Diablo III: Storm of Light (38 page)

An angel opened the door to receive the Luminarei. This one was not dressed in armor and was female in general shape, her flowing robes catching the light of her being in gentle curves. Her voice joined the musical notes in perfect harmony, and seeing her was like staring into the sun.

“What is your purpose?” the angel said.

“To accept our calling,” the first guard said. “And lead Gealith to the light.”

“She is waiting,” the angel said. “Fate is open to you.”

The Library of Fate. Zayl’s heart fluttered softly like a bird in his chest. Of course—the library’s influence had fallen over him as he had approached it, fate turning to loss, destiny to chance, as Tyrael had warned them might happen.
The High Heavens may affect humans in ways you cannot understand
.

The guards slipped past her, into the glowing room beyond. Zayl thought about trying to continue, but the angel remained in
place. He would be seen, and it was too close for Shanar’s illusion to hold.

The necromancer glanced down at his hands. The white fire that had coated them was flickering.

Shanar’s magic was fading, and Zayl was out of time.

Jacob looked around in astonishment. They had broken through the cover of the line of trees and entered the most incredible landscape he had ever seen. It went on and on into the distance.

The Gardens of Hope.

Nothing—not even his wildest dreams—could compare to this.

The ground was dusted with flowers made of multicolored light petals. The gardens were not static; the flowers were constantly changing, thick beds of them glowing bright and fading while others grew up in bursts of color to replace them. Crystalline shapes like glittering shrubs sprouted from the flower beds and sent cascades of twisting, curling strands back down upon themselves, living fountains of light and sound. Reflective pools surrounded the fountains, holding the shimmering curtains of light and crystal dust, sparkling like jeweled catch basins.

It was breathtaking. His spirits were lifted as if he had taken flight, the music bringing energy into his tired body until he felt weightless and free. All the dark dreams that had clung to him like spiderwebs, the tragedies of his past, the deaths of his father
and mother, and the loss of his own purpose and confidence, slipped away as the gardens caressed his body and whispered a message of love and peace. He was no longer alone and never had to be again; wherever he went and whatever he did, he would carry this place with him. Paradise . . .

“There are great dangers here,” Tyrael said quietly. “Be careful you do not lose yourself forever in the beauty of what you see, what you feel. Be aware of how hope can be lost and turn into despair. Remember that you were never meant to experience this place.”

Jacob was brought back into himself with a jerk, but the feeling of contentment remained with him.

There were other beings in the Gardens of Hope.

Angels moved in the distance, gliding without sound, while others sat motionless on benches among the flowers or peering into the light pools as if they had been there for centuries. None of these angels wore armor; instead, they were clothed in robes the color of morning mist. They were beautiful, elegant creatures suggesting a perfection of form beyond anything Sanctuary could possibly understand.

But no one seemed to recognize or acknowledge the Horadrim. To them, this was a troop of angelic soldiers marching toward the Ascension. Shanar’s magic was holding.

“What are we going to do about the satchel?”

Jacob thought it was Gynvir who had spoken, but he could not be completely certain. The magic did its job, even for him; all he saw was a member of the Luminarei, wings undulating gently.

“Zayl will find his way to the Council chamber,” Tyrael said. “If he does not, we carry the stone back with our bare hands.”

The others were silent. They all knew that carrying the stone without protection meant an agonizing and terrible death. But Jacob found it hard to be bothered by this idea. The gentle music and peaceful surroundings continued to soothe his fears.

Paths of crushed crystal wound through the flower beds and around the treelike growths and pools. In the distance, rising up through the shimmering air, were the thick walls and soaring spires of the Courts of Justice.

He led the others along the path, weaving around hanging strands of living light. As he passed under a tall crystalline growth, a strand of light brushed his head. Warmth spread through his limbs, and he gasped out loud; images of himself as a boy cascaded through his mind, vivid and fresh, times before the rage plague had taken Staalbreak, with his mother and father living peacefully. His father, the constable, had been calm and steady then, the kind of man you could depend on, one who never acted impulsively, who always listened to both sides of an argument before ruling one way or another, and the walls of the town were strong and secure because of him.

Another strand brushed his shoulders. A shiver ran through him. Images of his father turned bloody and dark. Jacob was caught in a web of time and space, with no way out; his father had bred a son who could not escape his past, the rage plague that had destroyed his family only a symptom of something deeper, something more corrupt, a weakness of character that he could not avoid no matter how far he ran.

Jacob felt another soft caress across his cheek. It was like the cool, limp fingers of a corpse. He saw hanged men strung up from the ramparts of Staalbreak and heard his father’s laughter echoing through empty streets. He saw barbarian hordes with runes the color of fire, murder in their eyes as they rushed the town walls, wave after wave. He saw demons take their place as the walls came down.

There was no stopping them and no end to the madness and blood. His people were slaughtered, one by one.

Thin gray webs hung everywhere, draping the light trees in drifting sheets, cascading down like a smothering blanket upon
the flower beds. Running along the webs were fat, hairy spiders, their eyes catching the light from the pools, fangs dripping. He glanced behind him, where a pool reflected the horrors in his mind, laying the truth bare. Shanar’s mutilated body was next to his own. There was no hope of redemption, no future beyond this place. He was lost within the suffocating webs.

Jacob screamed.

The shriek shattered the serene beauty of the gardens like an axe taken to a sheet of glass. The Horadrim came to a halt as the angels who had been wandering peacefully or sitting in quiet contemplation suddenly looked their way. Angels did not get physically ill, but they could experience injuries and stress and often retired to the gardens to heal and find a center of peace. These were not likely to be happy with the disturbance.

Tyrael cursed silently to himself. They were more than halfway through the gardens before Jacob had recoiled from the hanging strands as if reacting to a threat. He had known this might happen, particularly in here, where the promise of hope could so quickly turn sour for those who were not prepared to look inward.

Something else was wrong. Tyrael looked more closely. Thin gray tendrils had grown up through the branches of the tree where Jacob stood. They were so delicate as to be almost invisible, like hairline cracks across the beautiful bright lights of the gardens. But they had spread their corruption like a terrible disease.

The stone was here.

The extent of the corruption chilled his heart. The High Heavens were compromised, and he had no way of knowing how long it might take for them to return to normal once the Black Soulstone was removed.

But there was more immediate cause for worry. Shanar’s illusion had begun to fade like a ghost image disappearing into the distance, and the mortal forms of the Horadrim were beginning to show through.

Several angels had begun to move through the garden paths toward them. These were not soldiers, but they could raise an alarm. If Tyrael didn’t make it to the Council chamber before the Luminarei came for them, there was no hope at all.

“You.”

A female angel had stopped a short distance away, her aura pulsing gently, her wings undulating in waves. “You were accused of being a traitor. Imperius has instructed anyone who sees you to report it to the guard.”

“Whatever you have heard, you are mistaken. I have been on a secret mission to Sanctuary, the details of which do not concern you.”

“I—” Distracted, she looked at the others and seemed to recoil. “Their song . . . these are not Luminarei!”

Jacob stumbled back, his legs hitting the edge of a basin, and teetered there for a moment, trying to maintain his balance before toppling backward into the light pool.

The reflection in the pool was broken into multiple planes of color as he sank through the surface. It was not deep, but as the light covered him, he thrashed violently and screamed again, swinging at nothing Tyrael could see. Shanar rushed forward, clutching his arm and trying to pull him back, as more angels began to converge on their location. Jacob fought against her, but she got him upright again, holding on to the armor that encased his body.

An exclamation of shock and dismay came from one of the other angels, and the sound quickly spread through their ranks as they drew closer to the Horadrim.

Jacob’s wings had vanished.

The magic was breaking down faster now. Any semblance of order was swiftly dissolving into chaos, and they would have the real Luminarei at their throats at any moment.

Tyrael made a split-second decision.

“Run!” he said.

Zayl ducked farther behind the column. He had become skilled at hiding himself over the years. But it was a short-term solution to a much larger problem. It would not be long before Shanar’s magic faded completely.

A moment later, the huge door swung open again, and the two guards came out, nodding to the angel in the hall before stepping aside to stand motionless and at rigid attention.

The new angel emerged from the library.

Zayl had to admit that Gealith was breathtaking. Her aura was as bright and crisp as the morning sunshine on a clear spring day, her light golden garments magnificent with their intricate folds and gentle curves that lay upon her weightless shape. Her wings were wide and tapered and trailed behind her in the air, moving in rippling waves as if she might take flight at any moment.

But as she walked out into the hall, he caught a glimpse of something strange, a darker tint to her wingtips like a shadow clinging to their edges.

“Fate is your last adviser,” the angel at the door said. “I give you to the Defenders of the Arch. They shall guide you as you
ascend to the ranks of Valor and pledge to serve this Aspect for the rest of your days, until you are struck down. Are you prepared?”

“I am,” Gealith said.

“Very well.” The angel stepped aside. “May you embrace your fate and find peace.”

The angel disappeared back through the door. The Luminarei guards marched forward with Gealith in between them. Zayl slipped from one column to the next, following as closely as he dared. His good fortune held for now. There were no shouts of alarm, no immediate reaction, as they marched steadily away from the library and down the echoing hall.