Makiel fully faced the image on the lens, his hands still behind his back, looking away from her. “What changes did you make in this young man’s life?” he asked.
She told the truth, as it would not matter. The Eledari Pact only prevented Abidan from changing the destiny of a healthy Iteration. Saving one young man’s life wouldn’t have altered anything. “He was caught in a spatial violation, which I reverted. After conversing with him, I determined that he was fated to die in a disaster, and I set him on a course to prevent it.”
“You stayed within the bounds of the Pact,” Makiel agreed. “But someone else did not.”
Cradle’s deviation. It hadn’t been her interference after all. But who…
The answer came to her before she even finished answering the question.
“Ozriel left something behind, it seems,” Makiel went on. “For his descendants.”
The picture changed to show a man in his early thirties, handsome and smiling, with blond hair trailing behind him. He wore a silk robe of fine blue, and he looked down fondly on someone: Yerin, the girl that Suriel had told Lindon to seek. She scowled at a pale white sword as she knelt on the ground, invisible blades cutting at the dirt around her and nicking the edges of her robes. Two silver blades hung on thin arms over her shoulders: Goldsigns.
The man was training her. Eithan Arelius, an Underlord in the Arelius family.
A touch of anger entered Makiel’s voice. “Ozriel’s bloodline, from before he was Ozriel. He worked against us before he ever gained his Mantle.”
Now it was starting to come together in Suriel’s mind. Some artifact of Ozriel’s had been recently found by one of his descendants, altering that man’s destiny. Then Suriel’s actions had changed Lindon’s direction.
And the two had collided.
On their own, neither of those changes had been significant. Together, they would be exponentially more dangerous. And more difficult to predict.
“Their actions would have affected all of Cradle,” the Hound said. “They would work for decades, changing the Iteration, and eventually derailing it entirely. I cannot see any further than thirty years in Cradle’s future.”
That was chilling. Either it meant that Cradle would be destroyed so soon, or it would have changed so drastically that its relationship to Fate shifted. Either way, they couldn’t jeopardize their Cradle. It produced an Abidan candidate every century or so: far more than any other Iteration.
“I will resolve this,” Suriel said heavily.
“This is a violation of Fate. It is the mandate of Makiel.” He shifted his gaze to her. “However, I will act with a gentle hand. I intend to accelerate events so that they cannot stay within the confines of the world for so long. The faster they are gone, the lesser the damage.”
“You have a solution?”
“I believe I do. If I am successful, their world itself will eventually force them to leave, and will not tolerate their staying and making alterations. However, this does increase the personal risk to both subjects.”
The odds were already stacked against Lindon, but the alternative was manipulating his memory and sending him home. This was a peace offering from Makiel to her, fixing the problem she had helped create while keeping her favored mortal intact. All the while demonstrating the damage that Ozriel’s meddling could cause.
She appreciated the gesture. Perhaps Makiel was willing to work together for unity after all.
Suriel nodded, and the Hound reached up to his Presence.
***
Jai Daishou stood before a stone door, weighing his life in his mind.
The door was marked with a familiar symbol, one that had remained embedded in his memory for decades. It was etched with four beasts: on the top, a coiling dragon surrounded by rain and crackling with lightning. On the bottom, a phoenix with feathers like drops of blood. To the right, an armored warrior with the shell of a turtle and a sword so rough it was almost a club. To the left, a tiger seated on treasure and crowned with light.
This was more than just a decoration. It was a warning.
By his oath to the Empire, he should not open this door. It was located inside Jai clan territory, beneath a lake and past miles of underground tunnel. This was the deepest into the labyrinth he—or anyone else—had ever dared to delve since the demise of the old Blackflame Empire.
Behind him, in the shallow chambers, had once been a series of Gold-stage weapons and devices left by ancient Soulsmiths. His clan had plundered that chamber decades ago.
But here...past this door were weapons for Lords. Ancient records described a few of their number, and with any one of them, he could shoot to the top of the Underlord rankings. With some, he could declare himself Emperor.
Of course, opening this door was punishable by the death of one's entire clan. Part of his mandate as Patriarch of the Jai clan was to prevent anyone from entering.
It was forbidden not because of the power of its contents, but because of their danger. When this door had been opened before, it had called disaster down on the entire continent.
But then, it had remained open for years. Now, he would be in and out in a flash. No one would ever know.
The Dreadgods wouldn't be watching so closely.
He had even consulted some oracles, who confirmed that there was no hint of the Dreadgods in their dreams. At least not for several decades.
That was good enough for him. But still he hesitated.
Every day of his life, he had been taught to serve his clan so that his clan could serve the Empire. In his earlier rage against Eithan Arelius, he had been willing to risk this, but now that he faced it...was he really willing to put everything at risk?
He thought of his clan, doomed to slide into obscurity without him to lead them. If he opened this door and was detected, they would be executed by either the Dreadgods or the Empire. No matter how good his odds, was he really willing to roll the dice with his family's lives?
But what kind of lives would they be, without an Underlord at their helm? They would not enjoy the respect, the standard of living to which they had become accustomed. They would have to live like paupers.
Dithering over a decision for so long wasn't like him. He was a man of action.
And he couldn't wait to see the smile torn from Eithan Arelius' face.
With a ward key in each hand, he pressed them against the script-circles to the sides of the door. He had to pour most of his madra into the circles before they activated—far more than he anticipated, enough that the loss of power left him gasping for air—and those didn't even open the door. They caused a pedestal to rise from the floor, set with yet another circle of script.
On his fingertips, he ignited soulfire. The gray, almost colorless flame danced for a moment before being sucked into the script.
It drew more, enough that he was glad he had woven extra soulfire before coming. When it had finished devouring a stream of dull fire, it flickered once and then slid back down into the ground.
This time, the door swung silently open.
Power washed out, flooding him with awe. He glanced at the aura, which seemed both shining white and utter black at the same time, as though he couldn't see through the doorway because it was both too bright and too dark. Either way, the aura blinded his spiritual sight, and he had to close down that sense as he stepped inside the ancient storehouse.