we set foot on the third step.” She smiled. “Besides, Quellin would have a fit if you left it lying on the floor or worse, brought it with you.”
Diran slid the volume back into its proper place on the shelf then followed Makala through the doorway. As soon as Makala’s foot touched the third step from the top, the door-shelf began to swing closed. There was no light in the stairwell, and when the door closed all the way, they were left in complete darkness.
“Too bad I don’t have a lantern on me,” Diran said.
“We don’t need any light. The way is safe and we don’t have far to go. There’s no railing, but it helps if you put both hands on the walls as you go down.”
He heard Makala’s footfalls as she started down the stairs. As she’d advised, he stretched out his arms, touched his hands to the walls on either side of him, and followed. Diran counted the steps, something that had been ingrained in him by Emon’s training. After the thirteenth step they reached the bottom.
Makala’s hand found his in the darkness and she gave him a gentle squeeze.
“We have but a short hallway to cross, then we’ll reach another door. I can’t tell you what lies behind it, but I can tell you this: be strong.”
Diran felt her lips brush his, then she released his hand and started down the dark hallway. After only a second’s hesitation, Diran followed. Twenty steps later, he caught up to Makala. He heard the click of a door latch, then bluish-white light spilled into the hallway. Diran squinted to keep his eyes from being dazzled after walking through total darkness. He didn’t close them all the way, though. He’d been trained better than that.
The light was soft but enough to reveal the details of the hallway, the open door, and Makala, who stood in the doorway, a solemn expression on her face. The hall was made of gray stone, the door oak with thick iron bands around the edges. Diran knew this place lay beneath Emon Gorsedd’s home, but as to what it was, Diran hadn’t a clue. He’d never heard anyone speak of an underground chamber, had never suspected its existence.
He looked at Makala for some hint as to what he should do next, but she just continued looking at him without expression. No real help there, but then, he supposed he didn’t need any. He walked past Makala and through the open doorway.
Inside was a large chamber with smooth rounded walls and a domed ceiling. Light came from globes of mystic energy that hovered in the air near the walls. Curved wooden risers lined the walls on both sides of the chamber, and sitting on them were men and women, all looking at him with the same impassive expression Makala had worn. Many of the people were unfamiliar to Diran, but there were many that he recognized. All of them were older than he-some quite a bit so-and all of them were Emon’s “children,” as the warlord liked to call them: assassins who plied their trade for whatever clients Emon chose. Emon himself sat among them on the right side of the room, front row, center. There was an empty place beside Emon, and Diran had a good notion whom it was reserved for. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard the door close, then Makala walked past him and sat down next to Emon. The master assassin, unlike all the others, didn’t affect a neutral expression. He was smiling broadly, looking for all the world like a proud father.
In the center of the chamber was a large obsidian table. The blue-white light of the mystic globes gleamed off its highly polished surface, making the table seem to glow with its own internal power. There were runnels carved along each side, and Diran didn’t want to guess what they were for.
Standing behind the table was the librarian Quellin, though instead of his normal tunic and leggings he wore a hooded black robe. The old man usually displayed little emotion other than irritation or impatience, but the eyes beneath his bushy white brow shone with eager anticipation, and the mouth set in the midst of his full ivory beard was stretched into a dark smile. It was the first time Diran could remember seeing a smile of any kind on the librarian’s face, but the most striking feature in the chamber lay behind Quellin. It was an altar that rose nearly to the ceiling, carved out of the same black stone as everything else in the chamber. Six figures rose from the altar’s base, the statues rendered in crude detail, but no less recognizable for it. These were stone images of the Dark Six, gods of foulness and evil all: the Devourer, the Fury, the Keeper, the Mockery, the Shadow, and the Traveler. As with the table, the light from the globes played across the statues, gathering within their eyes and making it seem as if the Six were alive and staring at Diran, curious to see what he would do next.
No doubt the sensation the statues were watching him was solely due to his own imagination, but there were plenty of real eyes looking at him, Makala’s and Emon’s among them. Diran stepped toward the table and stopped when he reached it. He assumed he’d done the right thing, for Quellin’s smile grew wider and more sinister. Quellin spoke, his voice pitched at normal volume but nevertheless echoing throughout the chamber.
“Diran Bastiaan, welcome to the Chamber of Joining. Today you will take your last step toward becoming a full member of the Brotherhood of the Blade.” Quellin gestured toward the obsidian table. “Lie down.”
Diran knew better than to ask what would happen if he refused. He would be slain, perhaps even by Emon himself, but Diran didn’t want to refuse. Though he didn’t know what this ritual might require of him, whatever it was, it would be worth it to at last be accepted into Emon’s brotherhood. He climbed on top of the obsidian table and lay down. There was a smooth depression for the back of his head, and the cold, hard table made Diran feel as if he were a corpse laid out on a slab.
Quellin stepped around the table and stood by Diran’s head. “Today you are going to receive a great gift, Diran Bastiaan. After this day, you shall be stronger than ever before, your mind will be clearer, your senses sharper, your resolve more firm and your heart cold as frost-covered steel. After this day, you shall never again be alone.”
Obviously Quellin was much more than a simple librarian and scholar, Diran thought. Was he a wizard? A priest? A deluded madman? He supposed the next several moments would tell the tale.
Quellin turned and faced the ugly statues on the black stone altar. “We do the work of the Six, and to help us serve Them more efficiently, They imbue us with a small measure of Their own majestic darkness.” The old man turned back to Diran. “You have been deemed worthy of being granted the gift of the Dark Six, Diran. Do you accept it of your own free will?”
A part of Diran, perhaps the deepest part of him, wanted to say no, but the word that came out of his mouth was, “Yes.”
“Excellent,” Quellin said, almost hissing the world. He turned back to the altar and lifted his hands over his head.
“Here me, oh Six! Your servant comes before You once more and asks that You crack open the Gates of Oblivion and permit Your shadows to join with this willing vessel. Diran Bastiaan has proven himself worthy. Under his master’s tutelage, he has become a strong, swift, and cunning killer. All he lacks now is the touch of Your dark hands. I beseech You, reach out to this youth and grant him the fell blessing I ask, so that he might walk the face of this world as small reflection of Your own magnificence!”
As Quellin intoned his prayer, Diran had the impression of darkness gathering, pooling thickly around the base of the table, manifesting as a tarry black substance. The chamber grew colder, so cold that his breath came out as curling wisps of mist. Quellin stepped around to the table’s side, and Diran was able to look at him without craning his neck. The elderly man leaned closer and whispered, “Whatever you do, do not resist.”
Quellin straightened, reached between the fold of his robe and took out one of the daggers that hung from his belt. The old man pressed the blade’s hilt into Diran’s right hand.
“Two clean, quick cuts, one on each wrist,” Quellin said, “not too deep, but enough to open the arteries. Once you’ve made the cuts, return the dagger to me, then place your bleeding wrists into the runnels carved into the sides of the table. Do you understand?”
Diran nodded and felt the familiar sensation of a dagger hilt resting in his right palm. He closed his fingers around it then hesitated. If he did as Quellin commanded, he might well bleed to death, but if he didn’t do it, then he certainly would be killed for his defiance. He turned his head and looked at Emon and Makala. The master assassin was still smiling, but Makala’s face remained expressionless, as did those of all the others nearby. Then Makala gave him a wink and he knew that, whatever was about to happen, it was going to be all fight.
He was surprised by how little it hurt to make the cuts.
Quellin took the knife, and Diran lay back, putting his arms in the runnels as he’d been told. Seconds went by without anything happening as he slowly bled out his life’s blood onto the obsidian table, but then he sensed the darkness pooled around table’s base become alert, almost scenting the air like an eager hound. He felt it sliding up the side of the table, ebon tendrils probing as it came. He looked down at his feet. The runnels ended in shallow basins at the foot of the table, and the blood flowing from his opened veins had already filled them halfway. Dark
