“This girl is dying of poison. I need her healed.”
Calan glanced behind the mage to see Tessanna curled in Harruq’s arms. The high priest nodded. “Place her on the ground, half-elf.”
Harruq glanced at the man, confused and angry.
“Do as he says,” Tarlak ordered.
“Don’t you need a bed, tonics, potions and such?” Harruq asked, gently placing her on the stone.
“The only bed she will need is back at your tower.” Calan knelt down beside Tessanna, examining her with his eyes. “What a poor soul. Such beauty, even in a body so frail.”
He bowed his head and laid his hands across Tessanna’s forehead. He whispered a prayer to Ashhur. Healing light surrounded his own hands, but unlike Tessanna’s, its glow was comforting, uplifting. Its shine was deeper, its light, purer. Gently, it flowed into the young woman, banishing the poison in her blood. Mere seconds later, Calan stood, the magic fading from his hands.
“She will be fine,” Calan said, sighing. “Her wounds are many, and the worst are in her mind. I know this girl, Tarlak. Be careful with her.”
Qurrah knelt beside Tessanna and held her. He stared at the high priest with his steeled gaze.
“How do you know of her?” he asked.
“Several of my priests have died because of her,” Calan explained. “They sought to heal the chaos of her mind. A few thought a demon resided in her. Others, in their pride, felt their power sufficient to put the pieces back together.”
“She killed them?” Tarlak asked.
“The madness they tried to exorcise engulfed them, instead. The pain they caused her, though…” He shook his head. “They thought themselves wise. She was to be proof of their faith. That is why they died.”
“But can you heal her?” Qurrah asked.
Tarlak stood back, eyeing the two. Something odd was going on, but he didn’t know what.
“No, I cannot heal her,” the high priest said.
“Why not?”
“Only Ashhur can heal a mind that tortured and broken,” Calan said, clearly unwilling to be convinced otherwise. The necromancer felt his chest tighten, and knew that the priest analyzed him with his stare.
“What is it you see?” Qurrah asked him.
“Tread carefully,” the priest said, knowing that all stared at he and Qurrah. “The girl binds herself in darkness because she has never seen the light, while you cling to the dark like a babe in fear. You walk a path leading to ruinous things.”
“Do not speak to me of fear,” Qurrah said, his voice seething with anger. He turned to Tarlak. “May we go? This place makes my skin crawl.”
Tarlak’s look churned his stomach.
“Very well, Qurrah Tun. You need not express your gratitude for him saving her life.”
Qurrah glared but said nothing. The wizard bowed to Calan, removing his hat as he did so.
“Many thanks, high priest. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
“Hopefully not during my naps,” the priest said, returning the bow. Tarlak opened a portal home and then gestured within. The two half-orcs entered first, Tessanna in Harruq’s arms. Once they were gone, Tarlak turned back to the wise old man.
“What do you think of my new recruits?” he asked. Calan chuckled.
“Careful, young friend. Both their souls are strong. Do not preach. Example is all they will believe.”
“May Ashhur guide your steps,” Tarlak said, bowing one final time.
“Go with his blessing,” Calan said. The wizard reached into his pocket and handed Calan several pieces of silver. Tipping his hat, he entered the portal and vanished.
T hat night, Qurrah hovered over the sleeping body of Tessanna. He watched every breath, yet never gave a single caress of her skin or hair. She slept in Delysia’s bed, who had recovered several hours after their return from the temple. Aurelia remained unconscious, but her skin had regained its color, and her heartbeat was strong and steady.
Harruq entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“How they doing?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
“Both sleep peacefully,” Qurrah said. “Tessanna did not just take the poison. She took the very pain from Aurelia’s body. Her body is weak, though. Too weak.”
“Sounds like a certain half-orc I know,” Harruq chuckled. “And he’s survived through plenty worse than this.”
Harruq stood by Aurelia’s bed and ran a hand across her cheek. “Going to bed,” he said. “I suggest you do the same.”
Qurrah offered no reply. His eyes lingered on Tessanna’s closed eyelids as his brother left. When he spoke, it was to himself as much as it was to her.
“The hardness of your life is over,” he whispered. “You have earned your peace. I will give that to you, Tessanna. I promise.”
He pulled the hood of his robe low over his face and left the tower.
Q urrah wandered Veldaren’s empty streets in a trance. He had been to the temple of Ashhur, but there was no aid for him there. Instead, he searched for another temple hidden among the winding streets, one to a darker god, a hidden god. A simple spell guided his path. He could feel the pull of dark magic, leading him on like a thin thread. The closer he approached the luxurious areas of the city, the more it throbbed in his temples. One house in particular cried out to him in a voice only his mind could hear.
Our faith is stronger. Our way is truer. Our destiny is assured. Order cometh.
He halted at the black iron gates. At first glance, the home seemed perfectly normal. It was not fancy, but well kept. Its walls were painted a soft white and its roof a dull brown. His soul opened, and his eyes saw what normal sight could not. A new building towered before him. Several pillars lined the front, chiseled of dark marble, their sides scrawled with runes that glowed red in the darkness. A giant skull of a lion hung above the door, carved from the finest obsidian, its mouth open and dripping blood.
“Let me pass,” Qurrah whispered to the gate, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal. “I will pass, I will enter, and I will speak with whoever is the strongest.” The gate creaked open, yielding to his touch and his words. He slipped inside, flinching when it slammed shut behind him. In all those years he had grown up in Veldaren, he had never once visited the temple. The doings of the gods meant little to him, but there was something the priests of Karak might know more of than the priests of Ashhur, and that was madness.
He approached the door. Built of the thick strips of oak and bound together with long straps of iron, the monumental portal hummed with magic as his knuckles rapped the smooth front.
“I come seeking knowledge,” Qurrah said to the door. “I bade thee let me enter, for willingly or not, I shall pass through.”
The creaking of metal and groaning of wood broke the silence. The door swung inward, and waiting in greeting was a man dressed in robes a shade lighter than Qurrah’s. A pendant shaped like a lion’s skull hung from his neck. His low hood hid much of his face.
“What knowledge is it you seek,” the man asked. “For many turn away at our truth, or yearn for false answers to the questions they ask.”
“I seek chaos,” Qurrah said. “And I seek a way to end to it.”
The man nodded. “Come. We’ve been waiting for you.”
10
T he fall of Karak’s right hand was known to us from the moment it happened,” the priest said, shutting the great door.
“You speak of Velixar,” Qurrah said.
“That was one of his names, yes. Karak’s sorrow was great, but even as we mourned, he gave us hope in
