Our disciples, Melakor admonished, making me flinch a little. Though I’d become accustomed to hearing his voice in my head, familiarity made it no less intrusive.
Of course, I replied immediately. I tried to convey a sense of contrition. It wouldn’t do for Melakor to change his mind about my suitability as his host and choose another disciple.
Hurry, he commanded. I grow impatient.
I was impatient too. I’d been waiting months for this night, and now it was finally upon me. Us, I hastily amended. We are on our way. Master, I added.
Melakor’s satisfaction oozed through the invisible connection we shared. Soon, my chosen one, he promised.
I smiled.
Soon.
Fifty-Four
A Knife in the Netherdark
Zerin
Since only surface-seekers and madmen (which were essentially the same thing) voluntarily ventured beyond Uldrazir’s boundary patrols, the Zhintar base remained known only to us. Furthermore, the denizens of the Netherdark served as Melakor’s guardians while his disciples were away in the city, and the Core had assured me that I, too, would gain dominion over these monsters once the Merging was complete.
That Melakor was willing to Merge at all was an extraordinary thing, or so he’d told me. He’d explained that it was rarely done; that most Cores were reluctant to assimilate, to relinquish their grasp on whatever power they’d spent decades or sometimes even centuries attaining; but Melakor himself had learned more than he’d lost, and was ready to share his knowledge with someone worthy of it: me. Alone, the Core didn’t have the means to gain the followers he needed to grow; and without him, I lacked the resources (or ‘mechanics,’ as Melakor put it) to fully control and expand the environment we’d created. Our Merging was to be a process of symbiosis, of mutual benefit, and together we would be unstoppable.
Our base was humble. A simple cavern, carved out over millennia by the shifting currents of a colossal underground river—the same one that crawled along the bed of Convicts’ Gorge, in fact. The sound of that very river echoed softly but constantly up from the bottom of a fathoms-deep crevasse that split the cave in two and prevented access from the deep tunnels on the far side. This natural defense helped make the dank smell and miserably dripping ceiling a little more tolerable.
The altar sat in the shadows at the back of the cavern. It was a simple outcrop of rock, naturally flat on top, and conveniently sized to fit an adult male night elf should he desire to lie atop it. I gulped down a jolt of excitement as I realized the moment was almost upon me.
The time has come, my chosen one, Melakor spoke, the facets of his purple Core winking in the shifting roachlight. Join me.
With uncharacteristic reverence, Draykon lifted Melakor’s gem from the altar and gestured at me to lie down upon the slab of rock. When I had done so, he placed the Core gently atop my chest. Though the gem was physically inert, I could almost feel it pulsing with something like a psychic heartbeat.
Relax. I forced myself to breathe deeply, pushing out my doubts and excitement and tension and focusing instead on slowing my own heartbeat to match that coming from the Core.
My disciples—our disciples, I corrected hastily—gathered around the altar, and I gazed up at each one with satisfaction. Their cowls still hid their faces, but I knew every single one of them, by story if not by name. Some were from families like mine; lowly fifth or sixth sons and daughters of noble houses, overlooked and underestimated and keen to secure their own place in the new order to come. Most of the others were from low-born families; Draykon had helped recruit a lot of them. He was a truly great second-in-command, and seemed committed to Melakor with a fervor I’d never seen in him before. It was as though being part of the Zhintar filled a hole inside him, replacing something he’d never even known was missing. I understood; I felt the same way.
Only Khazla had retained the doubts she’d had from the outset. Even now, her troubled eyes gleamed green, reflecting the lantern she gripped in a white-knuckled hand. She stared fiercely into my eyes, as though challenging me to call this whole thing off, though it was safe to say we’d passed the point of no return when we’d stormed Rylviari’s manse and killed the acolytes who’d served as his personal servants. And Nessa.
As though Khazla’s doubt were contagious, dread rose from the pit of my stomach. While Melakor ordered the priest’s death, panic trickled through my veins, cold as the water fathoms below.
With a sudden clarity that broke through the weight of Melakor’s presence, I wondered what in the stone hells we were doing. To actually murder the high priest of the spider goddess—of the religion that dominated our entire race and had founded its greatest city—suddenly seemed unthinkable. I couldn’t help but imagine Arachnia herself crawling up from the crevasse to punish us for our hubris.
Draykon had no such qualms. Mouth set in a grim line, he forced Rylviari to his knees. The curved blade of a dagger flashed once more in the dim blue-green light. But as blood spattered the high priest’s white-gray hair and beard, all I could see was Nessa, her eyes—those kind indigo eyes—widening as Draykon’s knife opened the soft dusky skin of her throat.
As Rylviari collapsed, blood gushing, I could hear—feel—the soothing tones of Melakor’s voice, like oil atop frothing water, assuring me that this was right, that the high priest was beneath concern, that all others like him should
