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A brush of sound alerted me, and I turned to see Elofir step from the stairs. He no longer wore the sweat-soaked shirt, but it was still clear the past few hours in the plexus hadn’t been a walk in the park for him.
Faruk darted up the stairs and held out a towel and a glass of tunjen for him. Elofir thanked the faas, took a long drink of the tunjen, mopped the sweat from his throat and neck, then gave me a smile.
“Is the plexus all properly plexusy?” I asked with a return smile.
He dropped into a broad chair so cushiony that it seemed he sank a foot into its embrace. “It is far from stable,” he said with a light grimace, “but Mzatal will work it until sunset, and then I will go back.”
“Back to the plexus? Or your realm?”
“The plexus,” he clarified. His gaze drifted toward the vibrant amethyst and emerald canopy of the grove to the south, and he looked briefly wistful. “It will likely be days before we return to my realm, though Michelle is more than ready. The node incident caused much instability.”
I sat on a settee near him, tucked one leg underneath me. “Kadir looked pissed when he came through the node.”
Elofir returned his attention to me, nodded. “Kadir is still . . . pissed,” he said. “He was here earlier. He seeks Mzatal when he is distressed.”
“Mzatal hurt him when he called the lightning,” I said after a moment.
But Elofir merely shook his head. “That injury was as nothing to him,” he told me. “Kadir bore no ill will over that. It is the node instability and disruption of the potency flows that has him angry and agitated. He is very . . . fastidious and exacting about the flows.”
I considered these recently discovered aspects of Kadir the Creepy. None of them made him seem any less creepy, but they sure made it hard to get an honest feel for him. Capable of doling out unspeakable torment. Honorable to the point of rigidity concerning agreements—though I had no doubt he would seek and exploit a loophole in a heartbeat. Some sort of wizardly genius with the flows and rituals. Champion of maintaining arcane stability of the demon realm. Loved by Fuzzykins, for fuck’s sake. Freaky-weird about pain. And the memory of the sight and sound of his burned thigh cracking when he crouched still gave me the heebie jeebies.
“Mzatal almost killed Paul.” The words tumbled from me even though I’d intended to work up to the topic more gradually. “Almost killed all of us.” It was the first time I’d said it aloud.
All trace of lightness drained from Elofir’s face. “Yes, he told me,” he said quietly. He wiped his face and neck one more time then set the towel aside. “He does not want it to happen again.”
I dropped both feet to the floor and leaned forward. “Then how can I help him make sure it never happens again?”
Elofir’s expression turned grim, and when he spoke, his words carried a foreboding resonance. “He will tell you he can prevent it. And it will be true.” He stood and moved to the southern glass doors, opened them and stepped out onto the expansive open terrace despite the persistent weak drizzle. “He can build impenetrable walls,” he continued. “Nothing gets through them. In or out.”
I stood and followed him, frowned at his back. “Like when he shut me out? That’s how he controls it?” I asked with growing dismay. “By shutting everyone out?”
“Yes. Being open means being open to the anger as well as all else. He chose to withdraw eons ago when he could no longer control it.” He turned back to me. A deep sadness filled his eyes. “He lived thus for a very long time. Formidable, uncompromising, devious, though never speaking an untruth. Never wantonly cruel, but hard. Cold.”
“Why did he change?” I asked, though I was pretty sure
I knew the answer.
Elofir gave a slight nod as he read it from me. “Idris. You.” He exhaled, wiped a hand over his eyes, flicked rain away. “The two of you found a hairline crack in his wall, broke him open. Kara, it has been over two thousand years since he and I have had any cooperative undertakings outside of the Conclave or anomaly control.”
Two thousand years. Closed off and alone for all that time? I couldn’t comprehend it.
I walked out to the terrace, looked out at the churning sea, then brought my gaze to the grove. Two thousand years meant nothing to it. A week, a day, an eon—none of it mattered. It was the grove. It existed. It simply was.
Turning, I focused on the tapering flat-topped pillar of polished basalt atop a rise on the inland side of the palace. To culminate all eleven rings of a full shikvihr atop the pillar was the rare crowning glory of accomplishment for a summoner. That column represented why I was in the demon realm at all. To train. To complete the shikvihr. To become strong enough and competent enough to protect myself and everyone I loved.
But if Mzatal kept me walled out, could I remain here as his student?
I pivoted back to Elofir. “Do you think he can learn to control it without having to close everyone out?”
He crouched and brushed his palm across a cluster of azure flowers, set them toning like delicate wind chimes. “He carries a deep anger, always has,” he said. “Long ago it would flash and then pass.” He glanced to me. “We were close then. But after he created the blades, it would flash . . . and not pass.” He shook his head. “It was as if the blades would not allow him to bury the anger again. He would not consider relinquishing them, nor would he live without control, and so he chose the terrible alternative.”
“To close off and shut everything in and everyone out,” I supplied, inwardly reeling.
And yet, if he remained open to me—was that what Rhyzkahl meant when he told Mzatal I would be his downfall? I lifted my hand to one of the floating sigils that glimmered above the enclosing basalt parapet, felt its meaning and purpose. Sentinel.
“I can’t train with him if he keeps me shut out,” I said, voice catching. I knew that in my essence. And it wasn’t because of some lovesick longing. I wouldn’t be able to train with him because I’d be grieving the loss of Mzatal. He wouldn’t be him anymore.
I dropped my hand to my side. “But he said we’d discuss it.”
