XXIV. Choice

Khagra was no stranger to being alone in the wilderness. Even the darkness was not something to fear. Being unable to navigate by stars, however, posed a definite problem. This whole place seemed designed to disorient, and thinking of the nature of elves, perhaps it was. Still, she moved through the ocean of shadow like a ghost. All she needed to do was find Ardashir and Vladan. A simple task, she told herself. With the noise a fully armored knight and Vladan make when they move through the wood, I'll find them. The words felt a little bit hollow when she reflected that she had no idea how far she'd been transported. The Vale was vast.

She hesitated when she heard voices and flattened herself against a tree, palms against the rough bark. Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of silver bells on a harness. That could only be elves. A burning anger started to surge through her veins, that orc battle-rage starting to rear its ugly head. She hated it, hated what it could make her do, so she choked it down as best she could. Control was something she had been learning from the priests of the Denah. She would use it now.

"She's more difficult than I thought she would be," a soft, silvery voice said. It sounded familiar, though it took Khagra a moment to place it: the female elf from earlier. "She'll require more than just glamor."

"Don't pout, my dear. They always give into you eventually." That voice made the anger worse. It was Vaeroth. She remembered his voice very clearly. "Though why you don't simply break them from the start is beyond me."

"One cultivates a flower before plucking it to watch it wither," Lieren said. "Regardless, a few more days and she'll not remember her name, let alone her purpose. I think I might keep her a while. They say the stamina of a demon's child is most impressive."

Khagra felt a growl coming. Holland was in more danger than she likely knew if the elf was correct. The orc pressed her lips together tightly to smother it, drawing the long knife she wore on her belt. She heard the sound of two people dismounting.

"The orc is here somewhere," Vaeroth said casually. "As for the other two, last I checked, they were well off the path as well. I wonder if they're wise enough to avoid the wisps. They might think the lights are the orc's torch."

"Orcs don't carry torches, darling. They have those horrible little animal eyes," Lieren said.

Gods, but they were going to pass right by her hiding place. The wise thing to do would be to just hide until they passed, then resume her search. However, Khagra wasn't feeling particularly wise at the moment. When she saw Vaeroth pass her, she crouched and whipped the blade out, hamstringing him. The elf let out a cry of pain and toppled. Without waiting for a reaction, the orc leaped out of her hiding place, slamming into Lieren with her body. She pinned the female elf against another tree, knife at the creature's throat. "Where is Holland?" she snarled.

"You don't want to do that," Lieren purred, layering every syllable with magic. "Lay your blade down."

Khagra felt her thoughts start to cloud and loosened her grip on her anger slightly. The elf was very powerful, but she was furious. She pressed the knife into soft flesh until blood welled up. "Where is Holland?" Her voice came as a growl and she saw the elf blanch when the spell failed.

"Vaeroth—" Lieren breathed out, reaching up to grab the orc's hand to push it away from her throat.

The weakness of elves was that no matter their magic, they really were delicate creatures. Khagra grabbed the rising hand and twisted hard, wrenching the elf's wrist back at a painful angle. She could feel absolute hate burning in her own chest, threatening to consume. "Where?" she demanded.

She heard Vaeroth coming and ducked out of the way of his fist, breaking Lieren's wrist as she moved. Fortunately for the elf, Khagra's tight grip on her damaged wrist didn't falter and pulled her out of the way of the blow that splintered wood. The orc threw the female elf to the side and focused on Lieren's infuriated companion, who had managed to heal himself until he could stand. Khagra knew she was incredibly fortunate that neither of the two seemed to be proper mages. Lieren was some manner of enchantress and Vaeroth channeled his magic into his own body. She knew of the tradition—she doubted he had the training to actually carry out the threat he'd made to Ardashir. He was njoshari, like Dunak. The orcs had their own traditions of magic that obviously came from similar roots, though they focused on defense rather than offense, making their own skin like iron and their frenzy unstoppable.

Did his magic make him equally durable? There was only one way to find out.

"You little beast!" Vaeroth snarled, shaking out his hand. He had been expecting to connect with something much softer than a tree. It had clearly hurt him. "To think I spared you!"

Khagra had spent years cultivating a cool, collected head in battle, but when the rage came, it couldn't be ignored. The orc hurled herself at him, moving with such ferocity that there was no time for him to make any kind of plan. Vaeroth found himself staggering backwards under the assault, barely managing to defend himself from the blows. Khagra knew how to turn every movement into an attack. A turn to evade his blow became a rising elbow to the side of his head. When he threw a kick to try and break her leg, she stepped off line and punched his shoulder hard enough that his collarbone broke. He was strong, but he couldn't take punishment the way an orc njoshari could.

The rage was a roaring inferno now, the world tinged with red. When the elf grabbed her by her free arm, she plunged her knife through his hand, driving the tip past his body and into her own. She didn't even feel the pain. The orc ripped the blade out and hit him with the hilt across the face, breaking one perfect cheekbone. Vaeroth staggered back, clutching his face with his bloodied hands.

Khagra tightened her grip on the rage again, trying to force it back into its cage just enough that she regained the ability to speak. "Where?" the orc said, voice raw and hard. She could see emotion in those distant eyes now, one that was likely very unfamiliar to the man wearing it: fear.

"She is at the Summer Court," Lieren said from behind the orc, picking herself up on the ground. She knew enough that she could mend her wrist. It seemed to have taken something out of her, though. "I am here to take you to her."

"Take me to the other two," Khagra growled. She could feel a sting in her arm now, but she ignored it. "And then take all three of us to her, witch."

"How are you able to resist?" the female elf asked.

Khagra grinned humorlessly. "Take me to them."

As Lieren nodded, Khagra realized something. The elves hadn't been pulling from sources that she could see. They hadn't drawn from the trees, the few bushes, nor Khagra herself. Any Leyan mage would have immediately turned her own life-force against her. Why had they held back? Was it possible that these two didn't know how? Or did they have some other way of fueling their powers? The orc suddenly wished she had paid even more attention to her father's ramblings. He had known more of the northern peoples than anyone else she'd ever met—including unparalleled knowledge of the secretive elves.

Khagra watched attentively as Lieren opened a portal. She was focused not on the movement of the elf's hands, but on her face. She saw it. Ever so faintly, Lieren's color faded a little bit. She was using herself as a power source. Her spell was just so efficient that she barely felt it. "You can't cast using a source beyond yourself," Khagra said aloud.

"Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better, orc," the female elf said, arrogance dripping from every word. But Khagra was perceptive and sensed it was an empty bluster. "This portal will lead us to your friends. Take my hand."

Human mages knew something that the elves didn't, just as they knew more than the orcs. Perhaps Vaeroth had heard of the practice of using others to fuel spells, but suddenly she doubted that he was capable of it. Khagra grabbed the elf's hand, holding so tightly that it made the woman wince. The orc didn't care. Now she knew that they could be beaten and how. Granted, exhausting one would be easier said than done, but an elf had to hurt itself to do harm. That limited their power and made them a little less intimidating. She would have to pass the information along to her companions. Holland in particular would probably find it interesting, considering her background.

There was a shock of cold and then they were standing right in front of Ardashir and Vladan. The anthroparion recoiled in surprise, dragging Ardashir back a few steps with him. Khagra released the elf with a glare, but was distracted from the angry words on her tongue when she felt the knight's cold arms around her. His armor pressed into her body, but she didn't really care. For a moment, he wasn't being so cautious and proper. "I was worried," Ardashir said when he pulled back, studying her face. He touched her swelling cheek with a cold gauntlet. "You look like you've been in a fight."

Khagra gave him a smile that was a little bit lopsided. Her face had bruised where Vaeroth's fist had clipped her during one of his swings. That glancing blow had done some serious damage. "You should see the elf."

"Touching as this is, I believe you had somewhere you wanted to be?" Lieren said, her musical voice colored with irritation. There was clear dislike on the elf's face as she brushed her fingers over the wound to her throat. "Your mounts will have to wait here. I'm certain the dragon will keep them from being eaten."

Ardashir spotted the cut and his eyebrows raised slightly. It was Vladan who commented, however. "I'd say she looks pretty good for walking away from a fight with you."

"Oh, I meant Vaeroth," Khagra said with no small amount of satisfaction.

"My warrior," Ardashir said with amusement and a definite warmth as he looked at her. Taking on Vaeroth successfully was certainly impressive. Gods knew he hadn't done particularly well.

Khagra felt her cheeks heat up. "Careful," she murmured. "I like the sound of that."

Lieren made a disgusted noise as she conjured her next portal. They all had to link hands to pass through it without becoming lost. Instead of emerging where she'd lead Holland before, they actually manifested inside the Summer Court itself in a long hallway, just outside a rich, dark hardwood door. The elf opened it, revealing a sitting room that was open on one side to the air, looking out over the gardens that surrounded the palatial structure. Fabric in various shades of green predominated, mingled with wood furniture that looked as if it had been grown into its shape rather than carved. Holland was standing near the edge of the overlook. She'd taken a bath despite her better instincts, but she'd put her armor back on as soon as she was out of the hot water. There wasn't too much dirt on it and she wanted to be protected.

The penitent turned, relief clear on her features. "It's good to see you three," she said.

"We need to talk," Khagra said. She'd learned more than she'd thought she would and that needed to be shared with her companions as quickly as possible. If nothing else, knowledge was power and power meant protection.

"Ah, but I have a reward to claim," Lieren said, a smile coming back to her lips as she approached Holland. Before the penitent could object, the elf looped an arm around her waist. "Aren't these friends of yours terribly tedious?"

Holland felt the clouds coming back and bit down again on her damaged lip, jolting herself out of it. She pulled away from the elf. "What?"

"For one, that one wants you for a plaything that she can break at her pleasure," the orc said, glaring at the elf.

"I gathered that," the penitent murmured.

"Second, these elf mages are a little limited in their power, for all their supposed mastery," Khagra said. She couldn't help a grin when Lieren started to glare at her. "They draw from within. Only. They're very good at it, but that doesn't change the fact."

"Bite your tongue, orc!" The female elf's beautiful face paled with anger for a moment. "Your pitiful little mayfly mages can barely power a single spell on their own, so they have to beg essence from the world around them to use as a crutch. Don't pretend they're superior to our Art."

Holland nodded slowly, processing this. That was a useful little tidbit of information. "Lieren, I'd like to speak to the Elentári," she said calmly. "Whatever quarrel you have with Khagra can wait, as well as my bargain with you."

"Is your word worth so little to you?" Lieren said. "A promise is a promise, darling. You said when I returned with your friends."

Holland's expression seemed to turn into granite. "Duty is duty."

"Very well. After. But you will be making the delay up to me." The elf waved her hand. "This way."

"What bargain did you make with the elf?" Vladan asked as they followed Lieren down the hall, his maul resting on his shoulder.

"One that I regret thoroughly," Holland muttered. "The sooner this is done, the sooner we can leave."

Ardashir rested his hand on the grip of his mace. "Are we certain we want them as allies?"

"No." Holland sighed a little bit. "But I have a feeling we're going to need them. They know more about the First World than any other people I've ever heard of. If anyone can recall how Deus was cast down and the Princes driven back the first time, it would be them."

Khagra nodded reluctantly. She understood the logic, but it didn't make the kernel of hate at the center of her chest fade any. The orc let her hand brush against Ardashir's. She was surprised when the knight actually caught her hand and gave it a brief and gentle squeeze, but pleasantly so.

The Summer Court was not built in straight lines or like any building Holland had ever been in before. It spiraled inward towards its center. The stone was cracked within as well to the point where trees were growing up through the roof. Elves drifted by, watching them with malevolently curious eyes. Holland tried to focus on anything but those relentless observers, fixating on the murals on the wall. They were beautiful works of art, endlessly complicated interlocking patterns framing scenes that prickled at Holland's memory. She had seen these images before somewhere, pictures of great battles and rising towers.

Then she caught something out of the corner of her eye and stopped dead in her tracks. One of the murals was damaged, cracked in two with leaves sprouting from between, but she would have recognized that ebon seat anywhere: the Desolate Throne. Holland approached it, completely forgetting about where they were going for a moment. Instead of the dark shape of Deus sitting on the throne, there was a brown-haired woman. Her body was split in two by the crack and her face was mostly gone. "Lieren, who is this?"

The elf laughed. "It's a picture, darling, from ages ago. Gods only know who it's of. Perhaps the Elentári will have an answer for you. Now follow me."

Lieren lead them into a room that was like no throne room Holland had ever seen. It was not as large as the one in Yssa she had become acquainted with, maybe twenty feet long and twenty feet wide. Green growth was everywhere, covering the statues on each wall. The ceiling was cracked in places, allowing sunlight to fall on the leaves. A carpet of moss and grass had formed over the stone beneath their feet. The only thing that seemed untouched by nature was the glass chrysalis on the far wall. At least, that was the closest Holland could come to describing it. It was no box like coffin, but instead looked like a spun web of glass held together by light. There was a woman within, floating in a soft golden glow. If she was an elf, it was impossible to tell. She barely looked like a woman, except for the general shape of her body. Her face was so covered with scar tissue that it was almost featureless, burned away. The burns didn't stop there. Every inch of exposed skin appeared to be equally damaged. Her left arm was hanging by a thread and her ribs were visible on her right side, the skin charred away. Both legs were barely more than cinders. Holland had never seen anyone so badly wounded who had survived, including Immortals. There was no sound of breath or sign of life, only a soft whispering sound that increased slowly in volume as they approached.

"Mother, you have guests," Lieren said. "They would speak to you. Not that you will hear them any more than you hear us."

I know you, a voice said. Holland knew two things about it for certain: one, it was coming from the woman in front of her and two, it had not reached her mind by way of her ears. If you are here, it has begun.

An uneasy feeling was starting to grow in the pit of the penitent's stomach. "How do you know me?"

You are the one it has been waiting for.

"Deus," Holland said quietly.

There was something that might have been laughter, soft and rasping, but it was completely humorless. No. He is subject to the laws of time and destiny just as you and I are. I speak of that which is outside of time. What has always been and will always be. The Desolate Throne. No doubt your demonology taught you that Deus created it. How He wishes that were the case.

The small group stilled. Everyone in the room could hear the voice, Holland realized. Ardashir, Khagra, and Vladan were all looking at the scarred figure intently as well. Lieren looked surprised. Clearly she hadn't expected the woman to speak.

Deus thought He could hold a tempest by a thread, and so He crafted a handhold. But the Desolate Throne's true nature is not that of an object. Its physical form is an expression, a facet, of a force older than time and space. Life's opposite—what is death but absence? He did not realize what He had wrought, and so He sought to use it. It shattered Him. The gods thought to use it to rein in His creations. It shattered them. Now all that remains are His pieces, their shadows, and this wretched husk of me.

"What are you?" Vladan asked curiously.

I was once the Life-Giver. I had many names. Elentári to the elves. Aimti to the humans. Denah, to the wild peoples. Now I am remnants of the force that unifies all living things.

"Are you the woman on the Desolate Throne in that mural?" Holland asked.

No. Again came that humorless laugh. You are.

"That's not possible." Holland felt a sudden urge to back away. It was said that the gods could see the future in a way that mortals couldn't, but she didn't want to believe it. "Orobas said time is ruled by potential. This is a mistake."

Is it? Do you know why the Immortals were crafted? Because one of the Princes realized the mistake that Deus had made in trying to control it Himself. The others copied Saraqael's example, but they did not understand his purpose. They merely found such elevated servants to be useful in their selfish wars. He knew that he would need a creature who could withstand sorcerous power but would be flawless in its obedience to his will, if he were to replace Deus. Then he could use them as a conduit, commanding the power through them and preserving himself from the destruction of the Desolate Throne. He ordered Orobas the Architect to construct them, and so the master of sorcery did so for hundreds of years. But something was always insufficient to the task. And then, Orobas made what he thought was a mistake. He gave one the freedom to choose. By doing so, he finally created a vessel who could use the Throne. All sorcery responds to will. That is why demons can wield it, but Immortals are only slaves to it.

Holland realized distantly that Ardashir was holding onto her shoulder to steady her. "Did Saraqael know?" she asked numbly. She found herself shaking her head slightly.

When you were cast into the sea, he confronted Orobas, demanding to know why one of his Immortals had faltered. When he uncovered the truth, he realized what you were. He finally understood why nothing had worked. But by then, he thought you dead and beyond his reach. Why do you think he is so eager to sway you back into his service? Why do you think Deus speaks to you alone? Both intend to use you for the same purpose. You thought that when you broke free, you would be able to change your fate. Even Orobas believed this to be the case in his own way. But I am life. I know my opposite. I know you.

"I don't have to ever touch it," Holland said. She wanted to scream, but her throat was closing up.

No, you do not have to. You have a choice. You can watch as the Princes of Iron burn the world. Perhaps it will comfort you, knowing that you condemned them to their smoldering graves with thoughts full of light. But there is another way.

"You want me to use the Throne." She didn't believe it. She wouldn't believe it.

It possesses the power to lay them to true ruin. The evil would consume you, shatter you, but you would preserve everything you claim to love. You have always been a creature of emptiness and shadow, a simulacrum of life. You are a pale imitation of the living, little different from the demons that ushered you into this world. The only echo of a soul you have is your will. It is a small price to pay for the survival of the world.

Holland could feel her eyes burning as tears tried to fall. The most that happened was that her vision blurred a little bit. "That is not a choice," she said, her hands knotting into fists. Ardashir's hand tightened on her shoulder as she started to tremble. Giving herself over to the void was the exact thing she'd tried to escape since she'd left the west. She remembered the darkness, the cold. Death was a pleasant thought when compared to it.

Did I say it would be easy? Pleasant? No. But it is still a choice. It will always be a choice.

"It's okay, Holland. We'll find another way," Ardashir said soothingly. "You're more than an echo. You have a soul. A heart. You live. You love. It's okay. We'll find another way."

There is such comfort in lies.

Vladan's fur was standing on end and he growled at the figure wreathed in light and crystal. "Leave her alone," he snarled protectively, taking a step forward.

I am only the messenger of Fate. Hide in a hole if you wish, but truth is immutable and inescapable.

Khagra wrapped her arms around Holland, pulling the penitent backwards towards the door. "This talk is done," the orc said, her yellow eyes deeply concerned. "Come on, Holland."

It was Lieren who opened the door for the orc, since Holland was starting to struggle blindly against the grip. It was starting to become unclear whether the penitent wanted to run, cry, or kill something. What Khagra did know was that this particular room with the goddess at one end was a bad place for all three. Even the elf looked distinctly uneasy. "Take her back to my room," she said. "I will converse with the others. They will want to know that the Elentári has spoken to someone. It means the end is coming."

When Holland broke free of Khagra's grip, Vladan scooped her up before she could go anywhere. She was trapped tight against his furry chest and no amount of struggling was going to free her from the way the anthroparion was holding her. She tried twisting and flailing, but it was doing her no good. His claws just sank into her skin mercilessly until blood trickled down, but Holland didn't feel it. It was like the world had gone dark and the air was stealing out of her lungs. Vladan had no intention of letting her go. He shrugged off the beating of her fists against his densely muscled body.

"I've never seen her like this. She needs us," Khagra said quietly to Ardashir as they followed.

He shook his head, dark eyes worried and sorrowful. "She needs Seva."