The darkness before his eyes lifted as he swiped another fú, its light dancing over the doorway. Where he’d thought he’d seen the creature’s face, there was nothing.
And yet…he looked up toward the spiraling stone steps. There was no mistaking it: the air there swirled, as though stirred by a cloak that had just whipped out of sight.
Someone—or something—hadjust been here. Could they have been powerful enough to slip past his barrier Seal undetected? He could think of but two people here who might have that skill in practitioning: the two former masters of the School of the White Pines, neither of whom possessed a demonic face.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. His knuckles were white against the black bindings of the tome.
Right now, only three things were certain.
One: his ancestors had Sealed an army of their most powerful demonic practitioners in this very chamber.
Two: he needed to find out how to summon them.
And three: someone else knew all this, too. There was a spy in this palace.
Carefully, Zen set theClassic of Gods and Demonsback in the birchwood chest, along with the rest of the Mansorian treasures. He had a premonition that the secret to awakening the Deathriders lay within the tome’s pages.
But he had already been gone too long from the others; he could not stay any longer without raising suspicion.
He would have to return later tonight.
As he reached the door, he cast one more look back at the chamber—the one that had Sealed the secrets of the Mansorian clan for a hundred cycles. Forty-four caskets; forty-four Mansorian demonic practitioners. A legendary army at his fingertips.
With them, he could raze the Elantian army. With them, he could reestablish the Last Kingdom and see the Mansorian clan rule once again. See his great-grandfather’s honor reestablished as he took back the kingdom from the regime that had taken everything from him.
Forty-four Mansorian Deathriders, slumbering in an undead sleep for the past hundred cycles.
He would wake them all.
Zen extinguished the light of his fú and Sealed the doors. Beyond, the dead held still in their sleepless slumber.
Waiting.
—
When Zen stepped outside the ruins, the disciples were huddling together in the snow, seemingly in discussion with Shàn’jun. The Nameless Master and Nur, the Master of Light Arts, spoke softly; they broke away from each other when Zen emerged.
As much as defeating the Elantian Empire would not hingeon these practitioners, perhaps it was still better to have allies. Zen needed to gain their respect and earn their trust.
It started right here, right now.
He would use his Demon God’s power one more time, then, to establish his base, his stake on this land that had once belonged to his ancestors.
Zen turned to the ruins of the Palace of Eternal Peace and reached for the bridge to the Demon God inside him:I command you to return this place to its former glory. Unveil it from the snow and the rot and the damage. Restore what you can of its beauty.
He sensed his Demon God’s cunning crimson eyes watching him from everywhere and nowhere at once.As you command,it rumbled, and he felt its qì seep through his veins, taking control of his body.
Their Seal swept through the grounds, and it was like watching time run backward. Snow and ice peeled back to reveal green clay-tiled roofs lined with gold along the curving eaves. Rubble and debris from broken structures rearranged themselves to become whole again; emblems of flora and fauna and the Four Demon Gods shed the dust and mold that clung to them, regaining their bronze sheens. Cracks alongthe walls closed as colors seeped back into the stone: blue for theEternal Sky and brown for the Great Earth, the elements the Mansorians believed balanced the world. Flames roared to life on torch sconces, filling the place with light.
When the Black Tortoise finished, Zen felt that he was looking through a window to the past. The land around him was desolate, whatever life and civilization that had existed here eradicated by the Hin Imperial Army and then by the relentless turn of time. Yet before him stood a magnificent palace, gleaming gold and blazing fire. It was far from perfect—he could see the fissures to the illusion in the parts that had been too damaged to fix, in the stone that was burnt beyond repair.
But it was something. A start.
Zen looked at the palace of his ancestors and felt a thrill and, simultaneously, the opening of an abyss of loneliness inside him. Once, this place would have been filled with life: the bay of horses and the bleat of sheep, the laughter of children and the beat of drums, the calls of guards and warriors striding through the long hallways. He could almost sense the ghosts of their souls weaving around him in the now-empty courtyard and felt as though if he reached out a hand and peeled back a curtain of time, he might see his great-grandfather sitting on his throne, his young grandfather bounding down the corridors with his hounds.
One day,he thought,I will bring it back. One day soon. I vowit.
If the spirits of his ancestors buried in the slumbering earth heard his vow, they gave no response.
