“Only half of one,” Jarl said, the shadow of a smile coming to his lips. “The other half he gets when you send me word that you’ve made it safely.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do for Kylar.” Jarl looked down, ashamed. “It’s also the most I can do.”
Elene hugged him. “It’s more than enough. Thank you.”
“The girl’s downstairs. She won’t leave his bo—she won’t leave him.”
He recognized this place. The white-gold warmth suffused him; his flesh gloried in the light. He moved through the tunnel with sure and easy steps. Eagerness without hurry.
Gentle fingers closed his eyes.
A child shrieked. Regrets. Sorrow. Darkness. Cold.
He blinked away the nightmare. Breathed. Let the white-gold light hold him again.
“Grab his arm, Uly. Help me.”
Cold stones slid under his back. Discomfort. Pain. Hopelessness.
Then even the cold and the jostling faded.
He walked forward unsteadily in the tunnel. Broke into a jog. This was where he belonged now. Here, without pain.
A tear splashed on his face. A woman spoke, but he couldn’t make out the words.
He stumbled and fell. He lay there, terrified, but the nightmare didn’t come back. He got up to his knees, stood. At the next step he smacked up against . . . nothing.
He put his hands out and felt the invisible barrier. It was as cool as iron and as smooth as glass. Beyond it, the warmth increased, the white-gold light beckoned him. Were those people up ahead?
Something was pulling him aside, away. He felt twisted, and slowly a chamber came into focus—not the chamber, for the chamber itself remained indistinct, it seemed full of people intensely curious to see him, but he couldn’t make them out. All that was truly in focus was a man seated before him on a low throne, and two doors. The door at his right hand was of beaten gold. Light leaked around every edge, the same warm white-gold light Kylar had just been in. The door to his left hand was plain wood with a simple iron latch. The man’s face was dominated by lambent, lupine yellow eyes. He wasn’t tall, but he exuded authority, potency.
“What is this place?” Kylar asked.
A toothy smile. “Neither heaven nor hell. This, if you will, is the Antechamber of the Mystery. This is my realm.”
“Who are you?”
“It pleased Acaelus to call me The Wolf.”
“Acaelus? You mean Durzo?” Kylar asked.
“Before you, there is a choice. You may proceed through one door or the other. Choose the gold, and I will release you back to where you just were, and you will have my apology for interrupting your journey.”
“My journey?”
“Your journey to heaven or hell or oblivion or reincarnation or whatever it is that death holds.”
“Do you know?” Kylar asked.
“This is the Antechamber of the Mystery, Azoth. You will find no answers here, just choices.” The Wolf grinned, and it was a joyless grin, a predatory grin. “Through the wood door, you will go back to your life, your body, your time—or nearly so. It will take a few days for your body to heal. You will be the Night Angel in truth, as Acaelus was before you. Your body will be immune to the scourge of time as Acaelus’ was—something that perhaps one must become old to appreciate. You will also heal at a rate beyond that of mortal men. What you call your Talent will grow. You can still be killed; the difference is, you will come back. You will be a living legend.”
It sounded wonderful. Too good, even. I’d be like Acaelus Thorne. I’d be like Durzo. The latter thought gave him pause. The burden of immortality—however it worked—or the power of it or sheer press of so much time was what had turned Acaelus Thorne, the prince, the hero, into Durzo Blint, the hopeless, bitter murderer. He remembered his snide remark to Durzo:
“Here I thought the Night Angels were invincible.”
“They’re immortal. It’s not the same.”
“Why would you do this for me?” Kylar asked.
“Perhaps I don’t do anything at all. Perhaps it is the ka’kari’s work.”
“What’s the price?”
“Ah, Durzo has taught you well, hasn’t he?” The Wolf looked almost mournful. “The truth is, I don’t know. I can only tell you what I have heard from those more enlightened than I. They believed that coming back from death as you would was such a violation of the natural order of things that this unnatural life cost the afterlife. That for his seven centuries of life, Acaelus traded all eternity. But they might