Now it was fact.
The five of them sat and stared, partly at one another but mostly off into space. Olvir thought each of the others was hearing childhood stories again or seeing the worst parts of history books. He certainly was.
A hundred years in the past, the storms had gone on for years. They’d been bad enough at their peak to kill off all life outside shelter in some places. People had frozen, starved, or worse. Many had survived because Thyran hadn’t totally succeeded: Amris and Gerant had cast him into a hundred-year sleep, letting the storms out of his control before they could build too much strength.
The odds of that happening again were low.
“What can be done?” Nahon asked.
“Amris and Gerant have some notions of shelter and preparation,” said Gwarill. “No idea how the spell could be stopped, except by the same methods as before. It’s not likely we’ll get that chance. My order no longer has the knowledge to construct the spell of stasis, for one thing.”
“I’ve started plans,” said Magarteach. “Food, shelter, defense. I’m still struggling with the details, so I’ll likely need to consult with all of you.”
“I’ll do what I can, of course,” said Olvir, “but, Brother Gwarill, what else did we learn in the attempt on me that we can use? If there’s any way I can help prevent this or keep people safe—”
“I have no doubt of it,” said the priest. “I’ve heard you had dreams. Repeating ones. When did they start?”
“A little more than two months ago.”
“So I would have expected,” said Gwarill. “Sentinel, perhaps you’d best take over.”
* * *
Vivian had taken notes, once she’d had a few hours to go through her correspondence. She thanked both the gods and her past self that she had, or she might have lost her conclusions entirely in shock at Gwarill’s news. She was grateful to Olvir, too, for bringing the conversation back. The end of the world was too large to take in at once—with a nibble at a time and other subjects in between, she might be able to handle it.
“This comes from Heliodar,” she said, “from Sentinel Branwyn and the Mourner Zelen, who was previously Lord Zelen Verengir. Last autumn, they discovered that most of the Verengir family had worshipped Gizath for several generations. Those living were dealt with appropriately. Among the evidence they found were notes that the previous generation had incarnated some or all of what certain stonekin legends refer to as the Sundered Soul, the Remnant, or the Heart of Gizath.”
She saw Olvir sway backward. It was a slight movement, before his discipline kicked in, but it contained all the revulsion she could ever imagine. He’d worked it out already. In some ways, that would make the rest easier.
Speed would be merciful now,said Ulamir.
It was more mercy than Vivian had been able to give herself. She’d learned quickly to sleep when she could, no matter what the state of her mind, but that hadn’t held up the night before. Ulamir had been with her when she’d stared into the darkness, trying to reconcile what she’d learned with the man she knew.
She’d reached no peace, just an inescapable conclusion. Now she made the final blow as swift as she could.
“Either Gizath gave up his heart to kill his sister’s lover, or she splintered his soul when she attacked him in revenge. Whatever the fragment is, it would likely be extremely powerful.”
“And the Verengirs tried to make it a person.” Magarteach rolled their eyes. “Heliodar. What happened?”
“A fire. A number of deaths. That evidently gave one of their servants second thoughts. He stole the child and vanished.”
“And that’s me, isn’t it?” Despite the silence of the yurt, it was hard to hear Olvir. “The child with part of the Traitor God in him?”
Nahon was shaking his head before Olvir had finished. “It can’t be. You took an oath. Tinival would have denied you, or worse.”
“Yes, if hosting Gizath’s fragment meant you shared Gizath’s fall,” said Gwarill, hitting theifheavily. “The shard may be what Gizath could have been—the potential for good that he left behind in the moment when he struck. It may only be power. I can’t say, but I would suspect that Verengir was hoping for innate corruption or simple power. Thyran, quite probably, does likewise.”
“Then why would Gizath’s followers want Olvir dead?” Nahon asked, abandoning one line of attack and switching to the next.
Vivian wished he’d convinced her, or that she hadn’t thought of the counterargument already. “To start over,” she said.
Magarteach stood up. “Maybe they expect they won’t have to.” They took a poker and went to stir the fire. “From the sound of it, they did this before Thyran came back. His presence makes things different. You die now, maybe the rest of Gizath goes to him.”
Even though Olvir was staring straight ahead, he met nobody’s eyes. “My death wouldn’t serve our purposes either, then,” he said, toneless.
“Quite the opposite,” Gwarill replied. “You may be our best chance at thwarting Thyran’s spells.”
Olvir’s self-control abandoned him then. He turned an incredulous gaze to the priest. “How?” he demanded, “I’m sorry, Brother, but… I’ve tried to repeat what I did at Oakford. Half a dozen wizards have inspected me, and priests of all the Four. I meditated. I prayed. All that ever changed were those damned dreams.”
