Children of Fire by Drew Karpyshyn Page B

particularly the young and headstrong, believed that the Legacy would one day fail. Misled by false prophecies, they imagined the salvation of the mortal world rested in the hands of a child schooled in the arts of Chaos magic, rather than in the endurance of the ancient spell of the True Gods.
    Their belief defied the most fundamental tenets of the Order’s teachings; it was an abomination to those who followed the will of the True Gods. Chaos can never be controlled; it can only be contained.
    Nazir had thought that those at the heart of the movement had perished in the flames of the Purge. But if Ezra was one of the heretics—if he was, in fact, their leader—then how many others among the Order had been befouled by these profane teachings?
    Not willing to dwell on such a question now, the Pontiff stepped through the rune-covered door and locked it behind him, sealing himself inside the room. Small clouds of dust stirred up as he crossed the floor to kneel reverently before the pedestal. He began a series of rhythmic breathing exercises to cleanse his mind. He had to set aside the urgency of his mission. He had to free himself from the anger of betrayal so his thoughts could be at peace. Unless his will was pure and focused he dared not use the Crown.
    The holy Talisman had been bestowed upon the Order by the True Gods, a weapon to aid them in their never-ending battle to defend the Legacy. But it was a weapon of great and terrible power. If the Pontiff’s will faltered—if the carefully constructed defenses that held the Crown’s power in check failed—the weapon would be turned against them and Chaos would be unleashed to wreak havoc upon the mortal world.
    Nazir knelt for several minutes, still as the black stone walls of the Monastery while he gathered his strength and courage for the coming ordeal. When he was finally ready he rose to his feet, steeling himself. Moving as if in a trance he reached out, a mortal about to touch the divine. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the Crown from its pedestal and placed it atop his own head.
    His mind exploded with a rush of sight and sound. Night, day, darkness, light, heat, cold, fear, anger, joy: The thoughts, sensations, and emotions of every living creature in the mortal world bombarded him, overwhelming him, devouring him. His own consciousness was swallowed whole, drowned beneath an ocean of omnipresence.
    Nazir collapsed, his hands reflexively clutching at his skull to hold the Crown in place as his body shook and trembled, thrust into convulsions by the awesome power coursing through him. But though his physical state was beyond his control, within his mind the Pontiff fought to restore a semblance of order. His identity broke free of the collective consciousness of all mortality, bursting forth from the surface of the churning sea of thought and sensation within his mind. Bit by bit, piece by piece, he began to impose his will on the Crown. One by one he blocked out each consciousness shrieking at him from across the world, building a wall to shield him from the cacophony of a million minds brick by brick.
    He drew on the power of the Crown—the power of Chaos—slowly and deliberately. Using techniques learned through decades of study, he directed and focused the Talisman until a single image became clear: an old man walking alone across the desert.
    Across the chasm of space and time, far beyond the shores of the mortal world, an enemy long exiled felt the call of Old Magic: pure Chaos, burning like a beacon. Still recovering from the recent spell cast over the bloodstained fountain, Daemron smiled, remembering the shards of stone he had cast into the boiling waters. The ripples of his spell had touched the shores of the mortal world.
    For centuries, the Legacy had kept him at bay. Through it he had sensed the Talismans only as an echo, their power dull and faint. But his spell had punctured the Legacy, and through that still-open wound