“What’s this?” Seth’s voice was hushed. “A funicular? Where’s the pulley system?”
“A railway,” Eneva corrected. “It ran on wind, water, and solar power, from the Flamewood to the Fractured Peninsula. Most of the network was destroyed. But it’s a useful space for training when caution is paramount.”
She bade Neri follow her and Solai to a metal cage—about the size and shape of a kirikil cart and similarly lined with rickety seats. Opposite stood a row of stuffed training dummies. Seth remained at Neri’s side, regarding everything with suspicion, right hand never far from his sword.
Ysira walked to the edge of the platform alone. She gazed out into a necropolis of ancient machinery looming in every direction. A waterfall roared beyond the platform, spraying flecks of moisture through the air as it tumbled down.
On the other side of the platform, Solai raised her arms overhead. After half a minute of nothing, sparks danced between her palms. Her demon’s ability to channel energy from the Source was nothing compared to Naxal’s, but the principlesproved similar, and the woman was an effective tutor. Over the last few days, Ysira had developed a cautiously high opinion of her.
As he joined Ysira, Ogden said, “It’s been several years since my last visit. Mondral and Solai are the only valak, now?”
“Not for lack of trying,” said Ysira. “In the last five years, Eneva’s sent nineteen telepaths through the Gate. Mostly Tier Two, and I’m told those rarely return. When they do . . .”
She nodded toward Solai. Extradimensional energy flickered and threatened to sputter out in her grasp. With a shout, she hurled it at the centermost training dummy. Her aim was flawless—she’d hit it square in the face. Left it slightly singed.
“It’s not ideal,” Ysira muttered as Ogden cringed.
Mondral might prove a better asset. He was getting on in years, but before his defection, he’d served in the Zivoran City Guard. He was a strong Tier Three telepath, had actually fought Church inquisitors, and the militiamen revered him. As for his demon, though . . . He refused to tell Ysira what it could do. He refused to tellanyone, only claimed it was impractical in combat, and had seemed annoyed she’d asked in the first place.
Ogden sighed. “Elyas was their best warrior.” A pause. “You took a risk, sparing Brother Kheris.”
“Youbrought him here.”
“I thought the Gatekeeper would either find him an asset or relish the chance to kill him.” Ogden shrugged. “Either option might have afforded me some additional leverage.”
Solai had moved away, motioning Seth and Eneva to follow. The three of them sheltered behind the metal cage as Neri attempted to copy what he’d just seen.
Energy condensed between his hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The light flared brighter, and Ysira had to shield her eyes. But she felt Neri’s strike hit home. It shook loose a shower of dust and decapitated one of the dummies.
“Hmm,” said Ogden.
“I’ve seen him do much more,” said Ysira. “When we came out of the canyon, the Lord of Sickness was waiting for us. Neri destroyed his body.”
“He can do it under extreme duress,” Ogden inferred. “I assume the Gatekeeper put pressure on him until he burned her arm?”
Ysira nodded reluctantly. “I think the language barrier is the bigger problem. If Jacen is willing to attempt communion with Naxal, he may be able to help.”
Neri was frustrated now. Ysira had been quick to pick up on what he looked like when he was struggling not to cry, because she did the same thing—pacing, staring at the ceiling, making too many hand gestures. Seth and Solai recognized it too. Seth pointed at the headless dummy. From Eneva’s look of intense annoyance, he was making some sort of desperate joke.
Solai took Neri gently by the shoulders. She had children close to his age and was far more adept than Ysira when it came to putting him at ease. Whatever she said must have worked, because his posture loosened a touch. He nodded several times.
“Regardless,” Ysira made herself say, “we’ve made progress. Neri destroyed Nabatar, or at least badly injured him. And I saw the bones of another god in the canyon.”
“Nabatar,” Ogden repeated, puzzling something out from the name. “And Tharanoth still lives. Rakalem oversaw the Harvest, and Ileth was present in Zivora not long after. If Nabatar was in the canyon . . . that leaves two.”
“For what?”
“Do you remember my patient—the man we couldn’t wake?”
“Are you saying—” Ysira stopped, as the memory of Casandra Semira’s final moments flashed unbidden through her mind. “He was possessed? By a god?”
Ogden nodded grimly. “One of their own, spying on me for days. It’s a miracle Urien escaped notice. We have to be cautious. These creatures are cunning, and nothing if not patient.”
He was troubled, more than Ysira had ever seen him. It alarmed her enough to ask, “Why would they have targeted you in the first place?” “When you were on the station,” Ogden said, instead of answering,
“which of the gods did you meet?” “Only Tharanoth.”
“Did he say anything about Turil?” Ogden struggled to say the name; it came out of him a broken whisper. Old as he was, Ysira had never thought he wore his years as a burden. Now, though, he seemed positively frail.
