A Hand Weaving Chaos (Book 2 of The Fallen Gods Trilogy)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

She is alone. She stands in a room that offers echoes of familiarity but is certain she has never been before. The room is large, well-lit, well-ventilated. The air is inordinately cool. Bright lights shine overhead and buzz unexpectedly at her. Objected are mounted on walls. Others are displayed on pedestals of wood and glass. Paintings and banners and swords and shields and things she has never seen outside this room are laid before her. Each is preserved in a tomb of glass. She ignores them. None of these things are what she looks for.

Treading farther, she passes tiny stone carvings and idols. Jewelry decorated with intricate, interlocking designs are there also. She pauses and thinks she may have seen such things before. But no, they are merely reflections of experiences in other lives, other places. They do not matter now and she does not have time for them. Only one thing truly draws and holds her attention. She can feel it now, calling to her as a newborn would cry for its mother.

Finally, once she rounds one of the room's many corners, is she able to see it. The dagger. It is encased in thick glass. At her approach, it emanates a light that would blind all others but her. She stops before it, leans forward, places her hands on the glass. It feels cold under her fingers. The cold goes unnoticed as she peers in. The blade is of an untarnished silver, etched with a language written in an elaborate calligraphy she suspects no one but her is able to understand. 'Out of chaos, comes life' it reads. The hilt is a flawless gold, carefully maintained, polished to a sheen. She knows that hilt will fit precisely in her hand as it will for no other.

She pushed against the glass and feels the rush of power. Threads gather. The glass grows warms, becomes molten. Glass melts, dribbling to the floor as a liquid and bubbles like lava. Then the dagger is in her hands. She gasps, overwhelmed by it and a heady rush of energy. Even without threads swarming her, the dagger contains a raw, untapped power all its own. With so much at her disposal, she could do anything. Yet even as she thinks this, she feels a gentle pressure on the edge of her consciousness. Something is not quite right. Not quite hers. And then, she feels the corrupted magic. She sees the thinnest of black threads lying oh so near the dagger's previous resting place. The dagger has been tampered with. A portal opens and from it spill aldar teres. They come by the hundreds, by the thousands. They burst into the room, snarling and gnashing their teeth.

A man is before her, a sword in hand, slashing left and right. She sees only his back because he moves like a dangerous wind and he is so very fast. Every sword stroke brings death. He litters the floor with aldar tere bodies and she knows he is the finest swordsman any world has ever seen. But there are too many aldar teres to fight, even for him. He is cut down, blood oozing from wounds all over his body. He cries out. She screams to him, screams a name she does not realize she knows. With great effort, he fights his way to her side, defending her with everything he is.

Still, it is not enough. As aldar teres stream through the open portal, it is not enough. The dagger is dead in her hands, made powerless by her weakness. She can do nothing. Is nothing. Aldar teres are everywhere. The man shouts. His black hair is now sticky with blood. He slashes and cuts, but there are too many. She cannot... The dagger...

"Kydel! Kydel! How could you abandon me?"

*

Jill woke with a start, sitting up in bed, heart in her throat. Her blankets were clutched to her chest as if to shield herself from the dream. Impossible. Still, she clutched them tighter and pulled them over her head. She shivered. So much blood and violence. So much fear. And this had been Astera's dream. Again, Jill shivered. How could the High Priestess have endured it? No wonder Astera had tried so hard to make her realize her responsibilities. This had been the worst dream yet.