But instead the old woman seemed to find new strength. Lifting her hand, she sketched a spell of protection on the air, then reached out hesitantly, as if to take the bowl.
“Yes, there’s no mistaking it,” she rasped, withdrawing her hand.
“How do you know of it?” Arkoniel asked.
“I was a Guardian myself, one of the original six … I’ve seen enough, Iya. Put it away.” She lay back and sighed deeply, not speaking until the cursed thing was safely wrapped again.
“You understood the Oracle’s meaning all too well, even without the knowledge lost when your master died,” she told Iya.
“I don’t understand,” said Arkoniel. “I never heard of other Guardians. Who are the six?”
Ranai closed her eyes. “They’re all dead, except for me. I’d never have revealed myself to your mistress, but when I saw that she no longer had the bag with her, I feared the worst. You must forgive an old woman’s weakness. Perhaps if I’d spoken when you came to Ylani a few years back—”
Iya took the clawed left hand in hers. “Never mind that. I know the oaths you swore. But we’re here now and you’ve seen it. What is it you have to tell us?”
Ranai looked up then. “There can be only one Guardian for each secret, Iya. You’ve passed the burden to this boy. What I have to say, only he can hear.”
“No, she only left it with me for safekeeping. Iya’s the true Guardian,” Arkoniel told her.
“No. She passed it down.”
“Then I give it back!”
“You can’t. The Lightbearer guided her hand, whether she knew it or not. You are Guardian now, Arkoniel, and what I have to say can only be said to you.”
Iya recalled the Afran Oracle’s cryptic words: This is a seed that must be watered with blood. But you see too far. And she thought of the vision she’d had that day, of a grand white palace filled with wizards, but seen from a distance, with Arkoniel looking out at her from a tower window.
“She’s right, Arkoniel. You stay.” Unable to look at either of them, she hurried out.
Sealed out by her own magic, she sagged against the wall and covered her face, letting the bitter tears come. Only then did the demon child’s cryptic words come back to haunt her.
You shall not enter.
Arkoniel stared after Iya in disbelief, then turned back to the ruined creature in the bed. The revulsion he’d felt the first time he’d seen her rushed back now.
“Sit, please,” Ranai whispered. “What I tell you now is what was lost with Agazhar’s death. Iya has acted in ignorance. No fault of hers, but it must be made right. Swear to me, Arkoniel, as all Guardians before you have sworn, by hands, heart, and eyes, by the Light of Illior, and by the blood of Aura that runs in your veins, that you will take on the full mantle of guardianship, and that as Guardian, you will lock all I tell you away in your heart until you pass the burden to your successor. Protect these secrets with your life and allow no one who discovers them to live. No one, you understand me? Not friend or foe, wizard or plain-born, man, woman, or child. Give me your hands and swear. I’ll know if you lie.”
“Secrecy and death. Is that all the Lightbearer will ever ask of me?”
“Many things will be asked of you, Arkoniel, but none more sacred than this. Iya will understand your silence.”
He’d seen the grief in Iya’s face and knew Ranai spoke the truth. “Very well.” He grasped Ranai’s hands and bowed his head. “I do swear, by hands, heart, and eyes, by the Light of Illior and by the blood of Aura in my veins, to carry out whatever duty is required of me as Guardian, and to reveal the secrets you give me to no one but my successor.”
A blast of raw energy shot through him from their clasped hands, engulfing him. It was like being struck by lightning. It seemed impossible that Ranai’s wasted body could still contain such power, but when it passed, it left them both gasping.
Ranai regarded him solemnly. “You are truly the Guardian now, more so than your mistress was, or even her master. You are the last of the six to carry that which must be hidden. All the rest have failed or laid their burden down.”
“And you?”
She raised a hand to her scarred cheek and grimaced. “This was the price I paid for my failure. But let me speak, for my strength is going.
“The greatest wizard of the Second Orëska was Master Reynes of Wyvernus. It was he who rallied the wizards of Skala to fight under Queen Ghërilain’s banner, and he who led those who finally defeated the Vatharna. You understand the word?”
Arkoniel nodded. “It’s Plenimaran for ‘the chosen one.’”
“The chosen one.” The old woman’s eyes were closed now, and Arkoniel had to lean closer to hear her. “The Vatharna was a great general, chosen by the necromancers to take on the form of Seriamaius.”
She still held his right hand, but he made a warding sign with his left. Even priests hesitated to speak the name of the necromancer’s god aloud. “How could such a thing be done?”
“They forged a helm and the one who wore it, the Vatharna, became an earthly vessel for the god. It did not happen at once, thank the Four, but gradually, though even the initial guise was terrible enough.
“The helm was completed and their general put it on. Reynes found him only just in time. Hundreds of wizards and warriors were killed in that battle, but the helm was captured. Reynes and the most powerful wizards still alive dismantled it somehow. But before they could do more, the Plenimarans attacked again. Only Reynes escaped, and with only six of the pieces. He never revealed how many there were in all. He put a glamour on those he had, wrapped them as yours is wrapped, and placed them in a darkened tent. Then he chose six of us—wizards who’d taken no part in the other ceremonies—and sent us in one at a time. We were to take the first bundle our hand found in the darkness, then depart alone, unseen. No matter what the cost, the pieces were to be scattered and hidden. Not even Reynes would know where they were.”
She coughed weakly and Arkoniel held a cup of water to her lips. “So they couldn’t put it back together?”
“Yes. Reynes was very careful, not trusting even himself to know the full truth. None of us had witnessed the ritual of dissolution, or the true form of what we carried. None of us knew what the others had, or where they went.”
“So Agazhar was one of the original Guardians?”
“No. He wasn’t powerful enough to be considered. Hyradin was the first of your line. He and Agazhar came to be friends later on, but Agazhar knew nothing of the burden he carried. It was only by chance that he was with Hyradin when the Plenimarans found him. Mortally wounded, Hyradin gave Agazhar the bundle and held off the enemy long enough for him to escape. Years later when he and I met again, I saw what he carried and knew Hyradin must be dead.”
“And all the other pieces were lost?”
“Mine was, and two others that I know of. Hyradin’s you carry. But one of us returned, saying she’d accomplished her purpose. The sixth was never heard of again. As far as I know, I’m the only one who failed and lived. It was years before I healed, and longer before I learned of Hyradin’s fate. By rights Agazhar should have killed me and I told him so, but he wouldn’t, saying I was a Guardian still. As far as I know, yours is the only fragment yet in Skala. I told Agazhar it should be hidden somewhere secure, but he thought he could better protect it by keeping it with him.” She fixed Arkoniel with her good eye. “He was wrong. It must
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