This is a mistake.

Horace squinted as he ducked through the ruined doorway after Menarch Rimesh. Getting the queen to safety should have been his primary concern, but the sight of the priest escaping this death-trap of his own making had infuriated Horace. He had to be brought to justice. However, a little voice nagged in the back of Horace's head that he was only doing this because he wanted revenge for being locked down in that pit. He ignored it.

Several doors opened along the corridor. Horace started trying them all, but as he moved down the passageway, an impulse tugged at him. It drew him toward a small door farther down. Horace pushed it open. Inside, glowing orbs on the walls illuminated a narrow corridor of dressed stone. Hearing footfalls ahead, he sprinted down the hallway. He passed several doors but didn't check them. The footsteps came from ahead, or so he thought. The close walls played tricks on his hearing.

As he followed the corridor around a corner, Horace tried to ignore his shaking hands. The zoana lent him strength and clarity, but it also put his nerves on edge. He kept expecting the menarch or another Red Robe to leap at him from every shadow. Yet it was more than that. Over the past weeks all of his old assumptions had been challenged in ways he could have never anticipated. It was apparent that the Akeshians believed in their heathen gods every bit as fervently as the men and women who packed the churches of Arnos every Godsday. They were different, but they weren't evil. At least, not all of them.

Horace stopped in his tracks as he entered a large chamber with a very high ceiling. A massive golden effigy, twenty feet tall, dominated the room. The statue was of a muscular man on a throne holding a spear in one hand and a fiery ball in the other. Golden flames radiated from his high crown. This could be none other than the Sun God of the Akeshians. The thing looked like it was made of solid gold, but he couldn't believe that. The cost would have been beyond imagining.

On the other side of the chamber he found a stout wooden door, but it was locked. There was no keyhole, and he didn't have a key anyway so it didn't matter. The door felt solid enough to withstand anything less than a battle-axe. He didn't have one of those either.

Reaching out with his power to the door's stone frame, Horace winced as the effort became slightly painful. Not a sharp pain like he had injured himself, but the dull ache of an overused muscle. Gritting his teeth, he tried harder until he was rewarded with the familiar rush of energy. Cracks appeared as the stone frame flexed. A hard kick swung the door open with pieces of the lock mechanism flying off.

The chamber beyond was smallish, about ten feet on each side, with tall cabinets against the far wall. Horace took a step inside and felt a slight tickle down the back of his neck. He halted in mid-step and then stumbled back when something slammed into the other side of the door. He caught his balance against a wall and stared through the gloom, looking for the threat. A hole the size of a dinner platter had been ripped through the center of the door. Horace looked himself over but didn't find any new injuries. With a grunt, he summoned the Imuvar dominion and projected a gust of wind ahead of him. It ripped the door off its hinges and tossed it across the room. He heard footsteps rising above him to the left. A quick look revealed a case of ascending stone steps. Horace charged up them two at a time. Just as he reached the first landing, the familiar tickle itched down his spine. He jumped back just before the wall in front of him exploded in a rain of shrapnel. Horace looked up in time to see a heavyset man in red robes escaping around the next turn of the stairs. Fists clenched, Horace ran after him.

He rounded the next turn a little more cautiously and wasn't surprised when a rock the size of his head flew just inches in front of his face. It hit the wall beside him and caromed down the stairs. Horace erected a barrier of solid air in front of him as he edged around the corner. Isiratu stood on the landing above, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from a deep gash down the side of his neck, but the former nobleman didn't seem to mind it as he raised his hands. Horace glimpsed something falling from the ceiling a heartbeat before a huge piece of stone crashed down on him. His shield collapsed, holding just long enough to deflect the stone so that it missed his head by a few inches. Startled, Horace opened himself to the Mordab dominion and tried to fashion a ball of ice, hoping to distract or at least slow down the former zoanii, but instead a cold mist filled the stairway. He threw himself against the wall as Isiratu made another gesture. Another large stone dropped from the ceiling to shatter on the steps between them.

Time to fight fire with fire.

Lord Mulcibar had said that a master of the Shinar dominion was a master of all the dominions. It was time to test that theory. Horace opened his qa to the Kishargal dominion. His earlier exhaustion faded as a new strength seeped into his veins. He was suddenly aware of the stone around him—the walls, floor, and ceiling, as well as the many chips of stone scattered on the stairs. With a thought he lifted the small pieces of rock and sent them flying up at his foe. Isiratu raised his arms to protect his face, the sleeves and front of his robe shredding from the onslaught, and Horace pressed his attack. Isiratu motioned with one hand, and chunks of stone tore loose from the stairway walls, but Horace shattered them with his thoughts, one by one, as he climbed the steps.

Isiratu's face had turned purple. Blood streamed down the front of his robe from the immaculata on his neck, but he continued to fight. More rocks flew at Horace from every direction as he kept climbing toward his foe, but not a one touched him as he discovered he didn't have to shatter them all. Just by altering their paths by a couple inches, he could force them to swerve around him. Isiratu gasped as he lifted both arms to the ceiling. Larger blocks of stone rained down, but they curved away from Horace to strike the steps behind him.

“Why did you have to stay in Erugash?” Horace asked, mostly to himself. “Why couldn't you leave me alone?”

He reached out with his zoana and exploded a slab of stone as it fell. Bits of shattered rock showered over Isiratu. Horace launched a blast of air and shoved the former lord back across the landing. Isiratu struck the far wall, pressed there by the powerful wind, but still sustained his attacks, even as new immaculata spread across his face.

“I would have let you go!” Horace shouted at him. The zoana coursed through him like a mighty river. Its taste was intoxicating. “Even after the pit, I would have let you live. But you won't stop until one of us is dead!”

Isiratu made a growling sound in the back of his throat. He reached for the ceiling, and a tremor raced through the steps under Horace's feet. Cracks sprouted in the walls, spewing dust into the air. Horace braced himself for a knockout punch. Then the rain of stones ceased. Isiratu stood rigid, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Blood from his immaculata gushed from his neck and poured down the front of his robe. Then he slumped against the bands of air holding him upright, his life extinguished. Horace looked upon the man who had delivered him over to the temple, now dead by his hand, and wondered if this ending had been destined to happen from the first moment they met. He severed his connection to the magic and stepped over Isiratu's body. He wasn't finished yet.

The stairs took him up several more stories. His knees ached by the time he arrived in a large, open-sided chamber at the apex of the temple. Cyclopean stone pillars at each corner held up the domed roof, the interior of which was painted in a breathtaking mural of the Akeshian pantheon amid a starry sky. Horace peered around for the menarch. There was nowhere else he could have gone. Then he heard the soft whisper of leather scuffing across stone.

Rimesh stepped out from behind the southeastern pillar holding a long dagger. Its bare blade shone in the starlight. “I thought my mission was to purge this city of its sins and bring it under the protective aegis of Amur. But then I learned of you and I realized the corruption went deeper. You are no mere savage. You are a cancer lodged in the city's breast, spreading your destructive influence to everyone and everything you touch.” He pointed the dagger at Horace. “And the only way to stop your menace is to cut you out.”

Horace wanted to strike the priest down where he stood but suppressed the temptation. He had spilled enough blood this night. “It's over. The queen is returning to the palace, unwed and still in power.”

“For today.” Rimesh advanced, moving with the measured tread of an experienced warrior. His face betrayed no fear or apprehension. “But tomorrow or the day after, or next week, my Order will have its way. The gods have spoken.”

“The gods? You mean a sect of old men who want to rule the empire.”

“And you? You are an abomination conceived in chaos. It would have been better for the world if your mother had strangled you the day you were born.”

“I never asked for this! But now that I've—”

A scraping sound met his ears. Horace turned and fell on his side as a blast of freezing wind threw him to the floor. Two Red Robes came out from behind other pillars, flinging sorcery ahead of them. Horace rolled away from a jet of blue flame and back to his feet. Rimesh had vanished.

Horace sent a barrage of fiery embers at the sorcerers. The gusting wind scattered the embers, and more tongues of flame lapped at him. Horace reached for the Kishargal dominion again and imagined his hands grasping the stones of the floor. With a mental yank, he pulled up a dozen flagstones and threw them at the Red Robes. One sorcerer pushed out with his hands, but the stones tore through his wind shield and slammed into him. Bones crunched and blood spurted as the sorcerer fell on his back, sharp edges of stone protruding from his body. The other Red Robe flung himself away in time to avoid the deadly missiles. Horace sent a bolt of hardened air after him, but the sorcerer ducked behind a pillar before it found him.

Horace approached the southeastern pillar looking for the menarch, but the space behind it was vacant. A stone balustrade bordered the edge of the terrace overlooking the city. Horace was turning around when a vise of air seized him around the middle and lifted him off the ground. All of a sudden he became very aware of the great fall that waited over the side of the balcony. Across the chamber, two more Red Robes were coming up the stairs. One held out a clenched fist like he was squeezing an orange. Unable to draw breath, Horace delved inside himself for a solution, but his grasp on the dominions seemed to fray. Only his connection to the void held steady. He grabbed onto it like a lifeline. An inclination passed through his mind, cutting through his desperate struggle to survive. If he would just do this, then…

Visualizing a huge sword, Horace invoked the emptiness welling inside him. The power sliced down through the space between him and the approaching sorcerers. Suddenly, the force holding him evaporated, and he fell almost a full body-length to the floor. He landed hard with both feet and staggered a step before catching himself on the balustrade.

New attacks rained down on Horace, pelting him with fire and ice, with battering winds that stank of brimstone and showers of stone, but nothing got through the invisible barrier of Shinar energy he had erected. With a thought, he bent the barrier until it enclosed him on all sides. A sense of security enveloped him as his enemies continued to batter his sanctuary without success. He took a deep breath, and then he stepped away from the guardrail.

He conserved his strength and didn't counterattack as he advanced toward his enemies. Then two more Order sorcerers appeared from the stairway and joined their brethren. Their robes were fresh and pristine, not yet marked by signs of battle.

The addition of the new sorcerers halted Horace's advance. His barrier thudded from a series of heavy blows. Their magical bombardment resounded in his ears. He didn't want to contemplate what would happen if the shield collapsed. He opened a pathway to the Mordab dominion and targeted one of the new arrivals. A cloud of water vapor appeared around the sorcerer and quickly froze, encasing him in ice. As he turned his attention to another assailant, Horace felt a twinge of pain in his chest. He shunted it aside as he launched a flurry of icy orbs at his next target. He managed to keep the Order sorcerers on the defensive with quick counterattacks, but there were too many for him to defeat by himself. His connections to the dominions were shrinking as exhaustion set in, his qa growing weaker with every passing heartbeat.

“Who are you to defy the empire?” Rimesh's voice echoed off the domed ceiling from his hiding spot. “No one will mourn your death. You are an insect before the power of Amur. Insignificant. Meaningless.”

Horace flinched from the words, because he'd said them to himself in the dark of night when he was alone. Since Sari and Josef died, he'd had no purpose, no guiding star. Perhaps death would be a blessing.

A beam of moonlight shone into his eyes, making him blink. The full moon hung over the city. Its heavenly beauty stirred a memory in the back of his mind. It took him a moment to realize what it was—the innermost circle of Mulcibar's ganzir mat. The din of hostile sorcery receded from his ears as the rest of the design came to him. He could see it now, a picture of perfection with all of creation contained within its many-hued borders. Everything that existed was represented in the ganzir, from the sky and stars to the earth below and every creature under heaven. Everything was connected. He existed everywhere in the universe, and all the universe existed within him. His family was still with him, too. As long as he breathed, his love for them would never die.

As above, so below.

He opened the gates of his qa. Warm tremors radiated through his body, not the hot flashes that the zoana usually sent into his veins, but a deeper, more powerful sensation. The designs throughout the ganzir in his mind danced in ten thousand colors, each etched in argent moonlight, merging and separating as if they moved to some music he couldn't hear. Sweat trickled down his face as he poured his energy into the effort.

Something exploded against his barrier with the brightness of the sun. Sharp pain ripped through his chest. His eyes shot open. The moon was gone, replaced by a bank of thunderheads flickering with emerald-green light.

A roar filled the lightning-charged air as Jirom ran. It sprang from his own lips, originating from deep down in his bones. The rage had broken free of its cage and taken hold of him. Everything around him was stained with a red patina, every face twisted into an evil visage he longed to smash. He swung the tulwar over his head, reveling in the feel of the steel in his hands, the sweet song as it tore through the gusty air.

His gaze was focused on Hazael, who galloped through the rebel force, reaping death with every swing of his red-steel blade. Jirom ran to intercept him, but the kapikul wheeled his steed around and sped away into the lightning-etched darkness. With a curse, Jirom turned toward an Akeshian officer watching the battle on horseback. The lieutenant appeared startled when he ran up to him and swung his cavalry sword, but Jirom caught the stroke on the guard of his tulwar. Grabbing the officer's wrist, Jirom threw him to the ground.

Leaping onto the back of the tall dun stallion, Jirom grabbed hold of its chestnut-red mane and kicked his heels. The horse took off like a javelin, tearing past the rows of tents. He spotted the kapikul, galloping a dozen yards ahead of him. Jirom coaxed every ounce of speed out of his animal, slowly closing the gap. As he caught up, he leaned forward, ready to unleash the anger brewing in his heart.

Side by side they raced through the camp. Jirom swung his tulwar like an axe with heavy blows meant to crush the kapikul's defense, but the assurana sword met each strike and turned it aside. Jirom growled as a return thrust sliced across his back, but he hardly felt it. His entire being was focused on killing this foe. He leaned in for another attack, but his horse stumbled, and the swing fell short. Hazael responded with a quick slash that cut up his side, shearing away part of his leather armor and slicing into his ribs. Jirom hissed through gritted teeth as his steed righted itself. A quick glance down revealed a deep gash through the meat of the muscle. Blood poured down his side.

Hazael reined up to a sudden halt. Jirom's horse thundered past before he could get it turned around. The kapikul waited, his sword extended straight ahead in something that looked like a dueling position. Jirom kicked his heels and leaned forward as his horse accelerated. The tulwar's grip was slick in his hand. He tightened his fingers in anticipation.

Shock vibrated through his body as the two steeds collided, chest to chest, hooves flailing. Jirom tried to bat the kapikul's blade out of the way, but Hazael made a circular motion with his wrist and disengaged their weapons. Jirom found himself on the receiving end of another upward slash that he barely parried before it slit open his belly. He lashed out, and again his attack was deflected. His shoulder was getting tired, even through the fog of his rage. He could feel his attacks growing weaker. The kapikul, however, seemed as strong as ever.

When the assurana sword swung inward on a horizontal arc at chest height, Jirom dropped the tulwar and leapt from his horse. A sharp pain shot through his lower back as he crashed into Hazael. They both fell to the ground, with Jirom landing on top of the commander. The assurana sword flashed downward, but Jirom caught the wrist and wrenched it aside, and then the air exploded from his lungs as the kapikul's knee came up hard into his groin. Hazael shoved him over on his back. Jirom started to push himself to his hands and knees but toppled over with a grunt as the kapikul kicked him in his injured side. Painful jolts pierced the fog of rage clouding Jirom's mind. Hazael stumbled to his feet, grasping at the ground for something. His sword. Jirom lunged and caught the kapikul around the waist, wrestling him to the ground. Jirom's side screamed in agony as they grappled, but he held on, slowly pinning Hazael to the ground. Inch by inch he forced his foe's face down into the sand. The commander strained and kicked, but Jirom kept up the pressure, shoving his foe's nose and mouth into the loose soil until, eventually, he stopped fighting.

Releasing the limp body, Jirom rolled away. The rage curled around his brain, invading every thought. He tried to let it go, but fragments of old pains flashed before him. He saw himself as a young boy, exiled from his family, chased away with stones and spears. He recalled wandering the plains of the Zaral alone, weak and hungry and filled with shame. All the years spent fighting and killing only added to the loneliness. But then he remembered meeting Horace, and how the dark cloud that had followed him all his life had melted away, replaced by a glimmering hope that his future could be better if only he had the strength to seize it. He still wanted to believe that. It was the reason he had joined the rebel slaves and also the reason he needed to help Horace, even though those two desires seemed to be pulling him in different directions.

He slowly got to his feet. His back was cramped up, making every movement a new experience in agony. He started to look for his fallen tulwar, but then he spotted the red-gold blade sticking up out of the sand. Jirom leaned over and picked up the assurana sword. The hilt was bound in cord instead of leather, making for a softer feel, but the biggest difference was the heft. Although the blade was slightly longer than the tulwar, it weighed half as much, and he could attest to its strength.

As he stripped Hazael's body of the sword belt and scabbard, Jirom considered leaving the camp on his own. With a tired sigh, he tracked down the stallion, which had wandered among the tents, and rode back to the command pavilion.

He found Emanon leaning against a post, his sword dangling loose in his hand. The melee had ended. A dozen rebels remained standing, and a few more lay on the ground with injuries.

“You all right?” Jirom asked as he rode up.

“I'm still breathing,” the rebel captain answered with a tight smile. “What about you?”

“I'll live.”

Jirom surveyed the camp, half-expecting to see reinforcements heading their way, but the battle had moved to the east, where distant screams and the clash of arms resounded in the pauses between thunderclaps. Fires burned amid the tents where countless bodies sprawled. The storm was focused over the town, which now sported a flickering golden corona. Omikur was burning, too. He didn't wish to dwell on what the morrow would bring, no matter which side won. Death, disease, looting, and rape—the spoils of war.

Jirom dismounted. He had expected to see a congregation of the desert fighters, but the only people moving around the command tent were Emanon's rebels. He did a quick tally of the night's cost. Six dead, and a couple hurt badly enough that they would have to be carried—more than a third of their force. Yet Emanon didn't appear perturbed as he waded among the men, supervising the treatment of wounds and redistribution of gear. Jirom had the urge to go over and say something, but he held his tongue. He didn't have the words to express the turmoil brewing inside him. He was tired, right down to his bones.

When the captain gave the call to move out, Jirom followed the rebel fighters through the quiet camp, heading west.

Horace winced when the first bolt of lightning struck the temple. The second bolt hit the dome overhead with a deep boom like the ringing of a gong as large as the world. One of the stone ribs holding up the ceiling broke loose, and two sorcerers disappeared under an avalanche of rock and broken mortar. The entire floor of the chamber shook, but Horace kept his attention focused on the image in his mind. His exhaustion had fallen away, and the dark fog that had clouded his thoughts for so long was gone.

“Bring him down!” Rimesh shouted above the rumble of falling masonry.

More lightning lanced down into the city. The thunder shook more stones loose from the ceiling. The dome was fracturing, its support pillars creaking as the massive weight shifted. Rain blew in sideways and pattered on the smooth tiles. Horace concentrated and noticed that the white circle in the center of his mental ganzir was throbbing—not in a regular rhythm but sporadically. He looked out to the roiling storm clouds. The connection he always felt with the chaos storms remained, just beneath the surface of his consciousness. Was that the key? The storms and his power, they were linked somehow. He stared into the white circle, intent on discovering its secret. The way it remained steady while the other designs danced around it almost reminded him of…

The eye of a storm.

Horace did the first thing that came to mind. He flung open his pathway to the Shinar dominion and pulled with all of his will. Ravenous hunger filled him, seared his flesh down to the bones, and threatened to turn his mind inside out.

Dazzling light filled the open chamber, followed at once by a titanic crash. To Horace, it appeared as if the entire world had frozen in a tableau of green and black. Power, beyond anything he had handled before, poured into him. His lungs were paralyzed; he was unable to draw breath as the storm's energy shot through him. Every nerve in his body was on fire, but he could not scream, and the moment seemed to last forever as he soaked in more and more energy. His qa yawned open like a bottomless pit. Then it was over.

Horace gasped for air as his legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the wet flagstones. The energy hummed in his chest. Then he realized his mystic barrier was gone, and panic washed over him. He looked up, ready to continue the fight, but the sorcerers were all down on the floor. Scorch marks covered their bodies, their robes burned to ash.

Horace tried to stand. His entire body felt numb, like someone else was moving his arms and legs. Then a shout rang in his ears. Rimesh, his robes soaked and streaked with black soot, appeared from behind a pillar. The dagger gleamed in his raised fist as he charged. Horace reached for the Girru dominion and froze in shock as the power exploded inside him, surging through his body with intense heat. He launched what he intended to be a bolt of fire at Rimesh, but instead an inferno burst from his open palm. He expected to see the menarch drop to the floor as a charred corpse, but the flames curved around Rimesh without touching him. Horace accessed the Imuvar. A gale-force wind swept across the chamber, but it merely fluttered the priest's sodden robe without slowing him as if he had an invisible shield.

How in the Hell…? He's no sorcerer. Is he?

The dagger flashed. Horace fell backward. He blocked the menarch's wrist with his forearm, and the blade sliced across his upper arm instead of his throat. Horace kicked upward and was rewarded with a strained grunt as his instep connected with Rimesh's groin. He tried to shove the priest away, but Rimesh was stronger than he looked. The dagger came down again, and Horace shouted as the sharp point plunged into his left shoulder joint. The pain was fierce and immediate, shattering his concentration.

As Rimesh pulled free the blade for another strike, Horace delved into his connection to the Shinar dominion and threw everything he had at the priest, but the power couldn't find anything to latch onto. Then he noticed a chain dangling from the menarch's neck. On the end of it swayed a metal circle with twisting symbols engraved into its surface. He recognized the silvery alloy at once and knew why his magic had failed him.

The dagger came down with startling swiftness. Horace made a grab for it, but his wounded shoulder couldn't react in time. He shouted in pain as the tip of the blade struck his collarbone. Warm blood spurted across his neck and chest. He grabbed Rimesh's wrist as the dagger was turned under the bone and driven deeper, but he didn't have the strength to resist. The menarch leaned over him, white spittle dripping from his lips. Horace braced himself for the final thrust.

A fresh splash of blood showered down on him. Blinking it away, Horace looked up. Rimesh glared down at him, his face a rigid mask with the hilt of a knife protruding from his neck. Then the priest toppled over.

Alyra's mouth was a grim line as she pulled her knife free, but her lips turned up in a faint smile as she reached down her other hand to him. “I had a feeling you might need some help.”

Horace let out the breath he had been holding. He felt wrung out like a ratty old handkerchief. He grunted as Alyra shoved her shoulder under his good armpit and heaved. With her help, he managed to get back on his feet. His shoulder was killing him, and a sharp pain ripped through the center of his chest every time lightning flashed over the city.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I told you to see the queen out of the temple.”

“Her Majesty is on her way back to the palace. Oh, Horace, this is really deep.” She pressed on the wound in his shoulder. “Can you feel that?”

He swayed on his feet as the urge to pass out came and went. “Don't do that again. Listen to me. The ceiling is—”

A piece of masonry as large as a horse cart hit the floor on the north side of the chamber, shattering tiles and sending a shockwave through Horace's legs. “Get out of here!” he yelled.

Alyra steered him back to the staircase. “Not without you!”

The groan of shifting stone chased them down the steps. An ear-splitting crash resounded from the chamber they'd left behind, and Horace knew the dome supports were collapsing. He erected an umbrella of solid air over them as they rushed down the steps. The tumult of crashing stone followed them down. Mortar dust dropped from the ceiling.

By the time they reached the grand atrium, the entire temple sounded like it was coming down. Alyra pulled him out the tall doors. The sky was pitch-black. Stinging rain pelted their faces as they ran toward the main gate of the complex. Stones fell all around them, massive chunks of masonry that smashed through the pavestones and lodged deep in the earth. Horace's eyes had just started to adjust to the gloom when a bolt of vivid green lightning traced a jagged path across the sky. Thunder boomed right behind it, almost knocking them over. Horace hunched as a jolt shot through his body. It took him a moment to realize the ground was trembling. Alyra stumbled against him, and they held onto each other for balance as fist-sized stones whistled past their heads. He looked upward and wished he hadn't. The upper stories of the temple were tilted askew. Pieces of the architecture sheared away as the entire structure swayed. Biting down on his tongue, Horace moved as fast as Alyra and his legs could carry him.

We're not going to make it. We're not going to—

Horace exhaled a prayer as they reached the gate, which had been left ajar. They staggered out onto the street and turned to look behind them. The temple's upper half had sloughed away, spilling across the courtyard in a long pile of rubble that reached to the outer boundary walls of the complex. He couldn't believe his eyes, nor the fact that he had been responsible for such destruction. He thought of the pits beneath the temple's foundation and wondered how many unfortunate souls were trapped down there, but there was nothing he could do for them.

“We should go,” Alyra said.

With a nod, Horace started toward the palace with her. Lightning crackled above the city, showing with every illuminating flash that they were the only ones insane enough to be out in the storm.