Dark Innocence: The Star-Seer's Prophecy, #1

The Star-Seer’s Prophecy

When the Wanderers

form the Dire Cross

under the Firebird’s wings,

sorcery and murder

must give him life.

He must be abandoned.

May we be forgiven!

Star-cursed, twin-souled,

knowing only evil, pain and ice,

the dark innocent

is our salvation.

He must be betrayed.

May we be forgiven!

Through three hells,

through blissful heaven

and its loss,

he surrenders all

yet never yields.

He must be forsaken.

May we be forgiven!

Hollowed by suffering and evil,

Hallowed by expiation and submission,

the Vessel of the Goddess is created.

We must ensure his Fate.

May we be forgiven!

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

Kyr, the hero of this story, lived in my imagination for many years. Eventually, I was ready to listen to him. In telling me his story, he took me on a harrowing, magical journey, turning me from a psychotherapist into a writer along the way.

From one angle, it seems that my whole life was preparation to be brave enough to let his story flood forth, unhindered. My own healing journey, and my work as a therapist, was part of the preparation. Learning to trust the darkness—the mysteries of the unconscious and of Spirit—was another necessary element.

Delving bravely into the unknown within—listening to the subtle hints, giving voice or form to dream spirits and hidden parts of the psyche—allows for profound healing, and the blossoming of the radiant light within each soul. Wishing to share what I have learned on my journey, I originally thought I might write a self-help book or a memoir. But what emerged—unplanned and in a creative, passionate torrent—was this fantasy trilogy, The Star-Seer’s Prophecy. Then came ten years of learning to actually write fiction, and of revising and editing, all of which has been fascinating and enjoyable.

Why put the healing journey of Dark Innocence and its sequels, Difficult Blessings, and Dangerous Bliss, in the form of a fantasy? Because fantasy has long been one of the ways that we tell profound, soul-awakening truths, starting with myths, legends, and fairy tales, and continuing with many modern fantasy novels.* But the truth is that I had no choice, since Kyr inhabits an ancient world of blood sorcery and ritual magic, where good people struggle with impossible choices, and sometimes emerge from their ordeals as artists, leaders or wise healers.

Although this is a fantasy, it is not for children or the faint-of-heart. It deals with evils such as torture, rape and murder, and with the difficult emotional aftermath of one who has both suffered and inflicted great harm. However, the main focus of the book is on the amazing capacity we humans have to recover our true essence from the darkest of ordeals; to retrieve the light of our souls from the depths of despair; and to heal and transform ourselves into LightBearers, bringing hope to the world. This I have witnessed many times in my work with my clients, and in myself. This is what Kyr’s story is truly about.

And so I invite you to join Kyr on his arduous and poignant journey from the torments of evil, pain, and remorse to the blessings of healing, love, and enlightenment. Allow yourself to be touched by his plight and his bravery; to discover what resonates with your own journey; and perhaps to be healed and inspired by his story. I hope you enjoy this story of mystery and intrigue, courage and endurance, secrets and forbidden love. May it live in your heart as it has lived in mine, and become one of the books you return to over time, deepening your experience of yourself as well as of the story.

Rahima Warren

June 2011

* Wonderful, powerful writers who write deep and beautiful fantasy literature include J.R.R. Tolkien, Ursula K. LeGuin, Patricia McKillip, Carol Berg, Charles De Lint, Lynn Flewelling, and Sherri S. Tepper, to name a few of my favorites.

Book One:

Dark Innocence

When will you learn, O mind,

to sleep in perfect comfort

between the captivating lovers,

holiness and defilement?

Only when you can keep

these two consorts peaceful

beneath a single roof

will you truly encounter

the brilliance of the Goddess.

Ramakrishna, translated by Lex Hixon

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One — Fall from Darkness

Chapter 1 — The Soul-Drinker

Chapter 2 — The Rod and the Collar

Chapter 3 — The Crown

Chapter 4 — Sojourns in Hell

Chapter 5 — Strange Deliverance

Chapter 6 — Perilous Night

Part Two — Strange Awakening

Chapter 7 — A Different Strangeness

Chapter 8 — Dark Moon Fire

Chapter 9 — Webs of Light

Chapter 10 — Puzzle of Kindness

Part Three — Perilous Light

Chapter 11 — Strange Punishment

Chapter 12 — Ordinary Light

Chapter 13 — Painful Beauty

Chapter 14 — Dangerous Innocent

Chapter 15 — Falling into the Light

Part Four — Journey to the Heart

Chapter 16 — Following the Hard Path

Chapter 17 — Heart of the Forest

Chapter 18 — Fateful Healing

Chapter 19 — One Death Too Many

Chapter 20 — Enemy of the Heart

Part Five — Relentless Compassion

Chapter 21 — Path to Penance

Chapter 22 — Reaching Sanctuary

Chapter 23 — Shards of Laughter

Chapter 24 — Silent Stories

Chapter 25 — Her Dark and Spacious Heart

Chapter 26 — The Last Victim

Part Six — Mistakes and Secrets

Chapter 27 — Dreams Dark and Precious

Chapter 28 — Naran’s Mistake

Chapter 29 — Jolanya’s Secret

Chapter 30 — Lost

Chapter 31 — Field of Rage and Laughter

Chapter 32 — Found

Part Seven — Crucible of Healing

Chapter 33 — A Grace of Courage

Chapter 34 — Fires Dark and Bright

Chapter 35 — Immaculate Desire

Chapter 36 — Dangerous Ice

Chapter 37 The Price of Fulfillment

Chapter 38 — The Difficulty of Loving the Divine

Part Eight — Shadows of Love

Chapter 39 — Haunting Grace

Chapter 40 — Acceptance

Chapter 41 — Gifts of Friendship

Chapter 42 — Revelations and Secrets

Chapter 43 — Hallowing Fire

Glossary

Author’s Afterword

Resources

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Excerpt from Book Two: Difficult Blessings

See A Cast of Characters

Prologue

T

wo boys, one raven-haired, the other blond, raced pell-mell down a dusty summer hillside toward a sprawling grey stone building beside a large, sparkling lake. Other than the color of their hair, the boys were almost identical. They made a beeline for the well in the kitchen yard. Their race ended in a flurry of pushing and shoving, making it hard to tell who had arrived first.

I won! I beat you, Lani! The raven-haired boy danced around the well, his blue eyes alight with boyish glee. He was a bit taller and brawnier than his twin.

Did not! I touched the well first, Jani!

Wash up now and no dawdling. Their mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Your grandmother is here, and dinner is almost ready.

Lani grabbed the bucket on its rope and threw it hard down the well, hoping to make the water splash high. But he was disappointed: the level was too low to make for a good spray. Still, together, he and his brother cranked the handle and drew up the water-laden bucket.

The twins hastily washed their hands and face, and combed their fingers through their hair. At the door, their mother held out a towel and they dried off. She shooed them in front of her into the kitchen with its cavernous hearth, past the battered round wooden table where the family usually ate, and into the dining room with its heavy, dark furniture and faded tapestries. Tall narrow windows let in wavering reflections off the lake, tinged golden by summer evening light.

Granmere Lyriana sat at the head of the grand table, straight-backed and regal, her silver braid wound around her head like a crown, her golden eyes bright. Her midnight-blue gown was scattered with tiny bright crystals. One aged hand clasped the Silver Wheel, badge of the Star-Seer, hanging from its chain around her neck. At this portentous sign, the boys sobered.

Jani, Lani. It’s good to see you. As always, she spoke as if they were adults and her equals, which made the twins like her despite her imposing presence.

It’s good to see you, also, Granmere, said Lani with a bow, his formality seeming completely natural.

Good to see you, echoed Jani in a subdued voice, twitching a nervous bow. Granmere seemed even more solemn than usual.

Where their grandmother was moon and stars, their mother Ya’ela was earth and sun. She wore a white apron over a green gown. Wisps of her pale gold hair escaped from her braid and framed her warm brown eyes and gentle face. A yellow daisy tucked behind one ear nodded along with her swift, graceful movements as she set plates of roast chicken, boiled grains, and green beans at each place.

Let’s sit down before the food goes cold, she said abruptly. Lani gave her a puzzled glance. Their mother was usually quite gracious.

A slim but well-muscled man with dark hair, and blue eyes like the twins, entered and gave her a quick hug. Get into any trouble today, boys? he teased, his face lit with pride.

No, Father, they chorused and everyone laughed, dissolving Jani’s nervousness.

Good evening, Mother. Their father gave Lyriana a kiss on her cheek and took his seat at her right hand.

Markani, said Lyriana. You look well.

Ya’ela took her seat opposite her husband and the boys sat at the foot of the table.

Mother, will you lead us? asked Markani.

Lyriana closed her eyes and they were all silent for a few moments.

We are of the Circle, she began.

"We are of the Circle," everyone chorused. The boys found the familiar ritual soothing, though they did not fully understand its meaning.

We dedicate our lives to its purpose.

" We dedicate our lives to its purpose."

May the great evil be destroyed.

" May the great evil be destroyed."

May She Who is lost be restored to us.

" May She Who is lost be restored to us."

May we be forgiven.

" May we be forgiven."

This last line always puzzled Lani. Forgiven for what? He frowned, staring at his hands. The adults were keeping silence longer than usual. Their somber faces and bowed heads told him there was something unusual about this gathering. His heart sped up with excitement.

At last, Granmere sighed and raised her head. With a smile, she said, Many thanks to Ya’ela and the good gods for this lovely meal.

At this, everyone began to eat.

I beat Lani in a foot race today, proclaimed Jani.

Very good, said their father.

As they ate, they shared the news of the day, the boys chiming in with their adventures. It all seemed perfectly normal but Jani’s nervousness returned. There were lines of tension around his father’s eyes and his mother was less cheerful than usual. Dessert was a rare treat, sweetberries and cream. At the conclusion of the meal the boys rose, expecting to be dismissed to play as usual, but Granmere raised a hand.

Please stay. We must talk.

The boys resumed their seats. Seeing the somber expressions on his parents’ faces, Jani’s heart began to pound but Lani only looked curious.

You are old enough now to learn more of what it means to be a part of this family and of the Circle.

Lani leaned forward, bright-eyed and eager. Dread made Jani yearn toward the door. Life was already as it should be. He wanted no changes.

Our lives are not our own. We serve a higher cause. Each of you has a very important role to play in this.

Lani straightened proudly but Jani’s heart sank, sensing that their days of freedom were about to end.

Now you boys must begin your training for these roles. Markani will teach you the physical and martial arts. Ya’ela will teach you the healing arts.

At this, the twins glanced at their parents with new eyes, amazed to discover that they were not merely their parents but also people who knew important things.

I have come to teach you star lore, magery, history, prophecy.

Feeling more entrapped by each of Granmere’s words, Jani burst out, But I don’t want to learn all these things!

I’m sorry, son, Markani said. You have no choice in this. None of us does. Destroying the great evil is more important than any of our own wishes.

What is the great evil, father? asked Lani. Quite serious now, he seemed much older than his eight years.

Markani bowed toward his mother. She settled herself in to give the boys their first lesson.

Long ago, our land of Khailaz was a lush green jewel set between the Sand Sea, the Golden Desert to the East, and the Ocean to the West, which some call the Blue Desert. Blessed and guided by the great Goddess, Zhovanya, we were a peaceful people, living in harmony with the land and our soul-kin. Then a vile necromancer named Dauthaz descended upon Khailaz with an army of terrible Red-Eyed creatures who had once been men. Through blackest sorcery, he had stolen their souls and imbued them with inhuman strength and swiftness. They obeyed his every thought, killing all who opposed their Master. Today we call these creatures his ‘Watchers.’

What happened to the Goddess? Lani asked.

With his sorcery, Dauthaz banished our Goddess and destroyed all the beautiful statues of Her that generations of our artists had lovingly created. He took over her Temple and chapels, and set himself up in Her place. For five generations, now, he has ruled our land and tormented our people, draining the zhan from hundreds of people to prolong his own despicable life. That is why we call him the ‘Soul-Drinker.’

Is that what he calls himself too? Jani could not help but ask her.

No. He proudly calls himself the Master of Death and Torment.

Curse him! growled Markani. Lyriana frowned at him and he subsided. The twins glanced at each other, disturbed yet curious and excited to learn these grown-up secrets.

Granmere continued her history lesson. His wicked sorcery threatens the very web of life itself. By stealing our people’s zhan, he prevents it from returning to our soul-kin as it should. This is destroying the natural balance of life, weakening all our kin, animal and plant alike, and causing drought, famine and disease. This devastation began in the City and is spreading out from there. His evil has not yet reached us here in Ravenvale but it will if he is not killed.

Lani shivered, chilled by the thought of their beloved home valley blighted by such evil. A fire of protective zeal flared up in his heart, and he welcomed its fortifying heat, resolving to safeguard Ravenvale in any way he could.

The Circle is dedicated to destroying him, Lyriana continued, but this is very difficult because of his mental powers. He can read the minds of all who come near and thus detect any who threaten him in the least way. He sends his Watchers to capture these poor souls and then enjoys torturing them to death and stealing their zhan.

Enough, Lyriana, Ya’ela interrupted. You’re frightening them. Get to the point.

Both boys were wide-eyed and pale, but Lani said, This Master must be a very bad man. I’m glad our family is a part of the Circle. How do we destroy him?

After many long years searching the stars, said the Star-Seer, "I have seen that we have only one chance to achieve our goal, and it is in your lifetimes that this chance comes. Each of you is destined to play an important role in the destruction of this vicious tyrant. So your birth stars have shown me."

But they’re still so young! Ya’ela protested, her eyes filling with tears.

They must start their training now. They have much to learn. But… Lyriana’s voice went unsteady. I am sorry it has to be this way.

Her heart trembled with grief for what her grandsons would have to face in order to fulfill the prophecy the stars had revealed to her, but she steeled herself against such treacherous feelings. Nothing mattered except ridding Khailaz of the Soul-Drinker. To that end, she had already ensured that the births of her descendants had occurred in accordance with the stars’ foretelling. Now they were approaching the crux. One more generation and they would end the Soul-Drinker’s reign of horror.

In the silence, the boys could hear Ya’ela’s soft weeping. Markani went to stand behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, offering comfort and support. Jani felt as if the world had sunk into shadow. But so great was Lani’s new-born fervor for the mission of the Circle that he seemed to glow from within.

Jani glared at them all, angry with Granmere, with his parents, even with his beloved brother. How can he be so excited? Granmere is ruining everything!

Oblivious to Jani’s anger, Lani flashed an eager smile at his brother. He was ready to spend the entire night learning more. Brimming over with questions, he broke the tense silence.

What is zhan, Granmere?

Zhan is the life-force that Zhovanya gives us when we are born and that she receives when we die, to return to our soul-kin and strengthen the web of life. It is a terrible perversion for Dauthaz to steal it and use it to keep himself alive.

How does he take the zhan from people?

Ya’ela paled and shook her head, and Markani said, That’s enough for tonight. It’s time for prayers and bed.

Jani jumped up and stormed out, furious at the destruction of the life he had known and loved for all of his eight years. He ran to his room and slammed the door behind him.

T

he next morning, a slim, auburn-haired girl stalked back and forth, stiff as an incensed heron. At seven years of age, she was all angles, elbows and knees. Where are those boys? she growled to herself. We’ll never make it up to see the eaglets if they don’t get here soon. She glanced at the cliff, far across Ravenvale. The Sun was already a hand’s span above the edge. Puffing out her lips in exasperation, she hurried down the hill from their usual meeting place toward Ravenhall, the grey stone mansion that she and her mother shared with other Circle families, including Lani and Jani’s.

Good morning, Ya’ela, ma’am. Luciya tried to hide her impatience. Are Jani and Lani all right? We’re supposed to go see the eaglets but they’re late.

I’m sorry, Luciya. From now on, the boys won’t be free to play with you except on festal days.

Festal days? That’s only… she counted on her fingers, eight days a month!

Yes. Well, they have lessons now. Ya’ela seemed unlike herself, sad and anxious, and her eyes were red. This puzzled Luciya, but more urgent was discovering the fate of her playmates.

Lessons? What about—

I can’t say. It’s Circle business.

Luciya’s face burned as if she had been slapped. The mysterious Circle had always lurked in the background of their lives at Ravenvale. She’d asked about it many times but had always been told, It’s grown-up business.

Now not only was the Circle stealing her playmates from her, but she was still excluded from its secrets, while the boys were not. The injustice of it all made her want to scream.

Ya’ela sighed. I’m sorry, Luciya. I know you are disappointed, but we all have to make sacrifices for the Circle.

"I hate the Circle!" Luciya turned and ran. The cawing of the ravens from their rookery behind Ravenhall seemed to mock her fury. She didn’t stop running until she reached her hide-out under an old cypress. There, she flung herself to the ground and crawled in under the drooping branches.

Hunching up against the trunk in her dim, dusty lair, she bit her lip, fighting back hot tears. I hate the Circle and all its secrets! she whispered to the protective tree. They can have that nuisance, Jani, but they can’t take Lani away from me! She grabbed a dead stick and began breaking it into little pieces. If the boys can be part of the Circle, so can I! she declared, oblivious to her inconsistencies. I have to find out what’s going on.

Soon she was skulking through the many corridors of Ravenhall, peering through doors, determined to discover the Circle’s secrets and what they had to do with her life-long playmates.

Part One

Fall from Darkness

What is to give light must endure burning.

Viktor Frankl

Chapter One

The Soul-Drinker

INNOCENT OF LIGHT, he suffered and inflicted suffering in the red-lit darkness.

"C

ome!" The Master’s command burned like a whiplash through Kyr’s mind, jerking him out of a rare deep sleep. Merciless gods, he’s back. The thought escaped him before he was fully awake. Alarmed, he silenced the groan that threatened to leave his lips and buried his sick reluctance in the ice.

He lay in his secret cubbyhole on the fourth level, deep down in the Labyrinth. Barren it was, but also safe from his rival Gauday’s tricks. He gave thanks to the drudge who had led him to it. He dared to spend a precious moment more curled up in his nest of ragged blankets on his straw pallet. But then he rose and donned his robe and sandals by the dim light from the torch in the corridor outside. Luckily, the Master had not noticed his sluggishness.

Checking to make sure he was unobserved, he stepped out and dashed up the dank stone corridor to the latrine. Torches in iron brackets scattered along the rough-hewn rock walls provided flickering light and random pools of darkness, but his feet knew every crack and bump of the uneven floor. His moment’s delay had cost him a few places in line. He eyed the other Slaves of the Master waiting their turns, or hurrying along the corridor that spiraled upward toward the Master’s Hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. Gauday wasn’t among them.

In the latrine, he heard the mysterious, recurring roar from beyond the walls that he’d puzzled about for years. It didn’t sound like any of the wild beasts the Master sometimes brought in for the sacrifices. Once again, he pushed that mystery down deep into the ice with all the others. It was dangerous to think about anything except obedience. On the way out, Kyr stopped by the communal wash basin, splashed tepid water on his face, ran wet fingers through his red-gold hair, and hurried to join the throng on the spiraling ramp. It wasn’t wise or safe to be late, even if the Master kept everyone waiting for half the night.

Outside the Master’s Hall, a pair of Watchers stood on guard before massive doors of iron-bound planks hulking between a pair of slender, elegant pillars of white stone dimmed by layers of soot and dust. In their blood-red leathers, red eyes glaring from the eye-slits of their helmets, they watched the crowd of Slaves awaiting the Master’s command to enter.

When Kyr arrived, the Hall’s doors were still closed. Slowing his pace to a saunter, he found his place in line beside Gauday, and stood waiting, still as a winter-frozen pond. He ignored the glances of the other Slaves, whether envious or spiteful, flattering or fawning. Even Gauday’s sandaled foot pressing down hard on his own did not disturb his cold tranquility. He smiled slightly at his rival’s frustrated growl. It was so easy to provoke him: just stay in the ice, show no reaction. It was his best defense and it drove Gauday mad.

He wasn’t sure how he’d found the ice, but he was grateful for it every day. During his Training, he’d somehow learned to go into the ice, but not from his Trainer. His cold-hearted Trainer had taught him only to obey instantly, to endure and inflict pain, and to keep silent.

Ever since he and Gauday had completed the Training and gained the coveted rank of Slave of the Master, they had vied with each other in obedience, seeking always to please the Master, and to discredit each other. None of the other boys had been able to compete with the two of them. They were the strongest and wiliest. Yet there the resemblance ended.

Kyr was ice and iron: silent and disciplined. Gauday was a creature of sullen coals and sudden flare-ups: devious and power-hungry. Kyr was tall, slim and muscular with red-gold hair and topaz eyes. Gauday had dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. He was not quite as tall as Kyr but fleshier, thanks to his tendency to overindulge.

The pressure on Kyr’s foot eased. Gauday resorted to elbowing him in the side. The Master will never choose you, you know, he sneered.

ENTER! The Master’s summons burned but Kyr shivered with unaccustomed dread. This might be the time. Automatically, he buried his fear in the ice, along with his inarticulate hope that Gauday was right.

The fifty Slaves of the Master removed their sandals and robes and stood nude before the Red-Eyed Watchers, who scrutinized each one for any threat to the Master. Though all the Slaves were handsome and well-made, their expressions varied from dead-eyed to sly, choleric to fearful, arrogant to obsequious.

Chill air on his bare body made Kyr shiver again. Hurry up, Red-Eyes! Gauday whispered. Let us in where it’s warm. Kyr didn’t even glance at his impetuous rival. If he wanted to incur the Master’s wrath, let him.

The Red-Eyes swung the doors aside. The throng of nude Slaves shuffled forward. Each prostrated himself at the door, then crawled into the Hall on all fours to his designated place around the central dais. There, they crouched on the rush-strewn floor, keeping their heads down.

As he prostrated himself, Kyr took a last breath of the cooler air of the corridor before heading into the stifling Hall. As he crawled forward, his nose was assaulted by the odors of unclad bodies and the permanent stench of bodily fluids from the unending sacrifices. He still wasn’t used to the smell, even though he had been chosen as a Slave two years ago. Or was it three? He couldn’t tell. In the Labyrinth, time was measured by the Master’s whims.

As usual, Gauday pushed ahead. Kyr crawled after him through the silent crowd toward their places below the dais, where their respective Trainers awaited them.

The round Hall was lined with pillars of white marble. Cracks spidered from cruel bolts nailing iron torch brackets to the graceful columns. Hissing torches sent shadows capering over a domed ceiling. Between the soot-sullied pillars drooped ragged red draperies, neglecting their task of hiding rough brick walls.

Above the dais hung the Master’s Eye, a magical lamp casting its red glower over the entire chamber, seeing everything that was happening in the Labyrinth, every thought or feeling anyone had. Kyr avoided looking at the Eye but it did no good. Unless he was deep in the ice, Dauthaz nearly always heard any untoward thought of his and punished him with a pain shock. Most often, Kyr could find no reason for the punishment, and had long ago ceased looking for any. All he could do in the Master’s Labyrinth was obey and endure.

On the dais, Dauthaz, Master of Death and Torment, Sorcerer-King of Khailaz, reclined with arrogant indolence on his divan, wearing his darkly iridescent robes and Crown. This night, he looked as ancient as his years, scrawny, wrinkled, and cadaverous. Even his robes and Crown looked dull. He had been gone for twelve days and had not taken a sacrifice in all that time.

Kyr and Gauday glanced askance at each other. The Favorite’s pillow beside the divan was empty. And three Watchers stood behind the dais tonight instead of the usual two. Now they knew. Their rivalry was about to end.

"B

lood of the gods! The raven-haired Warrior Mage stalked back and forth like a caged panther, his dark leathers creaking softly, his blue eyes snapping. This endless waiting is worse than fighting a battle. We’re so close!"

The threadbare sitting room on the upper floor of the Dragonfly Inn could barely contain his impatience. His pacing endangered a pair of rickety, ladder-back chairs by a small round table sitting by a window that looked west toward the ocean. Aged to an indeterminate color, heavy curtains hushed the crashing waves of the Blue Desert to a muffled roar.

On the opposite wall, another window looked out onto the back of the Inn, revealing only blackness. A brick hearth squatted against the back wall, its coals glowing red-hot under a kettle hanging from a hook. Between the hearth and the back window stood a battered corner cabinet. In odd contrast to the shabbiness of the room, two things stood out: a new metal signal lantern lined with mirrors on the table, and a relatively unused thick green rug on the floor.

Rajani paced from the hearth toward the room’s only door, but stopped himself from opening it and charging heedlessly onto the porch and down the stairs. Instead, he turned and strode back to the hearth. How much longer will it take for the Soul-Drinker to turn his Favorite into a new Watcher? he demanded of his companion.

Oh, stop fretting! Luciya chided him. She perched on a faded blue armchair between the hearth and the small table and chairs. It’s been almost a half-moon. Should be only a day or two before Dauthaz chooses a new Favorite. How many years have we waited? Kyr is almost eighteen. Surely you can wait a bit longer!

Rajani glowered at her. Bah! You’re as vexed at waiting as I am.

Yes, but I’m better at being still than you are.

"I suppose spies do have to develop patience, he conceded, but couldn’t resist adding, I don’t know how you of all people managed to do that."

Luciya just laughed, refusing the bait. She smoothed her hand down the skirt of her dark green gown of soft wool. Blessed gods, it’s good to wear decent clothes again.

She looked vigorous and eager for action, her dark brown eyes sparkling. The hearth-fire cast sparks of crimson light on her dark auburn hair, not yet grown out from the short, ragged cut all drudges had to wear in the Soul-Drinker’s Labyrinth. But her skin was pallid and her face was hollow-cheeked from her years as the Circle’s primary spy on Dauthaz.

As the Star-Seer had predicted, the time for action was approaching. Twelve days ago, Dauthaz had disappeared into his sorcerer’s cave to create a new Watcher, thereby freeing Luciya from her life as a drudge and spy in the hell-pit called the Labyrinth.

The Warrior Mage was amazed at how rapidly she had sloughed off her menial demeanor. Already she had returned to being the strong, decisive woman he had known and longed for all these years. Why can’t she just accept my brother’s death?

He bit his lip to keep from starting another quarrel, though it was tempting. Even a hopeless argument would be better than this interminable waiting. He sighed and looked away. He knew why she kept him at bay, but that didn’t stop his heart from aching with frustrated longing every time he looked at her. He dropped his shoulders, letting go once again of his own desires, to focus on the cause to which he had dedicated his life.

Steam began to waft from the kettle. Shedding her cream-colored shawl, Luciya went over to the corner cabinet. With quiet efficiency, she set out two chipped mugs on the round table, and a plate of oatcakes. Using a folded rag as a hot pad, she deftly took the heavy kettle from its hook, filled the mugs and set the kettle on the bricks of the hearth. The spicy fragrance of cinnamon and clove filled the room.

Cider’s ready. Come sit down. She took a seat at the table.

Thanks, Ciya. He joined her, sitting cautiously on the other rickety wooden chair. He ate an oatcake and washed it down with a gulp of cider, but was too preoccupied to taste its spicy sweetness. "Are you sure Dauthaz will choose Kyr as his new Favorite? Everything depends on that."

I told you! Gauday is his only rival, but he is too rebellious for the Master’s taste. Kyr is the perfect Slave. The Soul-Drinker will choose him.

Well, our teams all know what to do and the team leaders are all competent. I’ve seen to that. You’re sure our attacks will distract the Soul-Drinker? That he’ll be forced to send the Watchers who guard him out of the Hall?

Luciya took a deep breath and blew it out in one long gust, visibly restraining her irritation. You know there are only half a dozen Watchers left. The Master has been too lazy and complacent to create any more of them until now. This new one is the first he’s made in decades. He’ll be unguarded long enough.

And Kyr won’t get in the way?

Gods, Jani! she burst out. "I’ve told you all this a hundred times! Kyr is too compliant, too weak to resist. He’s like all Slaves: trained to take no initiative, to think only of pleasing his cursed Master."

Sorry. I just can’t stand waiting any longer after all this time.

As if I couldn’t tell, with you pacing around here for the last twelve days! she teased. But just think of it! She was alight with zeal as their life-long goal neared completion. Before long, we will destroy that demon’s lair and reclaim Zhovanya’s Temple. It will once again stand on top of the cliff overlooking the Blue Desert. My grandmother told me what it was like.

Her voice assumed the lilting cadence of a cherished and oft-repeated story. It was open-walled, cooled by the gentle southern breeze, serenaded by the wild music of the sea, lit by Sun and Moon shining through an alabaster dome upheld by white marble columns. It was a place of peace and beauty.

I imagine so. Rajani frowned. Gods curse Dauthaz! It wasn’t enough for him to conquer Khailaz with his horde of Red-Eyed Watchers. He had to turn Her sacred Temple into his infernal Hall, closing out the air and sea with brick and mortar. He hates everything natural! And he’s unbalanced everything, stealing all those souls, just to keep himself alive and in power.

Ignoring his angry outburst, Luciya went on dreamily: Mother told me there used to be music in Her Temple all the time. People would just come with their harps or flutes or drums and sit and make music and chant day and night, even when there were no ceremonies going on. Her tone sharpened. But—blast his soul!—for six generations, the only sounds in the Soul-Drinker’s Hall have been screams and moans and manic laughter. The only light is the reddish pall cast by the torches in their iron brackets, and the air is stifling, reeking with blood and smoke. Gods and demons, Jani. It’s so horrible! Tears filled her eyes.

Rajani winced, thinking of all that she had had to endure. Oh, Ciya, I’m deeply sorry you had to spend so many years in that hell-pit. Touched by her unusual vulnerability, he reached his hands toward hers, but she picked up her mug, ignoring his proffered comfort.

Ah, well, she said. I was the best mind-masker we had left. It had to be me. The Master would have detected anyone else. She sighed. And we all have made many sacrifices. They exchanged somber looks. Then she shook herself. But that will all be over soon. Her sudden grin was bright and fierce. We’ll take back the Labyrinth, scrub it clean, tear out those damned walls and let the light and air back into Her Temple. Then She will take Khailaz back into Her Hands and restore our land to health and abundance.

May it be so. Rajani smiled. But he knew it would not be that easy. Much more would have to happen for Khailaz to be restored to Zhovanya’s protection. Wishing he could wrap Luciya in his arms, the Warrior Mage instead went to stand by the small window that looked out to the back of the inn. Arms across his chest, he stared out at the familiar view.

A shambles of a stable leaned against a crumbling stone wall. Nearby, a small cottage crouched under a wildness of untended vinetrees, one of the few kinds of trees that could survive in the parched wasteland now sprawling outward from the City. The Dragonfly Inn huddled obscurely in the crumbling outskirts of the City by the Sea, once the crown jewel of Khailaz. The City’s true name had long been lost, expunged from memory by the Soul-Drinker.

Brooding, Rajani stared past the cottage to the abandoned fields and skeletal orchards beyond the City’s boundaries. There was still a pretense of normal life in the City. The Soul-Drinker’s favored Servants, who ran the country for him—Merchants, Commanders, Levymen, Conscriptors—lived in luxury in walled compounds near the Labyrinth.

But for most of Khailaz, fear, hunger, disease and poverty ruled. Dauthaz did not care that the roads and avenues were full of potholes, that the markets offered a dearth of goods at high prices, that no one was safe after dark. Defended by his Watchers and his sorcerous powers, the Soul-Drinker remained ensconced in his Labyrinth, feeding on the souls of the sacrificed.

Rajani clenched his jaw in a stubborn expression. Well, that will all soon end, if all goes according to the Star-Seer’s Prophecy. His heart grew cold, remembering when he had first learned what the Prophecy would demand of him, a score of years ago.

You can’t ask this of me. You can’t!

Shaking with horror, he had stood before the Star-Seer Lyriana in her sea-girt tower. Her golden eyes were as implacable as a night-eagle on the hunt. Her voice echoed with the ominous ring of prophecy.

The Dark Innocent must be engendered when and how I have told you. I cast a thousand star-fates to find him. He is the only one who can free our people from the Soul-Drinker and restore Khailaz to Zhovanya’s Hands. Star-cursed, star-blessed, his destiny is the worst and greatest of all.

By all the gods, there must be some other way!

Returning from the distant, merciless stars, her gaze softened. If I saw any other way, I would never ask this of you and your brother. The Lights show no other path that will end the Soul-Drinker’s torture of our people and our land.

You’re asking me to betray everything a true warrior stands for.

A warrior protects his people and his motherland. Her stern frown made him flinch as if he were still a young boy she had caught at a mistake in his lessons. You must accept this duty. The fate of our beautiful land of Khailaz, of Zhovanya and all Her people rests in your hands.

But you trained my brother to carry out your prophecy. I am just his aide and protector.

The Star-Seer’s golden gaze was unyielding. Your star-fates show that you are the Warrior. Your twin is the Healer. You each have your ordained devoir.

His duty won’t be to carry out an unspeakable ritual and send a blameless boy into various kinds of hell!

No, your brother’s duty is to help him endure those hells, make sure he survives uncrippled. The stars demand that the harder part be yours.

Harder? It’s impossible, despicable! He ran his hands through his hair. We have to find another way, Granmere.

To his great consternation, his imperious grandmother who had ruled his life since he was a boy, knelt before him, her midnight-blue gown spreading around her, sparkling with tiny gems like the stars she studied. Her lined face sagged, revealing heartrending weariness. She clutched the Silver Wheel of the Heavens hanging from its chain around her neck. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Please, grandson, swear the oath. I have no more time to search the stars.

Don’t say that, Granmere! His dark leathers creaked as he knelt and cradled her face in his hands, feeling the bird-like fragility of her ancient bones, the softness of her old woman’s skin, a thin mask over her adamantine soul. He bowed his head, his mouth so dry, he could only whisper.

You are the Star-Seer. If you say this is the only way, it is.

She rested her hands on his shoulders, her forehead on his. A grave silence pervaded the room. His bones were heavy as stone, pinning him to the floor. The slightest breath and his doom would begin, sealing out all hope, all love, all joy.

I’m sorry, grandson.

He sighed, clambered to his feet and helped her rise.

The stars have placed a terrible burden on your soul but they have also given you the strength to carry it. She handed him two scrolls: the star-chart that had cost her so much to find, and the prophecy she had gleaned from the stars. You must burn these into your memory, then destroy them.

He accepted the fateful scrolls, his heart becoming as dark and sharp-edged as obsidian. He welcomed this. A tender heart would only be an impediment now.

Then the Star-Seer cast the terrible oath-spell that bound him in all secrecy and in peril of his soul’s utter destruction, to ensure that her foretelling was fulfilled, no matter the cost.

When it was done, she said, May we be forgiven.

Zhovanya nara lo, he answered, though he doubted that even Zhovanya would forgive him for what he had just sworn to do.

Rajani rubbed his aching chest, his obsidian heart heavy and jagged, and turned away from the window. Luciya already had dealt out the cards and he joined her at the table for another round of Luck and Lies, praying that the waiting would soon be over.

Chapter Two

The Rod and the Collar

F

rom the dais, Dauthaz leered down at his swarm of Slaves. Kyr averted his eyes, but the Master spotted him and sent pain searing through him. Still deep in the icy blankness that was his refuge, Kyr allowed himself to show no reaction, even when the pain stopped. The Master’s grating laughter assaulted the air.

Yours is the honor of making the sacrifice tonight.

Ignoring Gauday’s envious glare, Kyr rose, bowed to Dauthaz and turned toward the sacrificial platform, an oval table of stone at the foot of the Master’s dais. Once white like the pillars, it was now splotched dark red, layered with dried blood.

He paused, startled. The sacrifice had never before been someone he knew. The Master giggled at his consternation.

Chained to the stone table was the old Slave who had looked after the boy-slaves when they were small. They had called him Poppa. Kyr’s heart felt oddly heavy in his chest, though he didn’t understand why. His hand hovered over the instruments laid out for his use.

Make it quick, the old man begged him. Kyr frowned. This sacrifice was a Slave, and should know that was impossible.

What are you waiting for, boy? Dauthaz chuckled, smirking.

Kyr braced for punishment for his slight delay, but Dauthaz only cackled and waved him on. He shrugged his puzzling discomfort aside and sank deeper into the ice until he was remote from his body and detached from the world. After all, it was only another sacrifice. He picked up a slender knife.

Avid Slaves dragged terrified new breeders, still slender and beautiful, closer to the dais. Caged musicians picked up their instruments. Reed pipes wailed in sensuous dissonance over urgent drums and clashing cymbals.

Kyr took his time and used all that he had been taught about inflicting pain. Whenever the sacrifice shrieked, Dauthaz giggled and sent out waves of arousal, pleasure or pain, according to his whim. Soon the heaving mass of bodies was moaning and screeching in a rabid blend of gratification and torment. Protected by the ice, Kyr remained silent and unaffected.

Now! Dauthaz screeched.

With unthinking obedience, Kyr slashed the sacrifice’s throat. The music ceased. The Master sent everyone into frenzied climax. As he avidly drank in the invisible elixir of agony and lust, ecstasy and death, he became visibly younger, swelling with malevolent potency. His black Crown and his Rod of Power regained their sickening sheen. Fed by the same elixir, his Watchers regained their aura of deadly menace, their red eyes sharpening.

Drained of vitality and drenched in sacrificial blood, Kyr collapsed over the corpse. He had a puzzling sense that, deep in a cave somewhere, the last candle had gone out. Like an unexpected blow from a Watcher’s fist, despair struck, shattering the ice, freeing a forbidden thought: I wish the Master would kill me. Knowing that such mercy did not exist, he forced his exhausted mind to rebuild his icy refuge.

When he could move, he crawled back to his place before the Master’s dais. Dauthaz was groaning to a climax as Gauday gave him pleasure. Perhaps Gauday would win the Master’s favor, after all.

Satiated, Dauthaz waved Gauday away. The young Slave backed off the dais on his hands and knees and came to crouch next to Kyr, giving him a sideways glance of malicious triumph.

Blazing with sinister potency, the sorcerer-king rose to sitting on his divan. With a wave of his hand he silenced the swarm of Slaves and weeping breeders.

Abahro, my old Favorite, is no more. With my great powers of sorcery, I have transformed him into my newest Watcher.

One of the Watchers glided forward. Clad in