her own eyeball. She stared at her fingers, horrified.
When she looked up, the god loomed over her. She thrust her glaive at him. He dodged. She lost track of the next few seconds. She was on her knees, wheezing, tasting blood. Rakalem kicked her between the shoulder blades and sent her sprawling.
As Iyelekirin healed whatever he’d just done to her, Rakalem commented, “An insensate with a demon.Fascinating.”
Ysira levered herself up with a groan. The Lord of Fear tilted his head at her. “How do you tell it what to do? You can’t, canyou?” A terrible smile spread across his face, showing too many teeth. “You can’t control it. But perhaps I can.”
