The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet (85 page)

Peering down, Uldyssian discovered Mendeln’s ivory dagger. Even as he eyed it, the faint glow ceased.

Thinking of his brother, Uldyssian twisted around to return the dagger to him…and only then discovered that Mendeln was not with him.

“He was more concerned with you and what you might do,” declared a voice from the opposite direction.

Turning, Uldyssian faced Rathma. “I have to go back for him!”

“Nothing would please me more than to rescue him, especially as it was my lapse that allowed him to be manipulated into following you to Kehjan.” The cloaked figure approached. “But if you return to the tunnels and confront the mages, there will be no hope whatsoever of healing what may already be beyond our abilities to mend.”

As usual, Uldyssian understood very little of what the Ancient meant. He only knew that his brother was among enemies after seeking to rescue
him
. “I’m going back!”

Rathma shook his head. “Uldyssian, you are not aware of what has taken place these past few hours. The mage council and many of the leading guild masters—all gathered to meet with you—were brutally slaughtered.”

The news struck Uldyssian like a rock. “Slaughtered? How?”

“By one of their own…who claims she did it in your name. They seek her, too, but more to the point, you are now declared a fiendish murderer whose followers must also be put down. The mage clans—nay, the entire capital—rise up to war upon the edyrem.”

It was the nightmare that the son of Diomedes had feared early on but was certain that he could prevent from ever happening. He did not have to ask who was behind it. Inarius, naturally. Inarius—and for some reason, the demon lord Diablo likely had a part in the matter.

And then there was this female mage who, no doubt through the angel or the demon or both, had wielded such might as could brutally slay seasoned spellcasters. He suspected that it had been Amolia—but not truly her. She was not the type easily turned.

Malic had a new body and evidently a pact with those seeking Uldyssian’s downfall.

Yet his concern for himself was minimal. Uldyssian held up Mendeln’s dagger, intending to use it to help him return to his brother or even bring him back. However, the dagger looked different from any time he had seen it previously. It was pale in a more ominous manner, pale and lifeless.

The Ancient shook his head. “I feared as much. When I sensed you but not him, I feared the worst.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, and help me do something!”

“But there is nothing you can do for Mendeln,” Rathma said with utter calm. “Nothing you can do for him at all. Look at the blade. The link between him and it is cut.” He bowed his head. “Your brother is lost to us.”

Is this death?
Mendeln asked himself.
Is this it?

If it was, it was far less than he had imagined. Of course, imagination and truth did not always cross paths or even travel within the same world. Still, Mendeln would have thought that there was more—considering what he had witnessed while alive—than this utter emptiness. He could see nothing, could touch nothing, and did not even know if he had anything reminiscent of his old corporeal form.

His mind raced back to the events in the tunnel. Through the guidance of the other angel, he had not only entered the city swiftly and without notice by its guardians—physical or magical—but been then able to use his own blood tie and the skills Rathma and the dragon had taught him to find his brother. Unfortunately, retrieving Uldyssian had not been as simple a matter as he had hoped.

What had brought about the situation in which he had found himself when finally locating his brother, Mendeln knew better than most. The
ghosts
had come to him, of course, the ghosts of dead spellcasters and guild leaders. More than usual, these spirits had been eager to impart upon him the cause of their murder. Mendeln knew the details as well as if he had been there himself, and he knew without a doubt that the woman, Amolia, was not what she seemed. Indeed, when the ghosts had verified this, they had done so in the worst possible manner.

They had revealed to him that it was by
his
doing that all this calamity and bloodshed had happened. They had revealed this by telling him the story Uldyssian had claimed as truth.

The dread spirit of the high priest, Malic, had been responsible for all the heinous deaths.

Somehow, he had escaped the bone fragment to which he had been bound by Mendeln and now, like some terrible disease, spread from one victim to the next. Worse, if Mendeln’s suspicions were correct, all the deaths caused by the specter’s continued existence were merely incidental as he pursued the one body he truly coveted: Uldyssian’s.

Filled with guilt by the horror he had unleashed upon others, only one thing had suddenly mattered to Mendeln. He had to get his brother out of the capital, where he was certain Malic still lurked. For a time, though, the search had gone nowhere. It had been as if Uldyssian did not exist at all, but in the end, Mendeln had finally managed to locate him. His mistake had been seeking above when his sibling had been below.

And sure enough, he had found Uldyssian, but in the midst of a group of vengeful hunters who would not be willing to listen to reason. There had been no hesitation on Mendeln’s part. The spell creating the wall of bone had been driven by his fear for his brother, and the results had astounded him as much as they had the mages and likely even his brother.

But then, when Uldyssian had not only refused to leave but appeared ready to strike back—and become the very evil the Kehjani thought him to be—Mendeln saw no recourse. He had abandoned the other spell and instead cast one that he hoped would take his brother from harm. That had meant sacrificing the dagger, but he had not cared.

The spell had worked. Uldyssian had vanished.

And the mages had attacked him as they had intended to attack Uldyssian.

That was the last Mendeln remembered, save for a brief spark of incredible pain. The next instant, he had discovered himself in this
limbo,
for lack of a better word.

If he was dead, then at least he had done what he had most desired. Uldyssian was outside the city and surely safe. That was all that mattered—

His heart jumped as a voice from nowhere and everywhere called,
AWAKEN, MENDELN UL-DIOMED! AWAKEN! THOUGH FOR YOUR SINS, DEATH WOULD BE THE LEAST OF THE PUNISHMENTS YOU DESERVE, YOU HAVE BEEN SAVED.

The emptiness through which Mendeln had been floating gave way to a glorious chamber of gleaming marble. Uldyssian’s brother found himself lying on a soft, elaborate couch. Above him, a vast panorama detailing an idyllic realm populated by beautiful winged figures covered the entire ceiling.

The words, if not the voice itself, had already warned Mendeln just who had him. His wondrous surroundings informed him where that being had taken him.

He leapt to his feet, reaching for the dagger that was no longer there, and found himself standing before a towering figure with wings composed of tendrils of energy who was not the angel in the jungle.

The celestial warrior then rippled as if seen through water and became a being equally anathema to Mendeln: the Prophet.

“Mendeln ul-Diomed,” sang the master of the Cathedral of Light. “Once I spoke to your brother, seeking his redemption from his great downfall. He chose the path of sin rather than a return to the light. I pray for your soul’s sake that you do not repeat his error.”

Mendeln did not know when this supposed conversation with Uldyssian had taken place, but he could imagine that his sibling had remained defiant. He wondered why Inarius would think him different.

The Prophet gestured, and next to Mendeln materialized a figure that seemed half golden sunlight, half wind. It was neither male nor female and had no legs, but rather what seemed a stream of tendrils akin to those of the angel.

With hands that consisted of only three digits, the being held a glittering tray upon which appeared a goblet made of pure diamond. In the goblet was golden nectar.

“You would do well to refresh yourself, my child, after such a traumatic encounter.”

Without hesitation, Mendeln took the goblet from the ethereal servant. The moment he held the cup, the being dissipated. Uldyssian’s brother took a sip;
nectar
poorly described the astounding liquid.

He did not fear that something in the drink would make him more susceptible to Inarius’s suggestions. The angel did not need so mortal a trick. There was certainly something else to come.

“You would be dead now, you know,” the Prophet said with a solemn expression. “They were determined to slay your brother, and when you stole that chance from them, they turned their magic upon you, my child.” He steepled his fingers. “You would be dead now…if not for me.”

Despite the fact that this was an angel, Mendeln was not sure how much he should believe. He suspected that Inarius could easily manipulate any facts to serve his desires. Still, Mendeln wisely bowed his head and replied, “I thank you for that.”

The Prophet nodded approvingly at his attitude. “Your brother would do well to learn from your manners. Such sinful arrogance will only destroy him. I know that you would not wish that.”

They were coming closer to whatever it was Inarius wanted of him. Mendeln chose to play along, especially since he saw no other choice at the moment.

“You have seen into death, Mendeln ul-Diomed, in ways no other mortal has. You have begun this unique journey in great part due to the influence of my errant offspring. It is something that he should have never done.”

There were times, too, when Mendeln had thought the very same thing, yet he could not have turned back. The path upon which he had been led was now as much a part of him as breathing.

“But I do not think it the influence of him alone,” continued the angel, his youthful aspect revealing at last a hint of an emotion Mendeln would hardly have expected.

Anxiety.

“No…my son is not the fount of knowledge from which you both draw. There is another, and you know who it is.”

Mendeln tried to fight down his sudden fear. Inarius knew about Trag’Oul!

He suddenly worried that by thinking of the dragon, he had verified for Inarius the truth, but oddly, the angel gave no sign that he had sensed anything. In fact, Inarius continued to appear anxious.

The Prophet’s first words came back to him, and Mendeln realized that his captor had not actually responded to the mortal’s curiosity over whether he was dead or not but had merely started out their conversation in the most logical manner the situation warranted. Anyone in Mendeln’s state would have wondered if he had been slain and Inarius had used that to press his point about how much the son of Diomedes owed him.

But not even his life was worth betraying the dragon, for Mendeln knew that Trag’Oul’s efforts to protect Sanctuary far outweighed whatever contribution the human had made. Certain that Inarius would punish him severely for defying him, Mendeln nonetheless kept silent before the robed figure.

Yet, while there was some discernible anger, the Prophet did not strike him down. Mendeln observed with morbid fascination that Inarius more and more displayed human emotions. So long among men, the angel could not help picking up some of their ways, even if he himself perhaps did not acknowledge it.

There was now clearly tension in the angel’s manner as he proclaimed, “Denial of the truth is also a sin, my child. Do you wish to condemn yourself by not stating what we both know? Such foolishness!”

The last vestiges of uncertainty concerning whether or not Inarius could read his thoughts vanished. Mendeln could only assume that Trag’Oul had managed to create some mental shield that Inarius could not penetrate.

Mendeln swallowed the last of his drink as he tried not to think of what his captor might attempt in order to break that shield. Then he wondered why Inarius would even bother. After all, the Prophet already knew about the dragon.

However, Inarius continued to grow furious. With a single gesture, he sent Mendeln’s goblet the way of the servant. With a scowl, he raised Mendeln himself up into the air until the human nearly floated among the winged figures in the vast mural.

“Repent for your past misdeeds, Mendeln ul-Diomed, and admit the truth we both know.
He
is here!
He
is the one who guides you from the shadows. Speak his name! It is
Tyrael.
Tyrael! Admit it now!”

Tyrael!
The mage’s assault had obviously left Mendeln momentarily disoriented for him to have forgotten the one who had truly instigated this particular quest. Because of the second angel, Mendeln had even willingly abandoned the edyrem, an act for which he felt little guilt. After all, it had been for his brother’s sake.

Tyrael. Of course, the Prophet would be concerned about one of his own kind in his very midst.

Inarius’s voice boomed like thunder, but it was not the only sound deafening the son of Diomedes. There was also, oddly enough, the flapping of many huge wings. In fact, the flapping grew to dominate all other sounds. The unseen wings made such noise that they drove Mendeln to tears.

Something tore at his arm. A hand, small but with sharp nails. A second ripped at his shoulder. There then came another and another…

And through his bleary eyes, Mendeln saw he was being attacked by the images from the huge mural. More than a dozen already assailed him, and others were in the process of tearing themselves free in order to join the first. They were literally as they looked in the painting, and when one turned to the side, Mendeln saw that it had
no
depth.

Mendeln tried to bat them away, but there were too many. They clawed at his face, tore at his breast. Despite their thinness, when he sought to punch through them, his fist met what felt like stone.

As they swarmed around him, they took up the Prophet’s demand.
Speak his name! Tyrael! Speak it! Admit that he is the one!

Even then, even when it seemed so easy just to agree with Inarius, Mendeln held back. Not being certain who all his enemies were did more to disorient Rathma’s father than anything else Uldyssian’s brother could imagine. Even if that meant torture and death, Mendeln at least could hope that he gave the others a better chance.

Without warning, the winged figures suddenly pulled back. Recovering, Mendeln watched as they returned to their positions in the mural. He expected Inarius to let him fall to the floor, but instead, the Prophet brought him down gently astride the couch.

“I am so very sorry, my child,” Inarius said, his expression now piteous. “So very, very sorry that you wish to continue to sin as you do. I did what I could to try to persuade you to come back to the light, but, like your misbegotten brother, you would rather choose the darkness.” The pity transformed into condemnation. “And so, into the darkness you shall be cast.”

The vast marble chamber twisted around Mendeln as if turned fluid. The couch upon which Mendeln had landed became a vast, sucking hole. Uldyssian’s brother let out a cry of dismay as he fought in vain to keep from being drawn into it.

“A pity…” was the last he heard the Prophet speak.

It seemed to Mendeln that he was to fall forever, but then, at last, he landed hard on what seemed stone. The collision knocked the air from his lungs and the sense from his head. Mendeln had no idea where he was.

And then a woman’s voice from somewhere in the darkness stirred him to waking. “Who is it? Who’s there? Tell me! Tell me!”

The first thing out of Mendeln’s mouth was a low moan. That instigated movement from the direction of the new voice. A figure leaned over him, close but not touching.

“Who are you? How did you get here?”

Mendeln rolled over to face the shadowed woman. She wore a cloak of some sort, and what little he could see of her consisted of blond hair and what he suspected was a fairly attractive face. That, though, immediately put him in mind of Lilith, and he shoved himself away from the figure.