Eldarien and Elmariyë both feel it: the attack is coming in a matter of days. The sense of impending danger, the darkness that flows in as if on the fringes of their consciousness and grows hour by hour—all of this and more awakens in them the conviction that they have very little time to prepare the people of the city for an attack that by its intensity shall make the assault on Ristfand pale in comparison. Sharing this word with their companions as well as with the council of Onylandun, they all set to work in preparation. As recommended, weapons are placed into the hands of every person, be they man or woman, and be the weapons sword or spear or sharpened tools of trade. Torches, too, are prepared in vast number, and placed in sconces throughout the streets and alleyways of the city, to be lit to dispel the shadows from which alone the druadach appear. Handheld torches are also given to each family, in accord with the number of persons in each household, so that none may be without light. But how can every shadow be banished from a city? Shall not a corner here or a crevice there remain, from which the enemy may take shape, and thus step into the light to assault it? They have little hope of preventing the attack, and little of controlling from whence it shall arise. The amount of unknowns that stand before them is great, uncountable, and their preparations remain founded upon guesswork or frail hopes and intuitions rather than upon the certainty of what awaits them. Yet they have no choice but to so prepare.
Eldarien approaches Cirien with his worry and with the burdensome fear that weighs upon his heart as the day of attack approaches, and the latter responds in a gentle voice, "It is impossible to cut off every avenue by which the darkness would assail the light. This is as true for the battle with the eötenga as it is for the life of the spirit in its hidden depth. But to live in fear of the darkness is to grow weak and constricted, until the heart is paralyzed by the evil that could assail it, by the evil that lies within it. It is important to be aware of the dark, and to know what ills it can bring, particularly the ills of cooperating with the inclinations to evil that, due to our fallen state, reside within us. But true freedom and hope lies only in seeking the light, responding to the light, and surrendering to the light. Only a light greater than our own can counteract the darkness, both within ourselves and outside of ourselves."
"But can the darkness be so purged that we need not fear it any longer?" Eldarien asks in response. "Is it possible for the light—not our own frail light striving in combat with the darkness, but a light greater than our own—to dispel all the lingering shadows and to grant us security and serenity in the abode of enduring light?"
With a mysterious glimmer in his eyes, Cirien asks, "What does your heart tell you?"
"My heart...my heart says that it must be so," answers Eldarien in hardly more than a whisper. "And yet my heart also says that the flames of such light, the purifying power of such radiance, demands everything in response. Only in total acquiescence, in complete surrender, can it find the room to accomplish its work in us and in our world."
"Poor indeed must one be, to be docile to the light: with open hands and open heart," Cirien says, not responding directly to Eldarien's words, but affirming them in a still deeper way. "For every clinging possession creates a shadow where the light is not allowed to shine. It dims and darkens and blinds the heart, narrowing it from the wideness for which it was made, preoccupying it with its possessiveness, with its foresight and control, and with the pleasures and passions of life. To stand poor, with heart open and vulnerable, is to suffer both pain and loss, and yet it is also to discover anew, for the first time, the true depth and breadth of the light, and its enduring strength."
"And this I must do…" sighs Eldarien.
"This you must do on behalf of all," agrees Cirien, placing his hand upon his friend's shoulder for a long moment. "I would wish that this battle were already concluded, that you could follow your course to its end. I know that it beckons you, draws you ardently from deep within. I see it and feel it."
"I wish I knew where to go, as well as the path to arrive there."
"As do I. But it shall be shown unto you. Of this I have no doubt."
"But when the time comes, and when I depart," says Eldarien, "I fear bringing my companions into a place of darkness and loss. I have been considering—"
"You have been considering going alone," Cirien says.
"Yes."
"I understand your motivation, and there is truth to what you say. In the deepest confrontation between darkness and light, each heart stands in a way alone. We each must choose for ourselves. And yet this choice, as you know so clearly in your case, is also for the sake of all. And if this is true, then this very choice is also indebted to others, and can be aided by them. We each stand alone, and yet we all stand together. Such is the mystery of this life, and such also is the paradox of this war that is being waged against us now, both in the external conflict and in the secret drama unfolding at the heart of our people, at the heart of the life of each one of us."
"What then do you suggest that I do?" asks Eldarien.
"Go not without Elmariyë," replies Cirien. "That alone can I say. Your paths flow together, and cannot be separated. For the rest, I trust the voice of your own heart, and the path that events themselves shall unfold."
† † †
The reddish glow of twilight illumines the sky as if a parting gift of beauty before the descending of the night, and the snow-clad landscape shares in this light, enfolding the city all around and sharing with it the whiteness of its pallor whose purity stands in sharp contrast with the darkness that the citizens fearfully await. Tilliana stands at a tall glass window in a hallway of the citadel, looking west and watching the last light of the sun fade from earth and sky. Every new night brings fear of the emergence of the creatures born of shadow, and Tilliana finds her heart and mind, and her very body itself, fatigued and worn to the point of breaking by the continual anxiety and expectation. She thinks of the siege of Ristfand, which has left a deep scar upon her heart which she expects shall never fully heal, and she thinks too of the loss of her family which preceded it. But her mind is not only occupied with thoughts of fear and of loss; she thinks of her friends and companions, too, and finds some solace and strength in their presence and their love. Though she must also admit to herself that the thought of them deepens her fear, not perhaps intensifying it but giving it another color, another level of intensity and seriousness. For she fears not only for herself, nor only for the people of Telmerion, the beauty of whose existence is being so cruelly caught up in the lusts of creatures of which they are unaware, but she fears also for those whom she has come to love.
It is these many currents of thought and feeling that preoccupy Tilliana now as she stands looking out at the dying of the day, and she tries to allow each to have its place, if only to yield to healing and to the guidance of the light. She thinks of Eldarien most especially now, however, and of the hopes and uncertainties of the future.
Suddenly, her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway behind her. She turns slightly to look and sees Elmariyë approaching. They share gentle smiles as a greeting and then the latter passes on, continuing down the hall. But then, after a moment of hesitation, Tilliana says, "Wait a moment, Elmariyë."
"Yes?" she turns back and looks at her friend.
"I wanted to...I wanted to share with you something that weighs upon my heart," begins Tilliana, uncertain of what precisely she wishes to say and yet knowing that she wants to say it.
"Of course," Elmariyë replies with a kind and tender expression, and she steps forward until she is close to Tilliana. Her very physical proximity brings a sense of comfort and security. "I am glad to hear any echoes, be they good or ill, light or heavy, from the heart of my dear friend."
"Yes, I...thank you," Tilliana stutters, struggling to begin. But then she finds her voice. "I don't know how to express it, or to put it into words. And much of it is not unlike what all else here feel, not only in our company but in the whole of the city. I feel like I am standing before an abyss over which there is no crossing, before a blackness that blots out all hope for the future. All that I loved in the past was torn away from me, and I was left gasping for air. But then I was given you, all of you… You are each so precious and so beautiful in your own way, that the gift of even just a single one of you would be enough to astound my heart and fill it with gratitude. But my heart also struggles to understand, and to accept, the bonds that are woven in me...woven between us. For the fibers of my heart were torn, torn so violently by the deaths of my husband and my children. And almost before I had time to grieve their loss you stepped into the void, and shortly after you Eldarien, Rorlain, and Cirien."
Seeing that Tilliana pauses, Elmariyë asks, "Do you wish that you had more time to grieve their loss in solitude?"
After thinking about this for a moment, Tilliana responds confidently, "No. That is not it at all. I think it was best this way. Yes… I don't know how well I would have been able to cope had I been alone. Perhaps I would not be standing here today were it not for the gift of your friendship."
"And I am glad that you are standing here today," remarks Elmariyë, "whatever the future may hold."
"And that...that is what worries and afflicts me so deeply." Tilliana sighs and turns back to the window, and Elmariyë joins her. Together they look out as the last bits of lingering light in the sky fade into darkness and the first stars appear in the blackness of the firmament. After a short time has passed, Tilliana turns back to Elmariyë and continues, "I am afraid that I shall lose so quickly and so totally what I was so quickly and so freely given. And I do not want such loss and such pain. But above all, I do not want to see you suffer. Eldarien and Rorlain stand face to face with the powers of darkness; they walk straight into the darkest of darks and stand in confrontation with the most destructive of dangers. And I fear that they shall not survive the conflict. I fear such for all of our people. I fear what Telmerion shall be when this war is concluded, if Telmerion as we now know it shall still exist at all." She pauses and hesitates for a moment, but, consoled and invited by Elmariyë's loving gaze, she continues. "I fear believing in any promises for the future, or leaning into any hopes, for fear that in their very birth they shall be stillborn, snuffed out like a candle in mere moments."
"You fear losing those whom you have come to love," Elmariyë responds, "and this keeps you from opening your heart fully to the promises that such love makes?"
She nods.
"There is nothing I can do to assuage such fear," continues Elmariyë. "In the heart of hope and faith alone can any one of us find the courage to love even in the face of darkness and death. But your heart yearns for it, and your very grappling is showing just how deeply you are willing to walk in fidelity to the light and to the gifts that have been given unto you. But what shall the future hold? None of us know. I cannot make promises about the future. And yet…" With this Elmariyë steps forward and takes both of Tilliana's hands within her own. She leans forward until their foreheads touch, and they stand for a long moment in this position, as if communicating, through touch, in a speech beyond words. At last, without leaving this position, Elmariyë continues in a whisper, "And yet I can assure you of the fidelity of the One who birthed the very light that draws our hearts, of the goodness of the Fashioner of love and its true safeguard. In this fidelity and goodness there is yet grounds for hope, hope not only for a fleeting moment of contact, but for light beyond darkness and life beyond death, for a love that, sharing in what is eternal, endures forever."
† † †
On the following day Cirien and Rûmdil discover the traces of the cult beneath the earth, in a sewage tunnel that passes the entire length of the lower city. Before entering, they ask Eldarien, Rorlain, and Bryma to accompany them. The entrance, or what appears to be the entrance, lies off the main line of a channel that flows from the upper city, a sewer accessed only by removing the heavy grating that lies upon it. This itself was no easy task, for the bars had long ago rusted and whatever key there had once been was lost; but finding access to the secret underground passage, this was even more difficult. Had it not been so evident that something concerning the cult awaited them there, Cirien and Rûmdil would have passed it over after the first effort.
For this tunnel is accessed only by the successful completion of a puzzle, functioning as a sort of passcode, designed likely by the persons who also etched in the weathered stone above it the same symbol that had been drawn upon the earth in the blood of the dragon's victims. A series of interlocking bricks are inlaid within the wall, each with a design upon it, or rather, with a runic word in the language of darkness, though inscribed with such geometrical shape that only someone well acquainted with the tongue and its writing would understand it. But such is Cirien, perhaps the only man who, without having any acquaintance with such cults and their activities, is nonetheless well-versed enough even in the darkness to understand their secret runes. A grievous and yet fortunate providence.
"Have any of you a piece of paper upon which I may write?" asks Cirien after a few moments inspecting the bricks and their runes.
All shake their heads or respond in the negative with the exception of Bryma, who replies, "I have a little slip of parchment, but if you intend to do calculations, you shall need to write small."
"I will try. It is better than attempting to do calculations against the stone," says Cirien, looking at the parchment, which is hardly more than four by four inches square. With it Bryma hands him a graphite stick. He immediately sets to work marking down the runes in the order in which they appear on the wall, and then turns to his companions and says, "My suspicion is that these bricks must be rearranged in a particular order—so as to form a phrase. Our task is to discern what that phrase may be."
Cirien takes a few minutes to write out the runes in their given order upon the paper given to him, and then, for another quarter hour, dwells upon them, rearranging them in his mind all the while using his fingers to calculate as best he can. The others remain at his side quietly, not wishing to disturb him but also at a complete loss as to how to aid him. At last he looks up and says, "I think I have it!" He then occupies himself in rearranging the runes in the order that he has discovered. Once this is accomplished, the bricks begin to glow with a reddish light, shifting before their beholding eyes from the runes of the dark language to the letters of the common tongue, legible to all though intelligible only to Cirien. In addition, in the center of the bricks a circular design appears, as if awaiting a simple touch to unlock the door completely. But before anything, Cirien turns to his companions and says, "That was much easier than I expected it to be. Once I was able to discern the gist of the words, my mind was able to unfold the rest of the meaning, little by little, from that seed."
"I am quite impressed," remarks Eldarien softly.
"You should not be," replies Cirien. "But either way, it is complete, though the words are not pleasant." And for a moment he turns again to look at the wall, and, looking with him, Eldarien reads:
Quandas din creshas, burgusmandur,
quandas lug demdegas, argmashkandur,
quandas Dray askandur, Anay falteandur,
lors Unas dimindur kar les shekranur
mortegs, mortegs in agronis kar terganur.
Verdrex, roga, roga promkes, lug bucha,
bur verdex capagka maxor, crynucha,
lug faltye, faltye ab eroak, eroak eg eroak.
Lugbuch gordas lug, vardas in terganur,
lors din crynucha, kar mortga jonanur.
"These words," Eldarien sighs as the realization dawns upon him, "they are the words of a bone-chilling chant that Maggot pronounced whenever I was in his custody. It was intended as a mockery, and felt as such, even though I knew not the words."
Shaking his head sorrowfully, Cirien replies, "And you were right to feel so. For I will give you the words, translated as best I can in a short moment, into our tongue, though they don't quite do justice to the succinct intensity, to the gall, of the words in the original language." He then recites:
"When the dark grows, let us all rejoice;
when the light decreases, let us all exult;
when the Draion ascend, let the Anaion falter,
let the radiance of the One diminish and shrink.
The king shall arise, arise as promised, the light bearer,
but even when his strength reaches its height, it shall be crushed;
the light shall falter, faltering to nothing, the abyss of abysses.
The lightborn bearing light shall suffer in torments,
all radiance crushed, and death shall be his reward."
For a moment the impact of these words hits Eldarien almost like a physical blow and knocks the breath out of him. He feels their force directly, and becomes aware in a single moment both of the fact that the Draion have long known of the coming of a promised king and also that they have had every intent to destroy him. As he opens his mouth to stammer out some response, he is interrupted by Rorlain, who says, "Well, that is not encouraging in the least. But I suppose we could have expected nothing less."
"Indeed," says Cirien, placing a consoling hand on Eldarien's shoulder. "Try not to dwell on it overmuch. I would not take it as a prophecy or an assurance, however frail, of the future. It is but the resentment and hate of creatures who have become so corrupted from their original purpose that they know nothing but hatred and envy."
To this Eldarien nods and says, "Yes, you are right. I shall try to do precisely that. But come, let us press forward. The way is now open." And with this he places his palm against the center of the wall and here the stones part, opening to either side like two sliding panels and revealing a hidden passage beyond. Without further delay they enter this passage, narrow and dark, guided by the light of the torch that Cirien carries, and lit from behind by a like torch in the hand of Rûmdil. The walls are of rough-cut stone overgrown with moss and lichen, and even apart from the sewer that lies now behind them the air is damp—and cool, though in contrast with the wintry temperatures above ground it feels warm in comparison. For perhaps a hundred yards the passage continues without deviation until, without any prior indication, it widens and opens out into a vaulted chamber with a ceiling fifteen or twenty feet high and a good forty across in both directions.
"Whatever was once done here, it looks to have been brought to an end," remarks Cirien, "for it is dark, and the air hangs heavily, as if no one has been here in a long while."
"I would not interpret the evidence in such a way so easily," says Bryma. "The air is heavy because we are below ground, and because we stand so close to the sewer. The very walls seem to bear the weight of the city, and to cry out in turmoil with its mass, and in protest against its refuse."
"But it is dark nonetheless, and thus it seems currently unoccupied," Rorlain says. "Are there any further chambers beyond this one?"
Sweeping his torch in a wide motion in order to allow its light to play upon the floor and the walls, Cirien is silent for a moment, thinking and inspecting, and then he says, "There are lamps upon the walls, though unlit. Let us take advantage of their light, so that we may better see."
And so Rûmdil and Cirien do, until the room is bathed in the warm and flickering light of more than a dozen mounted lanterns, and all is unveiled to sight with the exception of the center of the chamber, which, being so far from the walls, remains mostly in shadow. The room, however, is almost entirely empty, with the exception of a few benches turned at odd angles, and yet all set as if to give a clear view either of the outermost walls of the chamber or of the center—the benches not having backs—it is impossible to tell which. There are also bookshelves at three different locations along the walls, containing various texts both in the common tongue and in the dark language that only Cirien knows. As for decorations, there are none, not a drawing or an inscription, but only lifeless stone sitting as if long dead in suffocation and in waiting. And there is no exit from the chamber except the same passage by which they entered.
"The room is an exact circle, is it not?" Rorlain asks, looking around in the newfound light.
"It does seem so," agrees Cirien. And with a deep sigh, he adds, "And that is only fitting if it is the secret lair of the cult of The Cycle."
"I really think we confront more than that," Eldarien interjects. "Those whom we encountered did not speak at length of the 'cycle.' It seems to me, in fact, that the thing in which they placed their hope, that which held their belief, was something toward which the cycle was ordained as to an end. They believed not in The Cycle as we believe in the truths revealed to us by our Maker, and cared for by the Anaion in whose hands is the life of the world. No, it seems to me that they worshiped a power yet darker and more irrational—one who, possessing superior reason, yet uses it to lead human hearts into a fascination with the absurd, with power and its capacity to use any violence to achieve its ends." Then, turning to Cirien, he extends his hand and asks, "Could I hold your torch for a moment?"
After Cirien gives it to him, Eldarien steps toward the center of the room and holds out the torch so that its light falls full upon the shadows that yet obscure their gaze. Before them, what was hidden is now made visible: a raised dais with rivulets carved upon its smooth stone surface, rivulets in the shape and the runes of the Cycle.
"It is the same as we beheld above, drawn in blood," says Cirien. He steps forward and crouches down to inspect the dais more closely. "This is clearly an altar. The stone is yet stained with traces of blood. See here, the rivulets flow down into a channel around the dais, and then...below. It looks like there may be some storage-place, some chamber beneath us, into which the blood of sacrifices was allow to flow and collect." Then he stands and looks warily at his companions. "For a long time, it seems, has this kind of cultic practice been festering beneath the city. It is as if they wished to stain her very heart, or at least her very bowels, with blood."
"What do you make, Cirien, of Eldarien's comment?" Rûmdil asks. "I understand your references to The Cycle, and this image, reappearing now, is clearly associated with it. But… But it does seem to me that there is something in their practice and their aspiration that drives them still more deeply, and the sense of 'being trapped,' of longing for escape, that the cycle represents is but more fuel to the flame of this longing and this anguish."
Cirien draws in a deep breath and says, without any hesitation in his voice, "Of course, he is right. I never intended to imply otherwise."
For a long moment no one speaks, as each man inspects the chamber, feeling the burden of its evil, the sickness that lies within it like a virus. But then Eldarien speaks, "Look, there is a blackness here, in the center, which is not amenable to light." When the others have gathered around, he waves the torch as close as he can to the center of the dais without himself touching it, and yet its light is unable to touch the heart of the design, the middle of the circle. Instead, there is something like an impenetrable shadow, a place of utter blackness, which refuses the light.
"What about the light of Hiliana?" Rorlain asks.
Eldarien turns and looks at his friend for a moment, his face conflicted, but then he nods silently. With a simple gesture, he raises his free hand and turns it toward the place of blackness, palm open, and a moment later a steady stream of bluish light breaks forth from his flesh and shines upon the dais. It seems to enter into conflict with the shadow at its center, almost like a battle of two fighters, of two forces, is being enacted, and the visible light and darkness are only reflecting this encounter. But only a moment later there is a brilliant flash of light bursting forth from the center of the dais, and all of the men spontaneously step backward in surprise. The light returns into Eldarien's hand and then all returns to normal, illumined only by the flickering light of the torches.
"I fear…" he begins, breathing heavily, "I fear that I have awakened something. Get away from the dais. Now."
They have hardly enough time to react before the shadow turns into a mist, not white or gray but black, deeper than the deepest night and darker than the darkest shadow. It spreads from the dais so quickly that the men have hardly taken a few steps before it engulfs them in itself, bringing the light of the torches to naught and immersing them in complete blackness. But as if the darkness was not enough, something stirs before them. They feel it even before they hear it: a groaning as if of a creature long asleep, and raspy breath, and the unfurling of wings.
A moment later Rorlain whispers, his voice constricted by conflict and fear, "I shall give enough light that we may see," and the blue light now radiates from where he stands, both hands extended, and it pushes back the blackness enough that the men may see the creature that stands before them. Whatever they had expected, it was not this. For the entity that they behold resembles neither the druadach nor the dragon, nor any creature that they have seen before, any more than all living things bear a resemblance to one another since composed of like parts. It appears as a creature of flesh, and yet its flesh looks more like shadow given form than like a solid substance, or perhaps like stone come to life by an excess of heat. Six arms it has, extending forth from a body that seems to perpetually change its shape at every moment, such that the true nature of the creature can never be clearly seen. And above it all extend two wings with a span of more than twenty feet, wings whose sinews are of a similar enfleshed blackness, though the folds of them seem to be composed of solid flame, burning red, though consuming light rather than emitting it. It is a creature of paradox and absurdity, whose very appearance seems to assault both their senses and their minds and to force them into submission.
Raising its wings until they touch the ceiling above, the creature lets out a bellowing roar that sounds like two stones of immeasurable weight and size grinding against one another with the force of giants. For a few long moments none of the men are able to hear anything, and they fear that their hearing capacity has been broken by the intensity of the sound. But gradually hearing returns and they are able to make out, not only their own heavy breathing and the anguished beating of their hearts, but a voice coming from the creature, in similar, but subdued, tones.
"Lugbuch gordas lug, you come here with failing hopes and faltering strength, and you seek to set yourself against forces far beyond you." The beast faces Eldarien directly, though its gaze seems somehow to spread out to pierce the hearts of all the men alike, instilling in them a paralyzing terror. "Were I one to pity, I would pity you, and yet there is barely a thought or feeling farther from my mind than that. You have come face to face already with two of my kind, and they toyed with you for but a short while. I intend, however, to immerse you in unending torment."
It pauses now, as if to draw in breath, though it does not breathe, nor have need of it. Instead, the moment serves only to deepen the dramatic effect, as if a deliberate flourish in an oration meant to draw the listening crowd still more deeply into the spell that the speaker weaves with his words. When the creature speaks again, its voice is almost soft, like a whispered seduction into the ears of the heart, stirring lust, or like a lie that seeps in to cause doubt and confusion and shame. And much is said then, to each man uniquely, which no mortal words can express even distantly—yet not because this voice speaks with such purity and simplicity, such depth and wisdom, that man only in the radiant lightness of his inmost heart can surrender to it. No, the subtlety of this voice is of a kind far different than the softness of the divine voice; it is rather the opposite, snaking its way into mind and heart under the cover of shadow, to work wickedness in the darkness, for fear of the light and in hatred of the light.
"Lord of Worms and Lord of Mæres," it says at last, as the disparate strands of its voice weave together again into a crescendo of sound that speaks to all alike, leaving their attention as though rapt with submission and yet drained of all presence, recollection, and resistance. "Both have crossed your path. Or rather, you have crossed upon theirs for but a little while. But I am greater than both, and I carry on what they cannot do. They serve me, and I serve none. They have their tasks, petty filth, and they shall wreak what havoc they may in the domain allotted to them. I suspect that you shall not meet the one called Maggot again, for his pleasures lie elsewhere, and he prefers to torment those who are already far from the light." The creature then laughs a sinister laugh that is both deep and shrill, causing the stones of the chamber to quake. "And the Lord of Mæres...his day has passed. His pleasure lies in the nightmares of men, and what he once did in the world, stirring up war and strife, occupies him no longer. All those hordes of beasts fashioned by his own ingenuity, he cares little for them now… He taught us much in those days, but he now gives hardly a thought to external warfare and destruction. He is an untrustworthy ally in conflict, following his fetish without thought or care. But I take up now the mantle that he laid down, or rather, I take thought of what he has forgotten, and I make it new, and all my own...so much better than he had ever dreamed in that ceaseless dreaming that is his."
"Y-you are the one who has been fashioning the eötenga?" Eldarien manages to say, though his voice is hoarse and strained with the effort.
"I thought that is what I just said," the creature responds, "though many have also lain dormant for centuries, only to be awakened again. And you aided in this, did you not, stirring up what had been slumbering? Well, old and new shall join together now to be your living nightmare, and the nightmare of all who seek to abide in the realm of light and life."
Forcing a step forward, Rorlain also opens his mouth to speak, and says, "Give us your name, monster."
"Oh, another finds it in himself to resist the sweetness of my discourse? But I shall answer you, in a way. You must know that among my kind, the possession of another's name gives power. You weak mortals and your petty gods speak names in love, but we speak them in possession. In this lies our delight and our strength. My name, then, you shall never know. But my title, that I gladly give. I am called the Lord of Death, and only one stands above me, the very Lord of Darkness whose name none can utter, though they all fear it and experience it haunting the recesses of their fragile and fear-filled souls. The Lord of Death—death, that is my domain and that is my direction. Surely you have glimpsed the delightful destruction that I have already worked in the very heart of this city? Poor Bryma, such a pitiful ruler," he says, turning slightly so that his gaze falls more directly upon the hæras of Onylandis. "You have stood over these people for so long, and yet you were unaware of the illness festering underneath the surface. They have given me power, and given me substance, through their worship, their devotion, and their sacrifice. And how much pleasure I took in their blood, as much as in the corruption of their hearts. It is a cycle that I deigned to establish—or so a cycle it seemed unto them. But I know the deeper truth. They thought in circles, and so came to seek escape. But I think in a straight line, from birth unto death...and death I seek. Yet dissolution of mortal flesh is not enough for me. Oh no, you shall all know, soon enough, in what consists my true delight and the object of my affections." The beast emits a sound as though in mockery, and then concludes, "We have delayed long enough with petty mortal speech. Let me show you in the coming days the true nature of my voice, and the depth of my power."
With this the Lord of Death lets out a tremendous howl like the roaring of thousands of beasts, and the entire chamber shakes so violently that the men fear that it shall collapse upon their heads. The air around them, too, begins to vibrate and glisten as with currents of flame or jolts of electricity, and through their bodies flow waves of incredible pain. But they are unable to react, so overwhelmed are their minds and their senses by the terror and dismay that assault them in the presence of this lord of darkness. And yet a moment later, as if by instinct, the eyes of Eldarien and Rorlain interlock, and then together they open what hidden depths of their hearts still remain open to the light, and call it forth. In an instant of intense confrontation flames and darkness burst forth from the Lord of Death, as if his very bodily form has imploded by the force of the power that it concealed within it. The walls and ceiling of the chamber burst by the impact, stone splitting as if tiny pieces of sand or mud under the fingers of a mischievous child; and yet the divine light springs forth in the same moment and enfolds the five men as in globes of radiance, and the flames of the explosion and the sinews of the darkness curl around this light, licking at it and yet finding no access beyond it. And in the next instant, all the flames and darkness are gone, and the presence of the Lord of Death has for the moment departed. Instead, the men stand, shaking and exhausted, in a crater in the earth with open sky above them.