Page 127 of The Cruel Dawn
Wait. I close my eyes to focus on a hum that shouldn’t be possible.
Flies.
There shouldn’t be flies in the Sanctum; corpses shouldn’t exist in the dwelling place of gods.
There are now dead gods at the Abbey. Jadon. Oh,shit.
Up ahead, two Diminished guards stand at the pavilion’s entrance. Even from the bottom of this pathway, they make me uncomfortable. Their flat eyes are more muddy than golden. My amulet thrums against my chest, warning me not to approach them.
I turn back. I hike over boulders and scale the cliffs to reach my tent. My muscles cry out and my left arm trembles. I’m weaker now from the fighting and healing down in Gasho. I can feel bruises spreading across my back with every move.
My amulet, though, keeps pulsing through it all, providing a necessary boost of power to compensate for my weakened muscles.
I sweat profusely beneath my unforgiving pewter armor. I will soon need new protection; the breastplate continues to erode, fractures grow on the greaves meant to protect my shins, the vambraces sag shapelessly around my forearms, and the scabbard holding Fury on my back feels soft enough to melt right off.
I keep climbing until I finally reach the bluffs behind my tent. Voices drift out from inside—Zephar’s and…
“You told us that she’d be here.” Orewid Rolse, the disrespectful oddity with the spotless armor and new boots.
“She’s down in Gasho,” Zephar says. “If you would’ve come when I told you to come—”
I peek through the tent’s flap.
Orewid Rolse lounges on my—my!—chaise lounge. Four other Mera soldiers stand behind him, and they wear breastplates marked with those fiery crossed swords. Crusaders.
Zephar stands with Diminished from my own contingent. Imlodel, Dayjah, and Alan, but…
Something’s out of tune.
Their skin bears crimson markings, but the color of their skin beneath the ink looks as degraded as the Devourers we just fought.
No, it’s not possible.I sniff the air.
My tent stinks of dirt and medicines.Like being left in the desert to die but…
Oh, no. These Mera Diminished have been…
Resurrected.
How? I didn’t see any leather-winged flying beasts soaring over the city.
Also inside the tent is Tatanye Lote, the Eserime healer who’d met Elyn and me on our trip to the Temple of Malik Sindire. She sits beside another healer, both women slumped over, their foreheads against their knees.
Oh, no. Are they using their order’s powers to bring the fallen back to life? It’s impossible, but I’ve seen many impossible occurrences recently.
“Will she return to you?” Orewid Rolse now asks Zephar.
Zephar smiles smugly. “Of course. Despite everything, she’s still in love with me.”
The men laugh and nod like they’re comparing notes about conquests.
“Hard to believe,” Orewid Rolse says. “One of the most powerful beings in the Aetherium moments away from losing it all for love.”
Zephar snorts and folds his arms. “It’s obvious you haven’t been loved by me.”
“She’s lost her beauty. Her skin looks like an elder’s quilt.”
Zephar glares at him now. “Her beauty remains—that will never change.”
