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“Like Rhyzkahl.” Szerain shrugged. “Poker-faced but deeply affected.”
Yep, that was Rhyzkahl. “What about the headaches, or the demahnk screwing with his mind?”
“I taught him a few mental tricks and some rudimentary shielding,” he said. “It’s a start.” He seemed poised to say more, but instead joined the gun discussion at the table.
Would I see Rhyzkahl dance another hundred shikvihrs before Mzatal returned to free him? I was sick to death of being Rhyzkahl’s jailer, but what if Mzatal was too diminished by Ilana to finish what he’d started here? Then again, it might not be long before Rhyzkahl escaped on his own. He certainly wasn’t a helpless invalid any longer.
The rift belched a gout of shimmering potency. Rhyzkahl could have escaped last night. He could have escaped and still saved Elinor. He didn’t because—why? Honor? That seemed a stretch. Or maybe escaping would have, in some twisted way, been a victory for me, implying that the only way for him to get free would be to escape my tyranny. Perhaps he was simply biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to throw off his shackles and bring low the hated slavemaster, thus proving that he’d been the victor all along.
Then again, it was possible that none of this had a fucking thing to do with “winning” anything.
For the first time since the night I found Rhyzkahl shaken and stumbling around the nexus, it felt wrong to cage him. Not that he didn’t deserve punishment for his actions, but justice required a consideration of time served, and retribution needed to take a back seat to pragmatism. Rhyzkahl was restored, and all the lords were needed.
Understanding dawned on me with the intensity of a supernova. Mzatal’s multi-faceted purpose for creating the prison on my nexus was suddenly crystal clear.
Mzatal had unmatched focus and foresight, able to see thousands of moves ahead and predict far-reaching ripples. He hadn’t chained Rhyzkahl to my nexus for revenge. He’d forcibly removed him from the demon realm because Rhyzkahl was broken, his mere presence causing instability in an already unstable world.
Yet Mzatal didn’t go on to kill him or lock him in a dimensional pocket dungeon or even chain him in agony to the nexus. He brought Rhyzkahl to a place where he could recover, far removed from any number of damaging influences. Moreover, Rhyzkahl’s presence as a battery for the nexus compensated for the loss of my arcane abilities and gave me the means to rehabilitate.
But that wasn’t the end of Mzatal’s brilliance. Rhyzkahl’s imprisonment had served to rehab my inner Self as well, helping to heal the worst of the unseen wounds from his torture ritual and more. The prison forced me to face Rhyzkahl every single day, seeing him at his best and his worst—and thus made it harder for my psyche to see him as a nothing but a monster. Yes, he was a creature capable of horrible acts, but every time I wished him harm, every time I gloated over having my tormentor as my prisoner, I did nothing but bind myself tighter to our ugly past.
With the root cause identified, my disquiet settled. Wry amusement whispered through me. All those times that Rhyzkahl demanded release and I’d responded that it wasn’t up to me. Mzatal had known this moment would come, once Rhyzkahl and I were sufficiently healed.
I poured out the rest of my coffee, grabbed the walkie-talkie from its charger on the counter, then headed toward the back door. In my periphery I saw Pellini start to rise as if to follow, but Szerain stopped him with a light touch on his arm and a murmured, “Let her go.”
The back yard grass no longer sparkled, and the mist at the edge of the woods had burned away. As I walked toward the nexus, Rhyzkahl finished the eleventh ring and ignited the entire series. It was still dimmer than a full-strength construct but not by much.
He regarded the finished shikvihr for barely a heartbeat then flicked his fingers to dispel it and began anew.
I crossed his orbit and stepped onto the nexus then, as I’d done so often before, let the by-now-familiar power course through me.
For the last time.
The thought reverberated through me, bringing sudden doubt in its wake. If Rhyzkahl left, so would the lord-power. Sure, I had most of my abilities back, but it was the semi-demigodness that I relied upon to do, well, pretty much anything that mattered. Without it, I never could have summoned Dekkak, or rescued Szerain, or even given Giovanni the ability to understand the twenty-first century. And the need for that lordy power wouldn’t end when it left. Maybe it was irresponsible of me to give this up while the war still raged.
“Bullshit,” I spat and glared down at the silver and black slab. There would always be an oh-so-reasonable excuse to justify exploitation. History was pockmarked with similar rationalizations. Hell, the demahnk likely had reasons out the wazoo for their enslavement of the lords. Fuck that. Keeping Rhyzkahl here, when I knew in my essence that he could—and should—be freed, would be slavery, full stop. We would survive without resorting to anathema.
I tapped into the nexus and looked deep into the workings of the prison, like Szerain had done the day before. Intricate patterns within patterns, fractals of potency, interlaced in harmonious unity. Unlike Szerain, there was no way I’d ever come close to understanding the entirety of how it worked, but I didn’t need to. I only needed to find the off switch.
And there it was, a quiet glow amidst the exquisite creation code, calling no attention to itself but findable by me when it was time.
And it was, indeed, time. The rightness of my decision sang through me. I reached to that softly glowing speck of a sigil and, using the Rhyzkahl-power for the very last time, dispelled it.
There was no fanfare or fireworks. The power simply flowed away from me like water sheeting off my body after a shower, no more unpleasant than the hundreds of times I’d left the nexus and ceased being a semi-demigod.
Rhyzkahl froze in place, for an instant reminding me of a rabbit going still as a hawk’s shadow passed over it. Or like someone who wants to be sure there are no landmines in a suddenly changed environment.
After nearly half a minute, Rhyzkahl dissipated the partial shikvihr and faced me. If he felt surprise—or anything else—he didn’t let it show.
Eyes on him, I lifted the walkie-talkie. “This is Kara. I’ve freed Rhyzkahl. All personnel are ordered to allow him to depart the compound. Absolutely no one is to interfere with him while he leaves.”
Rhyzkahl traced the first sigil of the shikvihr. It hung in the air before him, brilliant and potent, no longer drained by the nature of the prison.
I smothered the reflex to flip the prison’s switch back on. The ethical dilemma of keeping him prisoner hadn’t changed. Moreover, Rhyzkahl was now armed with the truth from Szerain. That had to have changed him for the better. I hoped. “I know you’re dying to stay and tend your garden, but I’m kicking you out.” I shrugged. “Sorry-not-sorry.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Endlessly entertaining.”
I inclined my head. “I do my best.”
