The door to our cell opens, and I blink against the light streaming in. The single candle they gave us, burned out over an hour ago, leaving us in complete darkness. And with all of our hands bound in copper, none of us has been able to use magic to create light. The klericks knowing to use copper to dull our magic is yet more proof that they’re mages.
“You.” The guard points toward me. “Come.”
I take a strong stance to confront him. “I’m not going anywhere without the others.”
“Do you want to see the Prime Klerick or not?” The guard shakes his head as if annoyed.
I glance toward Surath, then the others. Their expressions tell me they think I should go. It’s bad enough that I’ve been separated from my wife, I don’t want to be separated from Surath, Xendus and Saxon, too. But this meeting could prove very useful and provide clues as to what we might face at thetribunal, and more importantly, how we can expose the fallacies and hypocrisies around this religion.
I step forward. The guard roughly grabs the copper chains around my bound hands and drags me out of the cell. Five other guards stand armed and ready, as if they think I’ll attack at any moment.
Good. They should be afraid of me. Even with this copper muting my magic, I’m still very strong and have no doubt I could kill at least one of these guards and force another to release the copper from my hands. But I must keep the end goal in mind.
I’m marched down long corridors and up winding stone stairs. The higher we climb, the air becomes clearer and brighter, until we reach a level with natural light. It’s morn. The full night passed while we were held in captivity.
As we continue, the surroundings become more and more opulent, until everything in my sight is formed from marble and covered in gold and fine gems.
Anger builds inside me.
As I flew across the Light, I saw evidence of great poverty amongst the common people. Clearly, much wealth has been stolen from others and consolidated at this place of worship. A shrine created for a god I am certain does not and never did exist. The religion’s entire premise is based on a series of lies, some of which I’ve yet to unearth.
I’m led into a room that’s the most luxurious space I’ve seen yet. More anger builds inside me at the hypocrisy of these people. Ahead, a group of klericks in fine robes kneel in front of a throne, looking up at the individual seated there with obvious reverence. The Prime Klerick, I presume.
Saxon claimed the Prime Klerick he saw was as tall as two men, and proportionately broad. This man is smaller than that. He’s clothed in fine silk and velvet, and his head dress is covered in gold and gems. A translucent red fabric masks his face.
“Stand,” the Prime Klerick says to the kneeling men.
I try to hide my shock. The voice is decidedly female, and the klericks immediately rise and step back from her throne. Given the misogyny that’s infected the Light, I never imagined their current leader could be female.
“Remove our guest’s bindings,” the Prime Klerick instructs, “and then leave us.”
“But your holiness—” One of the klericks objects, but the Prime Klerick raises a hand toward him, and the end of his sentence is strangled.
The klericks all continue to back away, coming so close I fear they’ll run into me.
Before leaving the room, one of them undoes my bindings, taking the copper chains with him.
I resist the urge to rub my abraded wrists as I consider what tactic to take. After I told the guards that I was a superi king and demanded an audience with the Prime Klerick, the four of us discussed what I should say, in the unlikely case my demand was granted. Surath feels certain I should lead with deference and flattery. That I should pretend to be impressed by this Prime Klerick and what’s been accomplished in the Light.
I’m totally in the dark about this woman, but it’s clear she’s a mage. The Darkness surrounding her is palpable, so I decide to take Surath’s advice and remain silent until spoken to.
“I’m told you claim to be a king.” Her hands slide along the ornately carved arms of her throne. “The king of where, precisely?” Her voice drips with condescension.
“I am Zogar, King of the Dragons.” I leave out the second part of my title, which would make meherking, because it’s clear she’s a mage.
Her head twitches. “Dragon?” She shifts on the throne. “You are averylarge man, but to claim you’re a dragon?” She laughs, and one of her fingers strokes the throne’s arm. “Perhaps I should take a better look.”
She lifts the veil off her face, and my breath hitches. I know this woman. This mage. How is it possible she’s still alive?
“You like what you see.” She smiles seductively, clearly misinterpreting my shocked expression.
“You possess great beauty,” I say, hoping to explain my reaction.
Also, it’s true. If anything, she’s more beautiful than I remember. Shiny dark curls dance around a face with bright green eyes and deep red lips. But I also see the ugliness lurking under her physical appearance.
I don’t recall her name, but this mage was part of a faction who opposed the Great Separation. I remember her, not only because of her beauty, but because she oft spoke for that group.
She blinks, then frowns. “We’ve met before. But the last time I saw you, you were in your more natural form.”
