Makala continued to huddle on the floor, her back to Diran. 'Put out that damned light!' she shouted. 'Let me do what has to be done!'
Cathmore continued to grin at Diran, but his voice took on a cold edge. 'You can't save her. She's a killer at heart… just as you are. No matter how much you try to deny your true nature, it will always come to the fore, one way or another. The Diran Bastiaan I trained as a boy was too intelligent not to recognize such a basic fact about himself. Forget your friends and your pathetic excuse for a religion. Become once more who you truly are.'
Cathmore took a step toward him, and his grin fell away. His voice was completely devoid of emotion as he continued, almost as if Cathmore wasn't speaking, but someone-or something-else was.
'I'm old, Diran. Not many years remain ahead of me. When I die, the spirit inside me will need a new home. You gave up your dark spirit some time ago, Diran, but it's not too late to return to the way things were.'
Cathmore took another step forward.
'You can become the new host for my spirit, and you don't have to wait for me to die… we can make the transfer now.'
Confusion, fear, and anger warred in Cathmore's gaze as he spoke, and Diran understood what was happening.
'It's not you talking now, is it, Cathmore? It's your dark spirit, desperate to find a new host before you die and it's forced to return to whatever foul netherworld spawned it. How does it feel to know that at the end of your life, the spirit you've relied on for so many years cares no more for you than a sea rat cares for a sinking ship?'
A wave of vertigo hit Diran. The Proving Room shimmered and grew blurry before disappearing altogether. When the dizziness passed, Diran found himself in a large cavern, his adult self once again. Makala had also been restored to her true age, though she still crouched with her back to Diran to hide from the light of the silver flame blazing in his hand. Diran took a quick look around and saw his companions were present as well-Ghaji fought with Chagai, axe against sword, while Yvka looked on; Tresslar and Asenka huddled close together, as if to protect one another from some unseen threat; and Hinto and Solus stood before a glowing crystalline structure that Diran knew had to be the creation forge which had birthed Solus. Inside stood Cathmore's kalashtar ally, screaming as blood poured from numerous wounds to his face and neck. Crystal shards of varying sizes were embedded in the man's ravaged flesh.
Diran wasn't certain how they'd all ended up in the cavern. Perhaps the kalashtar had used his mind powers to direct them to come here, and they had no memory of doing so. It didn't matter. All that was important was that Solus had triumphed over the kalashtar and broken the man's hold over all of them.
All at once the kalashtar stopped screaming, his eyes went wide, and the light emanating from the crystalline structure began to fade. The kalashtar held onto a single crystal ring that hovered in the air above him, but he released his grip on the ring and fell to his knees. Diran thought the man was going to die, but he remained on his knees, staring blankly, a thin line of drool running from a corner of his mouth.
Diran turned to Cathmore.
'It's over. You've lost.'
Cathmore's gaze was clear, and Diran knew his dark spirit had returned control to the master assassin. The old man looked uncertain, as if he couldn't bring himself to believe what had happened, as if he were hoping that this was another of the kalashtar's illusions that any moment would be dispelled to reveal that he, Cathmore, was the ultimate victor.
Diran closed his hand, extinguishing the silver fire he'd brought into existence. He then drew a pair of steel daggers and flipped them into throwing position.
'Surrender or die, Cathmore. Your choice.'
Cathmore's uncertainty faded and was replaced with cold hatred. 'I'll never surrender to you.'
Makala grabbed Cathmore from behind.
'That's just what I wanted to hear,' she said.
Before Diran could stop her, she bared her fangs and sank them into Cathmore's neck.
Diran had no choice. He hurled his daggers.
Ghaji ducked just in time to avoid Chagai's swing, though from the way Yvka gasped as the broadsword passed over his head, Ghaji had come within a few hairs of losing his scalp. Though he was in an awkward position, Ghaji swung his axe at Chagai's unprotected side. He knew his weapon probably wouldn't penetrate Chagai's enchanted mail shirt, but he hoped the impact would at least break a couple of the bastard's ribs.
Before his axe could hit Chagai, the night-shrouded valley vanished, and Ghaji saw they stood inside a large cavern. The sudden change of scenery distracted Ghaji, causing him to angle his axe head upward so that the flat of the weapon struck Chagai in the side instead of the edge. There was still plenty of strength behind the blow however, and the breath gusted out of Chagai's lungs as the impact sent him stumbling to his right.
Ghaji wondered what had happened to break the illusion of the night valley, and whether it meant good or ill for him and his companions, but he knew he didn't have time to be concerned with such matters now. Twenty years ago he'd allowed Chagai to live, and that was a mistake he intended to rectify.
He stood, willing his axe to ignite, and he was gratified to see flames flare to life around the elemental weapon.
Chagai regained his balance and turned back to face Ghaji, bringing his broadsword around for another strike. Ghaji ran forward, gripped the flaming axe in both hands, and raised it high over his head.
'This is for Ruelo and his family!' Ghaji shouted.
Chagai's eyes widened as Ghaji brought his fire-flecked axe blade down and split the orc's skull in two.
'Soon… Soon… Now!' Nathifa commanded.
Skarm didn't hesitate. He leaped from the cloak of darkness, donned wolf form, and dashed across the cavern floor toward the white-bearded artificer.
As much as Tresslar wanted to believe that he was responsible for ending the psionic illusion they'd been trapped in, he knew he had nothing to do with it. Still, he was pleased that his notion for defeating Paganus had worked, even if only in an illusion. Tresslar had answered a question that had nagged at him for forty years, and how many people were fortunate enough to receive an opportunity like that? There was no time for such idle thoughts: just because the illusion had ended didn't mean the danger had.
Gripping his dragonwand-and wasn't he glad to have it back? — he turned to Asenka.
'Are you hurt?' he asked.
The Sea Scorpion commander looked dazed, but she shook her head, appearing none the worse for wear.
Tresslar glanced around the cavern, hoping to determine what was happening and where he might be needed.
A gray shape came streaking at him from the cavern's shadows. Tresslar was still somewhat disoriented from having been in the grip of illusion, and so he hesitated, unsure whether the wolf running at him was real or not.
The beast leaped, closed its mouth around the dragonwand, and tore the magic weapon out of Tresslar's hand. The wolf raced away toward a stairwell at the far end of the cavern, and though Tresslar thought it might be his imagination, he swore he saw a dark form trailing the creature, as if one of the cavern's shadows had decided to break loose and accompany the beast. Then the wolf entered the stairwell, and the dark shape-assuming it truly existed-vanished as well.
Tresslar stared in stunned amazement. For four decades he'd possessed the dragonwand, using it during his voyages with Erdis Cai, then concealing it during his lengthy tenure on Dreadhold, and now, after all those years, it was gone.
The blades Diran threw were made of steel, not wood or silver, and thus would not cause Makala any serious injury, but he wasn't aiming for Makala.
The first dagger struck Cathmore just above the throat apple, while the second slid into the master assassin's left eye socket, penetrating deep into the brain. Cathmore stiffened as blood gushed from his wounds, then he fixed his remaining eye on Diran and slowly smiled with trembling lips. The smile fell away, the eye glazed over, and Cathmore died. The master assassin went limp, but he did not fall, for Makala had hold of him from behind, her head at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, her mouth pressed to the side of his throat as she drank the dead man's blood.
Diran prayed that he'd been fast enough. For the moment Makala's fangs had pierced Cathmore's neck, she'd
