Apparently, the Apotheosis required a huge gate to the netherworld. Behind the carts pulling the huge mirror came a smaller cart, ringed by twenty Immortals in their black armor. A throne sat in the center of the cart, supporting a slouched figure in a ragged brown robe. Some sort of alchemical machine had been built into the throne, an intricate maze of glass and bronze tubes and valves. Through some of the tubes flowed a thick black liquid that looked familiar. Kalgri was certain she had seen that liquid before someplace. In fact…
Suddenly fascinated, she walked faster, approaching the cart.
“Do you understand now?” said Callatas. He had come up behind her, smiling at the carts. “Have you seen the truth of wraithblood at last?”
“Bloodcrystals,” said Kalgri. It was, she had to admit, quite clever. “The wraithblood is made from thousands of tiny bloodcrystals. Bloodcrystals require a base…and you’ve made sure that your base stays alive.” She laughed. “Even if the base wishes that he died long ago.”
“He shouldn’t complain,” said Callatas. “He shall accomplish more than any of his ancestors ever dreamed.”
Kalgri stopped a few paces from the cart and looked at Nahas Tarshahzon, the Padishah of Istarinmul.
She had last seen him before the war with the Empire, and the years since had not been kind to him. Back then the Padishah had been tremendously obese, so fat that his face looked like a gray-bearded, bronze-skinned ball. Now he was little more than a gaunt skeleton, his wrinkled skin hanging in loose folds from his face and arms, his black eyes glittering with agony and madness. Shackles held him to the throne, and bronze spikes pierced his hands and his arms, linked to glass tubes that pumped with wraithblood. His veins had turned black beneath his skin, and Kalgri realized that his blood had been replaced entirely with wraithblood.
That made sense. Those who knew of wraithblood believed it was manufactured in the laboratories. It was more accurate to say that it was grown from the blood of murdered slaves and the power of the netherworld.
And this tormented shell of a man, chained to his throne, was the seed. The source of the wraithblood.
His eyes met Kalgri’s and the Voice moaned in pleasure as it sensed his agony and regret and sorrow.
“Kill me,” whispered the Padishah. “Oh, by the Living Flame. Kill me. Kill me before it is too late…”
“Fear not, Nahas,” said Callatas with a cold smile. “You asked me to make you immortal, and I keep my promises. You shall become part of the new humanity, whether you wish it or not.” He stepped back, lifting his voice. “Take the mirror to the center of the golden circles. Fear not – the fire will not burn. Place it exactly according to my…”
A soldier in the spike-topped helm and chain shirt of an Istarish footman ran into the courtyard and bowed. “Grand Master.”
“What?” said Callatas.
“The Grand Wazir sends word,” said the soldier. “The rebel army is within sight of the walls of Istarinmul.”
Chapter 4: The Siege of Istarinmul
The late afternoon sun beat down on the dusty plain and the hard-packed road, ripples of heat rising from the ground. The air was as hot and dry as the wind from a blast furnace, and Kylon of House Kardamnos squinted into the haze, his mouth tasting of dust.
Through the harsh afternoon light, he saw the walls of Istarinmul.
The city rose at the northernmost end of the peninsula, overlooking the Starfall Straits, towers and domes and palaces and slums and temples rising within its walls. It was one of the busiest ports and the largest cities in the civilized world, and thousands of ships passed through the Straits every year beneath the watchful eye of the Towers of the Sea.
At least, they had before the civil war had driven most trade, and Cassander’s near-successful destruction of the city had frightened off the rest of it. Now the army of Tanzir
Suddenly fascinated, she walked faster, approaching the cart.
“Do you understand now?” said Callatas. He had come up behind her, smiling at the carts. “Have you seen the truth of wraithblood at last?”
“Bloodcrystals,” said Kalgri. It was, she had to admit, quite clever. “The wraithblood is made from thousands of tiny bloodcrystals. Bloodcrystals require a base…and you’ve made sure that your base stays alive.” She laughed. “Even if the base wishes that he died long ago.”
“He shouldn’t complain,” said Callatas. “He shall accomplish more than any of his ancestors ever dreamed.”
Kalgri stopped a few paces from the cart and looked at Nahas Tarshahzon, the Padishah of Istarinmul.
She had last seen him before the war with the Empire, and the years since had not been kind to him. Back then the Padishah had been tremendously obese, so fat that his face looked like a gray-bearded, bronze-skinned ball. Now he was little more than a gaunt skeleton, his wrinkled skin hanging in loose folds from his face and arms, his black eyes glittering with agony and madness. Shackles held him to the throne, and bronze spikes pierced his hands and his arms, linked to glass tubes that pumped with wraithblood. His veins had turned black beneath his skin, and Kalgri realized that his blood had been replaced entirely with wraithblood.
That made sense. Those who knew of wraithblood believed it was manufactured in the laboratories. It was more accurate to say that it was grown from the blood of murdered slaves and the power of the netherworld.
And this tormented shell of a man, chained to his throne, was the seed. The source of the wraithblood.
His eyes met Kalgri’s and the Voice moaned in pleasure as it sensed his agony and regret and sorrow.
“Kill me,” whispered the Padishah. “Oh, by the Living Flame. Kill me. Kill me before it is too late…”
“Fear not, Nahas,” said Callatas with a cold smile. “You asked me to make you immortal, and I keep my promises. You shall become part of the new humanity, whether you wish it or not.” He stepped back, lifting his voice. “Take the mirror to the center of the golden circles. Fear not – the fire will not burn. Place it exactly according to my…”
A soldier in the spike-topped helm and chain shirt of an Istarish footman ran into the courtyard and bowed. “Grand Master.”
“What?” said Callatas.
“The Grand Wazir sends word,” said the soldier. “The rebel army is within sight of the walls of Istarinmul.”
Chapter 4: The Siege of Istarinmul
The late afternoon sun beat down on the dusty plain and the hard-packed road, ripples of heat rising from the ground. The air was as hot and dry as the wind from a blast furnace, and Kylon of House Kardamnos squinted into the haze, his mouth tasting of dust.
Through the harsh afternoon light, he saw the walls of Istarinmul.
The city rose at the northernmost end of the peninsula, overlooking the Starfall Straits, towers and domes and palaces and slums and temples rising within its walls. It was one of the busiest ports and the largest cities in the civilized world, and thousands of ships passed through the Straits every year beneath the watchful eye of the Towers of the Sea.
At least, they had before the civil war had driven most trade, and Cassander’s near-successful destruction of the city had frightened off the rest of it. Now the army of Tanzir
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