“Words we cannot live by,” Pelarak said. “Ashhur’s presence here is too deeply embedded. Maynard could send mobs against us. Blood would fill the streets. Nothing of your little war with the Trifect would compare to the carnage we would unleash. But that would end our work here. So I have few choices.”
Thren drew his shortswords.
“I’d tread carefully,” the guildmaster said.
Pelarak chuckled.
“Put those away. Even with your skill, you cannot match my power. I am Karak’s most faithful servant, save for his prophet. If I wanted you dead I would not announce or explain myself.”
Thren lowered his swords but did not sheathe them.
“What are your choices?” he asked.
“I can either turn you away, making you a potential enemy. In doing so, I also remain a puppet of the Trifect. However, even that option has been denied to me. Maynard Gemcroft’s daughter is missing. She was to be in my care, yet is not. For this alone, Maynard will destroy us.”
“There is another way,” Thren said, realizing what Pelarak was leading to. “There is my way. Take my son. Cure him. Burn all remnants of Ashhur from his flesh so he may be pure.”
“Can you kill Maynard Gemcroft?” Pelarak asked. “My time has already passed. By the end of the Kensgold he will carry out his threat.”
Thren saluted with his sword.
“By tomorrow’s eve, Maynard will be dead,” he vowed. “Can you save my son?”
“We will take him,” Pelarak said. He banged twice on the doors. Two other priests came out. When Pelarak pointed to Aaron, they picked the boy up and carried him inside. As they did, Thren briefly described the events that had transpired, from Aaron’s prayers, his chain of the golden mountain, to at last his secret meeting with Delysia.
“How much time will it take?” Thren asked when finished.
“A day or two at most, unless he resists our methods,” the priest replied.
“Can he?” Thren asked, watching the double-doors close with a groaning of wood and iron locks.
Pelarak laughed softly.
“Of course not. He’s just a boy.”
Thren bowed.
“May our endeavors aid us both,” he said.
“Go with the true god’s blessing,” Pelarak said before returning inside.
Thren felt lighter as he vaulted over the iron fence and raced down the streets, taking a winding path back to his safehouse. Matters were out of his hands now. The priests would convert his son or kill him in the process. Any influence Ashhur had on him would be gone. Thren would keep his killer, his perfect heir.
Assuming his plans for the Kensgold unfolded without error.
A aron’s awareness rose and fell, and as it rose he felt the pain. It stabbed into his wrists and forced him back down. Water splashed across his tongue. Dull chanting shook the rhythm of his dreams, flooding them with color that vibrated to the sound. He saw red and purple. The colors worked a sharp discomfort in his mind. More pain, this time in his ankles. Water dribbled up his lips. That didn’t make any sense. Why up?
He opened his eyes. Expecting to be upside down, he was surprised to see a man standing before him. He was balding, with sharp eyes and a bitter frown. He wore dark robes. Hanging from his neck was a pendant shaped like the skull of a lion.
“Where am I?” Aaron asked.
“A room of faith,” said the priest. “My name is Pelarak, and you are in a most holy place. Here Karak is master, not the goddess of the elves, not Ashhur, not the moon or the stars or the sun. Just Karak.”
He held out his hand. In it was a waterskin. When he pressed against it, the water traveled up instead of down, splashing across the ceiling. The sight was so strange Aaron felt a sense of vertigo. He turned to the side, vomited, and then watched in horror as it smacked atop the ceiling, splattering it a messy red.
“To be expected,” the priest said. “Many things are strange here, and you will see only a blessed few. Karak is god everywhere, but we have consecrated this room with blood and prayers.”
Aaron tried to move but couldn’t. He looked to his wrists where he felt cold iron chains. He saw nothing but air. The same for his ankles. As he struggled, he saw indents press against his skin, made by no visible source.
“Chains are a deceptive thing,” Pelarak said. “Who makes them? What gives them their strength? It is shallow to call them iron and unbreakable, yet foolish to call them self-made. You have chains upon you. Break them.”
Pelarak waved his hand as he said the last command. A sudden urge filled Aaron’s heart. He could think of nothing but escape. It seemed every flight response had triggered in his mind. Every muscle clenched and fought against the invisible chains. He felt his skin rub raw. His knees and shoulders throbbed in agony. Blood dripped upward in a perverse rain. Finally he flung his entire body forward, straining so hard against the chains his neck bulged and his forehead dripped sweat that drifted upward into his hair before pooling into thick drops that rose to the ceiling.
No matter how hard he tried, he could neither break the chains nor stop his trying.
“This is life,” Pelarak said, watching emotionless. “We struggle against our bonds, unable to break them, but only because we are foolish. You have made those chains, Aaron. Break them.”
He wanted to. Oh how he wanted to. It felt like his heart would burst, each rapid beat like a hammer blow to his chest. More blood floated upward from his wrists. His mind searched for the solution. Robert Haern had always insisted he’d know the answer to a question when asked, but did this priest ensure him the same fairness? What did he mean, chains of his own creation?
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice cracking. His tongue felt made of cotton.
“Then you will try harder,” Pelarak said. “Ignorance is not an excuse; it is a blindness fostered by this world. Your body will break, and you will die, all because of your ignorance.”
The man was clearly a priest of Karak. Only one thing came to mind that might explain the chains, and why he would think them his own creation: Ashhur.
“I’ve prayed to Ashhur,” Aaron shouted. He felt his maddening urge to struggle slowly subside. His breath shuddered as he hung limply from the invisible chains.
“Very good,” Pelarak said. “You’re making progress. Look to your hands and feet.”
Aaron did. No longer were the chains invisible. Though they felt like iron, they appeared to be made of white marble. Golden mountains decorated their keyholes. The room slowly darkened, though the chains remained bright, almost glowing.
“Symbols,” Aaron said, his voice a whisper. “They lie as easily as men.”
Pelarak’s face seemed to darken at this.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said. “I have something I want you to see.”
He stepped back. The room turned completely dark, although both the chains and Pelarak remained perfectly visible. A fire sparked in the center of the room. Within its center he saw the briefest image of an eye. The fire sparked again, then grew. It roared to the ceiling, enormous but without heat. Its life was quick, and as it died, a young girl stood before him, her fiery red hair tangled and unkempt.
“Aaron?” Delysia asked. Aaron felt his body tremble at the sound of her voice.
Just a lie, he thought. Just another lie.
But it was hard to believe that as she touched the side of his face. Her hand felt cold, but her touch was real. Tears ran down his cheeks. Her dress was charred as if by fire.
“They do lie,” the girl said. “The abyss is cold. The fires give no heat. Ashhur didn’t want me, so now I’m here. I gave no love to Karak, so he gives no love to me.”
“You’re not real,” he said. It sounded like a plea. “You’re with Ashhur. You went to a better place. You were good. You were innocent. ”
Pelarak laughed. Delysia cried. Her body faded upon an unfelt wind.
“No one’s innocent,” Delysia said through her sniffles. “But I worshipped something false. It didn’t matter how I prayed. I prayed to deaf ears.”
Aaron flung himself against his chains, desperate to touch her. She was fading away like a ghost. The
