An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) by Kathleen M. O'Neal Page B

earth.
    “Grandfather!”
    He started at Mikael’s shrill voice, turning an ear toward the origin point. Sarah’s wordless comforting of her son twined with the rising wails of agony. How could she sound so calm? Hadn’t she realized she stood next in line?
    Zadok’s boots whispered through the rain-soaked weeds as he staggered down the slope. Stepping into the circle of people, he gasped. Ezarin’s head lay propped on a wet log, eyes staring vacantly at the interlacing branches overhead. Her torso rested a short distance away in a clump of weeds.
    “Dear … God,” Rathanial murmured unsteadily, clamping his head between his hands. “They’ll kill us all! Don’t you see?” He swung around to Zadok, staring wide-eyed and near hysteria. Rain stood out in beads across his wrinkled face, soaking his white hair. “They’ve come for you!”
    Zadok shook his head vaguely. “For my oldest daughter.”
    “It’s beginning! Can’t you—”
    “It began centuries ago.”
    “What?”
    Darkness seemed to spring from the forest, its shadow covering Zadok again, blotting the gray sky as it bent low to stare at Ezarin. He stiffened, eyes frantically searching the woods. Who or what could cast such a shape? Did no one else see it? He glanced around the group; no one saw anything but the gruesome sight before them. Zadok stepped involuntarily backward. The wrenching ache of his throat returned as he remembered his father struggling breathlessly under that same looming darkness to break through the mass of screaming relatives who milled around the remains of his mother. Even then he could see the shadow. The coppery odor of blood again made his mouth water with the urge to vomit. His brother Yosef’s wailing filled his ears, mixing eerily with Mikael’s.
    Frantically, he searched the trees and the cloudy sky, feeling as though an ancient terror lurked only an arm’s length away, waiting.
    “Who are you?” he shouted into the misty heavens.
    People around him shifted uncomfortably, following his gaze. A soft murmuring of frightened voices eddied through the wet woods: “He’s sick with grief. No wonder …” “You can’t expect sanity when something like this happens!”
    “Who, Papa?”
    “I don’t…” Then it was gone. Zadok’s voice drifted into nothingness.
    “Abba?” Rathanial rasped. “Hurry, let’s take—her—back. We must talk. The Mashiah has gone too far this time.”
    “The Mashiah?”
    “Yes! This is surely his handiwork. Just like the drought.”
    “Let’s discuss it later.” Zadok held up a hand to halt the tirade. He was too bitterly numb to endure it. Slowly, he walked forward and gently picked up Ezarin’s head, cradling it in his arms like he’d done when she was a child. A soft lullaby came to mind and he sang it hoarsely, stroking the long black hair that formed a web over his eldest’s blood-spattered face.
    “Papa,” Sarah whispered, extending trembling hands. “Let me? You don’t need to—”
    “No—it’s my last chance.”
    He led the way slowly down the drenched slope, winding around deadfall and thick briars. They followed in single file behind him, fragments of the Mourner’s Kedis echoing eerily from the mountains. By the time they reached the caves, the sun hung like a crimson ball over the peaks, the blaze of sunset lingering on the swirls and hollows of the cliffs.
     
    Ornias leisurely paced before the fireplace in his bedchamber, listening to the wind hurl itself out of the night, whistling through the cracks around his windows. The fire in his stone hearth crackled and sizzled, throwing wavering light over the rounded arches along the walls and reflecting eerily in the vaulted ceiling.
    “Will that be all, Councilman?” Shassy asked, glancing longingly at the door. She wanted to leave, and badly.
    Swirling a glass of fine Kayan sherry in his hand, he glanced admiringly at her. A beautiful black woman, she had broad cheekbones and an aquiline nose. Her