He doubled over like he might vomit. He trembled from head to toe, his skin grey and clammy, but slowly, he straightened. “I can do this. For everyone the Harvest took, everyone on the station we couldn’t save, and everyone who’s still counting on me.” His voice wavered. “For Seth. If I was never meant to be here at all . . . maybe it’s for the best. I can be whatever this world needs me to be.”
He started to turn away from her.
“I had a plan.” The words slipped out of Ysira before she could think better of them, and Neri stopped. “For a little while. I had a plan. I was going to get a boat and take it down the deepriver, get as far from Zivora as I could before you were born. Then we would have lived . . . somewhere green.”
A broken sort of laugh escaped her. It had been such a stupid, hopeful plan. It would never have worked.
Neri seemed to understand. “Instead, you took me back to him.” He looked up, blinking uselessly against the tears.
Ysira forced her emotions back,backwhere they couldn’t interfere, and said, “When the demon spoke through Seth, she said you wanted your father dead. That you’ve prayed for it. Is that true?”
Neri did not reply. It was a familiar silence—the silence of an answer they both already knew.
“I will never let him hurt you again,” Ysira said. “I swear it.” Then she said something foolish: “When this is over, if you want, we can go somewhere far away. Just like I planned. Jacen can exorcise Naxal, and we can leave this all behind.”
Neri looked as if he didn’t believe her. But what Ysira felt, now, was horribly real.
To the void with Zivora. Maybe Ged should have it. There might yet be a future open to Ysira and Neri both in which they could play whatever roles they chose, free of duty, free of vengeance, somewhere beyond the Scar.
“It’s too late.” Neri sounded older than his years and far wearier. “Mondral died for me. Eneva died for me. And now we’re at war.” He shook his head. “It’s too late, Ysira.”
Defective,Ged had called Neri.Defective,until he’d sent him into the canyon to become whatever he was now. But Ysira still remembered a fleeting thought she’d had soon after Neri was born, as she had gazed into his wide black eyes and realized that if the rest of her eternity was just that one moment . . . she would have been content with it. He was perfect. He was priceless. She had never needed him to be anything more than what he was.
How strange a thought, that it could be possible to love someone so completely, unconditionally, for no other reason than that theywere.But they had all made their choices, or been robbed of them, and either way, it was done.Neri was right. Because of his parents, because of the gods, because of Iyelekirin, because Naxal had chosenhim,only Neri could wield this power. They were hurtling toward an ending that had been written long ago.
Ysira released the fleeting thought. She said nothing more.
37
DISCIPLES
JACEN
Jacen slept little that night.
As the Shrouded City prepared for battle, it wasn’t just the noise and activity—he did not feel the need for sleep. His thoughts had not stopped racing since the Gate.
Everything had changed at such a pace, he felt he’d left himself behind. He had split into two selves, watching the old one fade into the distance, far away from this new man who could refuse a drink, kill with his bare hands, make love, renounce his gods, break every vow he’d ever made, and plot to change the world.
He knew, now, that the immortal could be killed. The unbreakable could shatter. The insurmountable might yet be conquered.
He paced amidst the ashes of the library, resisting the temptation to visit Seth by speaking with the people of Otavok. After what he, Neri, and Ysira had done to defend this place, he watched any remaining animosity toward him fade into acceptance. With some, as he offered comfort to the grieving andencouragement to the terrified, it even began to resemble trust. He was no tactician and certainly no soldier, but this, he could do, and with it came that flicker of the numinous. That sense of purpose he’d feared lost forever.
He arrived well before anyone else to the Gatekeeper’s meeting, which was to take place in the throne room below the library. The Disciples had hauled in a stone table hewn with a map of the Scar, edges blackened by the fire, and placed it parallel to the three empty seats. Lost in thought, Jacen ran a hand over its grooves and painted red glyphs, each designating the location of a Gate.
Someone had placed Rakalem’s skull beside the largest glyph, over the miniature spires of Zal Fel. Empty eye sockets that once belonged to the Lord of Fear leered at Jacen. Even after everything he had seen, he could not quite comprehend this new reality.
For the first time in five years, he felt compelled to murmur a prayer.
He did not sense Nines approaching until she said, from behind him, “I need to tell you something.”
Jacen faced her, hoping he appeared sufficiently composed. He had managed to locate clothing that resembled his Church vestments, and it seemed Nines—perhaps subconsciously—had done the same. She tugged at the sleeves of her dark grey tunic. The flickering torchlight cast stark shadows across her face, lending her a haunted look.
“I’ve been paying attention.” She glanced around the empty hall. “I spoke to Turil.”
Jacen’s stomach lurched. “You what?”
Nines avoided eye contact. “I knew you wouldn’t like that.” “Who let you into Seth’s cell?”
