darkness.
"There must be another
key," Elory whispered. "Surely in the palace, there is another."
"There is only one."
Meliora returned the crumpled key into her pocket. "There was only ever one."
"Then we fix this one."
Elory nodded. "We'll heat the metal just enough, unfold it, return the key to
its former shape."
Meliora shook her head
again. "We would only melt the golden runes, perhaps beyond restoration. No. I
dare not try to fix it myself, for fear that I would damage it further. But . .
. there is one who can fix this key."
They all turned to
stare at her. Meliora seemed to stare into nothingness, perhaps lost in memory.
"Who, daughter?" Jaren
said, reaching out to touch her hand. "Who can fix it?"
She looked at him, eyes
haunted. "He who made this key five hundred years ago. He who still lingers in
a mockery of life, banished from our realm. He of whom the seraphim rarely
speak." She shuddered. "The Keymaker."
ISHTAFEL
He lay on his bed, face aflame,
grinding his teeth so hard they nearly chipped. He dug his fingernails into his
palms, drawing blood. Every breath burned. All was fire. All was rage.
You burned me.
His fists shook.
You escaped me.
His hand rose, shaking.
His fingers uncurled, dripping his own blood, and reached to the bandage on his
cheek.
"My lord!" said the
healer, a young woman in white robes, her halo glowing. "You need to leave the
bandage on, my lord, you—"
He roared, swung his
hand, and knocked her down. The effort tore through him like a demon, leaving
him gasping for breath, coughing. His face blazed as if covered in embers. As
the healer mewled on the floor, Ishtafel grabbed the bandage on his face.
He tore it off with one
swift movement.
For an instant,
silence.
For an instant, nothing
but cold, white shock.
Then he screamed.
He rose to his feet,
stumbled across the chamber of healing, and stared into the bronze mirror on
the wall.
Slowly he began to
laugh.
A dripping, red welt
ran across his face, rising from the left side of his jaw, crossing his cheek
and forehead, and finally running across half his scalp. The mark of Meliora's
flaming halo. As he laughed, the wound twisted, lined with blisters. A second
wound glared from his chest, the stitched cut from her spear.
"Yes, sweet sister," he
said. "We are both changed."
Meliora lurked
somewhere within these walls—in Shayeen, the City of Kings, or in Tofet, the
land of slaves. There were no gates that broke these walls; winged seraphim
needed no gates.
"Yet you have no wings,
Meliora," he said, speaking to his reflection, to the halo of fire across his
face. "You are trapped. And I will find you here. I will find you if I have to
kill every slave in my empire, one by one, until you are mine."
He stepped out of the
chamber of healing. He walked through the halls of the palace, stepped onto a
dark balcony, and mounted his chariot of fire. His wounds roared across him,
and he grinned and grabbed the reins. Bare-chested, he soared. His firehorses
stormed across the sky, and the city sprawled below him in the night. Somewhere
in those shadows she lurked—the sister whose skin he would burn until nothing
was left.
MELIORA
"The . . . Keymaker?" Elory
whispered, eyes wide, leaning across the tabletop.
Meliora nodded. "We do
not like speaking his name in the ziggurat. He is a powerful wizard, ancient, a
mystic being. His magic is so great they say it drove him to madness. With that
dark magic, he made the key and the collars." She shuddered. "My family exiled
him, fearing his power, fearing his madness. He lives far in the mountains,
claiming dominion over a ruined fort."
"A mystic being?" Vale
said, frowning. "Is he not a seraph?"
Meliora swallowed a
lump in her throat. "I don't know what he is. He is never painted, never
sculpted, never described in our ancient books. I never saw him. He was exiled
centuries ago. But . . . I heard tales. Tales I dare not repeat. But though I
fear him, I must find
"There must be another
key," Elory whispered. "Surely in the palace, there is another."
"There is only one."
Meliora returned the crumpled key into her pocket. "There was only ever one."
"Then we fix this one."
Elory nodded. "We'll heat the metal just enough, unfold it, return the key to
its former shape."
Meliora shook her head
again. "We would only melt the golden runes, perhaps beyond restoration. No. I
dare not try to fix it myself, for fear that I would damage it further. But . .
. there is one who can fix this key."
They all turned to
stare at her. Meliora seemed to stare into nothingness, perhaps lost in memory.
"Who, daughter?" Jaren
said, reaching out to touch her hand. "Who can fix it?"
She looked at him, eyes
haunted. "He who made this key five hundred years ago. He who still lingers in
a mockery of life, banished from our realm. He of whom the seraphim rarely
speak." She shuddered. "The Keymaker."
ISHTAFEL
He lay on his bed, face aflame,
grinding his teeth so hard they nearly chipped. He dug his fingernails into his
palms, drawing blood. Every breath burned. All was fire. All was rage.
You burned me.
His fists shook.
You escaped me.
His hand rose, shaking.
His fingers uncurled, dripping his own blood, and reached to the bandage on his
cheek.
"My lord!" said the
healer, a young woman in white robes, her halo glowing. "You need to leave the
bandage on, my lord, you—"
He roared, swung his
hand, and knocked her down. The effort tore through him like a demon, leaving
him gasping for breath, coughing. His face blazed as if covered in embers. As
the healer mewled on the floor, Ishtafel grabbed the bandage on his face.
He tore it off with one
swift movement.
For an instant,
silence.
For an instant, nothing
but cold, white shock.
Then he screamed.
He rose to his feet,
stumbled across the chamber of healing, and stared into the bronze mirror on
the wall.
Slowly he began to
laugh.
A dripping, red welt
ran across his face, rising from the left side of his jaw, crossing his cheek
and forehead, and finally running across half his scalp. The mark of Meliora's
flaming halo. As he laughed, the wound twisted, lined with blisters. A second
wound glared from his chest, the stitched cut from her spear.
"Yes, sweet sister," he
said. "We are both changed."
Meliora lurked
somewhere within these walls—in Shayeen, the City of Kings, or in Tofet, the
land of slaves. There were no gates that broke these walls; winged seraphim
needed no gates.
"Yet you have no wings,
Meliora," he said, speaking to his reflection, to the halo of fire across his
face. "You are trapped. And I will find you here. I will find you if I have to
kill every slave in my empire, one by one, until you are mine."
He stepped out of the
chamber of healing. He walked through the halls of the palace, stepped onto a
dark balcony, and mounted his chariot of fire. His wounds roared across him,
and he grinned and grabbed the reins. Bare-chested, he soared. His firehorses
stormed across the sky, and the city sprawled below him in the night. Somewhere
in those shadows she lurked—the sister whose skin he would burn until nothing
was left.
MELIORA
"The . . . Keymaker?" Elory
whispered, eyes wide, leaning across the tabletop.
Meliora nodded. "We do
not like speaking his name in the ziggurat. He is a powerful wizard, ancient, a
mystic being. His magic is so great they say it drove him to madness. With that
dark magic, he made the key and the collars." She shuddered. "My family exiled
him, fearing his power, fearing his madness. He lives far in the mountains,
claiming dominion over a ruined fort."
"A mystic being?" Vale
said, frowning. "Is he not a seraph?"
Meliora swallowed a
lump in her throat. "I don't know what he is. He is never painted, never
sculpted, never described in our ancient books. I never saw him. He was exiled
centuries ago. But . . . I heard tales. Tales I dare not repeat. But though I
fear him, I must find
Similar Books
