by Adrian Stone

DEVIL TRILOGY

1 The Devil’s Prophet

2 The Devil’s Son

3 The Devil’s Soul

RUNE

1 The Eighth Rune

2 The First God

Adrian Stone

The Devil’s Prophet

LUITINGH-SIJTHOFF

© 2009, 2015 Adrian Stone

& Uitgeverij Luitingh-Sijthoff B.V., Amsterdam

All Rights Reserved

Translation: Lia Belt

Cover design: Mariska Cock

Cover illustration: Jesse van Dijk

Map: Peter Schravendeel

ePub: Text & Image, Eexterveen

ISBN 978 90 245 7140 6

www.adrianstone.com

www.lsamsterdam.nl

Thanks to my parents, Peter Braker, Ada Engel, Kors Jan Snoeij, and Peter Schravendeel for their comments and their support.

1

The Prophet

A leaden haze of smoke covered the smoldering remnants of the city like a shroud. Most of the fires had been extinguished by now, and the survivors of the war, mostly women and children, shambled between the blackened debris of what had once been their homes, desperately trying to find what little of their possessions had been left intact. Most of the men had been taken away or lay where they had fallen, some of them mutilated beyond recognition.

      Battle scars were visible everywhere, especially around the main temple in the city center. The temple square was draped in a thick layer of ashes mixed with blood. Vultures circled overhead in anticipation of a feast.

      On a nearby hillside, in a silver cuirass and a helm with a nose guard – both had lost their shine years ago – a soldier stood watching the scene. Leaning on a tall spear, he peered hollow-eyed across the battlefield, absently rubbing his gauntlet over rusty brown spots of dried blood on the barb of his weapon. In his mind’s eye, he could still picture Grova’s temple square as it had looked only yesterday. The memory made him shiver. He had wreaked havoc among the citizens from the saddle of his steed. A lancer in the Royal Guard, he was partly responsible for this massacre in the name of the Holy War.

      The cloth covering his nose and mouth was barely sufficient to keep out the smoke and stench. He looked over his shoulder as if checking to see that the army camp in the valley behind him was still there. Not that the sight of the camp was so uplifting – he was just seeking confirmation that he was not alone. The long rows of tents strung out across the valley had been painted grey by the ash rain, a far cry from the pure white encampment it had been only days before. The Royal Guard’s pride had been dealt a terrible blow.

      Figures were moving around between the tents – the survivors from King Varig of Carolia’s Third Regiment of guards. Inside the larger tents along the outer edge of the camp, the soldier knew, healers and priests were feverishly trying to save his wounded comrades from a worse fate.

      The guard had been lucky. He was still alive. His family, left behind in Tulda, the capital, would not have to go on without him. The Cataris Cult had suffered a decisive defeat. Their leader – Zabatha, the prophet of doom – had finally been captured.

      Suddenly he was alert again, vigilant, spotting movement from the corner of his eye. A rider had appeared from the shadows of the damaged South Gate and was galloping toward the army camp. Impeccable white robes marked the figure as a priest of Viguru’s order. The robes seemed unusually lumpy as if the rider were humpbacked. The guard on the hilltop shrugged – a single priest posed no threat.

Closer to the army camp, the rider reined in and unbuckled a billowing robe, draping it around the saddle horn. The stranger’s arrival had not gone unnoticed. One of the soldiers, staring slack-jawed, took a step forward. A moment later all the soldiers stopped what they were doing as the rider slowly moved forward into the camp. Some of the men dropped to their knees, but most of them only stared in disbelief, and some with undisguised aversion.

      The rider moved toward the center of the camp and halted before a large tent. It differed from the others in that King Varig’s coat of arms, a golden falcon with a gaping beak, was woven into the canvas sides.

      The Third Regiment’s standard was on display outside the tent; its pole was wrapped in strips of grey leather – sardik skin. Sardiks are man-sized, lizard-like predators; one of the most dangerous creatures in Carolia, they are found mainly around the swamps of Zürq in the east of the country. Every regiment of the Royal Guard had chosen an animal to represent them, and the sardik had been the Third’s totem for many generations now; it was cherished by all the guards. Sardik teeth, skins, and claws were regarded as marks of great courage since men were only allowed to wear them after single-handedly defeating one of those monsters.

      The shorter of the two soldiers standing guard outside the tent opened the tent flap and alerted someone inside. The rider waited patiently, seemingly unruffled by the mounting excitement in the camp.

      An officer ducked beneath the flap and stepped outside, his hand on his sword. He ignored the soldiers’ dutiful salutes. Obudan Dravna, colonel and regiment commander, was an older man with a weathered face, an aquiline nose and short, graying hair. The front of his tunic bore the symbol of the golden falcon, partly hidden from view by two sardik claws dangling from a strap around his neck.

      Gazing up from beneath bushy eyebrows, Obudan gave the rider a searching look. His eyes lit up in recognition. But the smile on his face crumpled when he spotted the boy who was trying to stay out of sight behind the rider’s back.

      The regiment commander closed his fist more firmly around the hilt of his sword. He took a deep breath, staring up inquiringly at the woman the boy was clinging to.

      “What’s this? Devil’s spawn?” The distaste in his voice was obvious. “Where did you find the mongrel, Your Reverence?”

      Unperturbed, the woman on the horse looked down at him. She had delicate features, making her age difficult to gauge, although the fine folds in the skin of her neck indicated she was mature. She raised a slender hand and wiped an unruly lock of russet hair from her face. Her green eyes seemed to stare right through him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Colonel. Such words don’t suit you,” she said quietly. “He’s just a child.”

      “Is he now? Well, he’ll soon grow up, giving us one more red priest to worry about. And the consequences …” He gestured toward the city. “Devil’s spawn, that’s what they are!”

      “I’m sick and tired of hearing those words, Colonel. A man of your standing should know better. It’s bad enough to hear people in the streets call them that. For me, and that means for you too, they are Catarists.”

      The woman glanced around quickly, her gaze tracing the curious faces in the group of soldiers gathered around them. “I suggest we continue this discussion inside your tent,” she said frostily. Colonel Obudan threw a withering glance toward the boy, who was still trying to stay hidden behind the priestess, but then he nodded in resignation. No one messed with one of Viguru’s high priestesses. He lent Verina Frachala a hand to help her dismount. Verina then lifted the boy from her horse.

      The child stood on shaking legs, his gaze lowered. He was a skinny lad with unruly brown hair and large brown eyes. The filthy, blood-red robe he wore hung limply around his body. His thin arms dangled by his sides, and his left hand idly scratched his thigh. The hand had only four fingers – where his little finger had been, only a small, notched stump was visible.

      “Give the boy something to eat and watch over him until I return,” the high priestess ordered the two guards outside the tent entrance. “I’ll hold you personally responsible for him. If anything happens to him, I’ll blame you two.” Verina gazed at the duo sternly. “And you won’t like it when I do,” she continued in a dangerously low tone when she saw the men casting inquisitive glances toward their commander.

      Obudan shrugged. “You heard her. Guard the mongrel well.” With that, he turned around and followed the woman as she stepped inside.

      The interior of the tent was devoid of any luxury. A cot held parts of Obudan’s armor, among them a beautifully decorated golden helmet. The royal falcon was engraved on both sides, and the shorn bluish-purple crest on its dome was a mark of his high rank. In the middle of the tent stood a small table, sagging beneath the weight of a jug of wine, a platter of grilled meat, a number of large tin cups and stacks of map scrolls.

      “A drink?” Obudan asked. He did not wait for her response but poured a cup of sour-smelling wine. “It’s nothing much, but it’s better than the stuff they drink … drank here in Grova.”

      “Not for me, thank you,” the high priestess responded. “But please, go ahead.”

      “I will, thank you,” Obudan said, taking a deep drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and carefully placed the cup back on the greasy surface of the table. “After all, we’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

      “Exactly, Colonel. After I heard the news in Kraznach this morning, I set out immediately. Is it true? Did you capture Zabatha? Is the Prophet finally in our hands?”

      Obudan nodded. “Miraculous as it may seem, it’s the truth.”

      “Viguru be praised,” Verina said. “At last, after all these years.” She crossed to the cot, sat down and motioned for the officer to sit beside her. Obudan complied after hesitating briefly.

      “We received information from one of our prisoners that the Prophet was rumored to be here in Grova,” the colonel told her. “As you know, this is just an isolated miners’ town, with its main temple dedicated to Vorg.

      “I had no desire to run into any surprises, so I sent a group of scouts ahead to size things up. They entered the city disguised as merchants. But just before they left, I decided to have a couple of priests accompany them. They have this knack for hearing and seeing more than your average mortal.” Obudan paused, taking another sip of wine.

      “And then what happened?” she prodded.

      “It turned out to be a wise decision. One of them sensed the presence of a powerful cleric inside the temple – he could smell him, he said. To make a long story short, our priests threw up a shield against any magic as soon as they went into the temple. They had the element of surprise, and that enabled them to overpower the cleric and several others before their demon magic could penetrate my people’s shield.”

      “And Zabatha was among them?”

      Obudan nodded. “My men didn’t know it at the time, but they found out soon enough. When they tried to lead the prisoners away, the populace started to riot, aided by the city guard. They found the place crawling with Catarists and several more of those damned priests of theirs, all trying to wrestle their Prophet away. Turns out the temple was only consecrated to Vorg in name, and the Catarists called the shots. Well, you’ve seen the outcome. I had to send my lancers into the city. It looked to be a quick skirmish, but that soon changed when their priests started invoking Cataris and hurling fire balls at us. That’s when I sent more troops into the city. It took some heavy fighting, but we managed to gain the upper hand in the end.”

      “But at a cost, I’ve noticed.”

      “Regretfully. There were many casualties among my troops. And quite a few of your priests perished as well. But we would never have succeeded without them.”

      “I’m sure that’s true. A man like Zabatha can stand up to an entire army single-handedly, if he knows what to expect and has time to prepare. We should thank Viguru that it ended the way it did. I’ll make sure people all over the nation offer their prayers for the souls of the fallen priests.” The high priestess stared off for a moment, lost in thought. Then she rose abruptly. “I want to see Zabatha, talk to him.”

      “Do you think that’s wise?”

      “Colonel!”

      “Of course.” Obudan put his cup down and stood. “But before we go see him, there’s something I’d like to know …”

      Verina was not surprised. “About my young companion, no doubt. You want to know why I took him away from Grova and brought him with me.”

      “Exactly. That kid isn’t simply one of Zabatha’s followers; he’s a trainee-priest. Honestly, I thought we’d gotten rid of them all.”

      “That kid, as you call him, has the Gift. When I passed through the city on the way here and saw him scurry away, I felt it. I can’t put it any clearer than that, not without resorting to complex explanations.” Her gaze traveled to where the boy’s shadow was visible on the canvas tent wall. “Yes, he’s got the Gift. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s stronger in him than you would normally see in someone his age.”

      “All the more reason to get rid of him without delay, I should think.”

      “I can’t deny that, but …” Verina hesitated. “His aura seems pure, untarnished. I think I caught him before he could be fully converted. I intend to take him to Tulda, to find out if he can be saved.”

      “Pure? Untarnished? That’s preposterous. Have you forgotten about the methods those red priests employ? They brainwash these boys! By the time they’re as old as the lad you’ve got there, they’re dangerous fanatics, blindly devoted to their demon god. Can you give me one example of anyone we managed to save? Just one?”

      “Well, no. But that’s no reason not to try. Someone with a Gift like his could be an asset for Carolia,” Verina said, musing. “A talent like his, an ability to channel so much divine energy … it would be a terrible waste not to nurture it. We have precious few youngsters so clearly endowed with the Gift as it is. It’s a shame, really. If only he’d been born in the north, then he would never have been introduced to the cult. But I for one am prepared to give him another chance.”

      Obudan shrugged, frowning. “Have it your way,” he grumbled. “As long as you understand that I think it’s a really bad idea.”

Marak almost choked on his last mouthful of sourdough bread when the tent flaps parted. He stayed motionless as the two soldiers jumped to attention and the warlord stepped outside.

      To his great relief, the man ignored him. The colonel glanced impatiently over his shoulder at the woman ducking out of the tent behind him. Marak couldn’t repress a sigh of relief.

      Verina glanced around briefly and walked toward him, surprising Marak by putting a hand on his shoulder. He drew away instinctively, but she held on to him and even gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Come with me,” she said.

      They followed Obudan as he strode toward the largest structure in the army camp. It was some type of pavilion, its flat roof covered in a layer of ashes, making it look as if a shroud had been draped over it.

      Marak felt the soldiers staring holes in his back. Their gazes were filled with hatred and revulsion. He could barely keep himself from cringing.

      “Take it easy,” Verina said. “As long as you’re with me, nobody’s going to harm you.”

      Marak didn’t know where to look – he was terrified. He wanted to get away from here, go home. But he no longer had a home, he realized in alarm. He had never seen his mother again after she had relinquished him to the seminary. He’d recently been told she was dead. And his mentor, Brother Desirius? Marak had seen his mangled body in one of the streets near the temple.

      “We’re going to pay a visit to someone you know,” he heard Verina say. Her voice sounded like it was coming from miles away.

      Four soldiers were standing guard around the perimeter of the pavilion. They were accompanied by a man in white robes – a priest. He bowed to Verina; then he genuflected and kissed the hem of her dress. She motioned him up and drew a sign in the air over his head with her finger. Marak noticed the priest’s necklace, a pendant in the shape of a golden sun, and recognized it from his training. It was the symbol of Viguru, the God of Life. In the next moment he realized that Verina was wearing a diamond broche in the same likeness.

      At a gesture from Obudan, the guards opened the tent flaps. The white-robed priest stared at Marak as if he was some kind of vermin before following the colonel inside the pavilion. Marak did not know what was expected of him. Verina saw his indecisiveness and responded immediately. She took his hand and pulled him inside with her.

      As soon as he entered the pavilion, Marak’s senses were assailed by a blue haze and the sharp odor of incense, almost as if he had just stepped inside a temple. Blinking, he gazed around and then froze.

      The gloom slowly revealed several figures inside the tent, but Marak only had eyes for one of them.

      The man standing in the center of the tent was all too familiar. His hair was long and black, streaked with grey. He had an aristocratic nose and fine cheekbones, but his eyes were his most striking feature. Dark and smoldering with a magnetic quality. His tall frame was clad in a blood-red robe that was an exact duplicate of the robe Marak wore. On his chest he wore the sparkling symbol of Cataris – a black skull with flaming eyes.

      Zabatha, the prophet of doom.

      His wrists and ankles had been chained to the thick iron pole supporting the tent roof. He stood there, motionless as a statue, surrounded by flickering candles and bowls of fragrant incense, carefully placed in a triangle around him. A priest of Viguru stood at each of the triangle’s points. The three, two men and a woman, seemed to be absorbed in prayer.

      “Zabatha is kept thoroughly shielded,” the priest who had come in with them told Verina. “The priests are relieved every two hours.”

      Upon hearing these words, Zabatha raised his head and smiled. He glanced at Verina very briefly, almost carelessly, as if she were nothing but a disobedient dog, and then his gaze found Marak. The boy cringed under those piercing eyes. They seemed to strip his soul bare in an instant. Marak had never seen the man up close before, and he felt a strange mixture of sympathy and repugnance.

      Zabatha held his gaze.

      “Marak.”

      Even though Zabatha said his name in an almost inaudible whisper, his voice seemed to echo around the tent.

      The others stared at the Prophet in amazement, but then their attention shifted to Marak. One of the priests murmuring prayers lost his focus and opened his eyes.

      “Marak,” Zabatha said. “Don’t ever renounce your origins, no matter what they ask of you, no matter what they force you to do.”

      Marak did not know where to look. He tried to make himself as small as possible, but at the same time he felt himself … grow. The Grand Prophet knew his name, knew who he was!

      A multitude of questions rose up inside him, but Zabatha closed his eyes as if he had fallen asleep on the spot and said nothing more.

      There was an oppressive silence inside the tent. “This is the first time he’s spoken,” the priest in the white robes said.

      Verina nodded, her gaze torn between Marak and Zabatha. “Guard him well. Don’t let him get out of the holy triangle. And, most important of all, make sure he stays alive. He’ll be even more dangerous if he dies.” Abruptly, she took Marak’s hand and pulled him back outside.

      “I had no idea you knew the Prophet personally, Marak,” she said in a tone of barely veiled mistrust. Without slowing, they crossed to the tent Obudan had made available to them and went inside. There was even a guard stationed outside; they could see his silhouette on the canvas wall.

      “Well?” Verina looked at him inquisitively.

      Marak swallowed hard. “I don’t know him,” he said truthfully. “I’ve seen him a few times, but always from a distance. He never concerned himself with me, let alone talked to me.”

      “But Zabatha obviously knew who you were. Tell me something. Will there be any more surprises in store for me? About your origins, for instance?”

      Marak sat on one of the cots, rested his chin in his hands and gazed off in a daze.

      “I need to know, Marak,” Verina said. He heard something in her voice he had not heard before – not coercion, but something pleading. Maybe even fearful, though he couldn’t be sure of that.

      “I’ve already told you everything. I never knew my father. He died not long after I was born. I was raised by my mother until the priests came.”

      “And your parents? Were they Catarists as well?”

      “Of course. Everyone in our village was, including my parents and sister. It’s all I’ve ever known. Where we lived, in the foothills of the Dragon’s Teeth, the people were poor. The Prophet and his preachers gave us hope. We never saw any of Vorg’s or Viguru’s priests. Apparently they had the money to build expensive temples in Kraznach and Grova, but not to give our kind of people—”

      “And what happened to your father?” Verina interrupted him. Marak could see in her face that he had touched upon a sore subject.

      “My father was a huntsman. He mainly hunted bears and wild boar. One of them got him in the end.”

      “What happened exactly, that day when the priests came for you?”

      “I’ve told you that before as well. They took me to Grova. Against my will. I was the only man left in the house, and my mother and sister needed me. But the priests dragged me with them, saying I’d been chosen. After that I stayed at the seminary with the other boys, until yesterday.” He looked up. “The boys … you killed.” A tear overflowed, leaving a pale track in the dirt on his cheek.

      “I know, I know,” she said apologetically, stroking his hair. “But I don’t want you to think we did what we did without reason. We had no choice.”

      “Why should I believe you?” he asked rebelliously. “What makes Viguru better than Cataris? What makes you better than Zabatha? Tell me that. Why can’t we believe what we want to believe, believe in whomever we want to believe in?”

      Verina seemed momentarily lost for words.

      “It’s difficult to explain in a few words, Marak. You probably don’t know this, but Cataris is only a demigod. He used to be human, just like the rest of us, and I’m not even talking about ancient history. He was a high priest of Vorg then, maybe the most powerful one who ever lived. He gained his power by sacrificing anyone and anything to his ambitions, sometimes literally. Animals, people, it was all the same to him. One day, he even sacrificed his own little finger.” She glanced meaningfully at Marak’s mutilated hand. “And now he expects his followers to be loyal to him not only in spirit …”

      Marak looked up. This was news to him.

      “Yes,” Verina said. “His self-mutilation has become a standard ritual among his priests. Cataris has only one purpose, and that’s to become a god. But we have more information now. We’ve learned that this is not his ultimate goal.”

      “It isn’t?”

      “What he wants, Marak, is to become the only god. Nothing more and nothing less. The only one.”

      This came as a shock to Marak. He did not respond immediately, too surprised to speak.

      Verina waited.

      Marak felt confused, unsure what to believe. “Why did you bring me with you? What is it you expect of me? What do you want from me?”

      “I want you to come with me to the capital, to Tulda.”

      “That doesn’t answer my question.”

      Verina took a deep breath, steeling herself. “As you may know, Tulda is where the Tests are held. The Test is a means of determining whether young people who want to join the clergy have sufficient access to the Gift. I took the Test myself, a long time ago. It is only held during a full moon, and the next one is scheduled for a little over a week from now. If we return to Tulda with the regiment, we’ll make it in time.”

      “I’m not sure I understand,” Marak said. “I’d already been chosen to become a Cataris priest. I’ve never heard of any Test.”

      “You were about to become a priest in a banned religion!”

      “That’s only a matter of whose side you’re on.”

      “Let me set some things straight, Marak.” Verina gazed at him sternly. “Cataris worship has been prohibited by King Varig and the Patriarchs. Let’s hope the danger has been averted now that we have finally captured his Prophet. This will diminish Cataris’s power as a deity and eventually eliminate him. So you see, you were on the road to becoming a priest for a dangerous, forbidden religion.”

      Marak absently scratched the stump of his little finger. It was itching again. And his head hurt. He could barely contain the whirlwind of thoughts raging around inside him. Technically, he should be dead now, just like the other boys at the seminary. Now, unexpectedly, he was being offered a second chance. But that meant he would have to forget everything he had learned so far, even renounce it. And what had the Prophet just told him? Don’t ever renounce your origins! What origins? Marak didn’t understand anything anymore.

      “Maybe I’m mistaken, Marak, but it seems to me like Cataris didn’t mean that much to you. You said it yourself; his priests dragged you with them against your will. You can’t really claim to have made the choice willingly, can you?” Verina looked at him, waiting.

      Marak thought back on his initiation. He and the other boys had been led into the temple in Grova. He remembered it all as if it had happened only yesterday. The circle of priests, like a blood-red wall around him. The rhythmic pounding of the drums, the deep drone of the men’s voices as they prayed. The endless repetition of His name. Cata-rissss, Ca-ta-risssszzz … It felt like a blood-red snake was slowly coiling itself around him. And the stench! That terrible smell of scorched flesh mixed with incense. Frozen in horror and amazement, he witnessed how the high priest, his face rigid in trance, called the boys to him one by one and robbed them of one of their little fingers. The gleaming sacrificial knife. The fear, the cries of pain. The continuous, rising and falling chant of Ca-ta-risssszzz. The sacrificial knife glowing red after every amputation, so that the blade could be used to cauterize the flesh. Marak would never forget the pain.

      Just like he would never forget the hatred he had felt. The hatred that had stayed with him. Admittedly, he had prayed; he had prayed a lot. After all, he had been told to, ordered to. But had he ever truly believed? Verina was right; he’d never been offered a choice.

      “No, there was no free will involved,” he said quietly. Then he looked up. “But is it any different now?”

      Verina averted her gaze. “Yes and no, Marak,” she responded. “This is most likely a choice between life and death. If you don’t want to come with me, I can’t force you. But I doubt whether you would survive the next few weeks.”

      Marak took a deep breath. Verina was probably right. His missing finger would mark him as prey. Going home was out of the question. He knew by now that the village of his childhood, the village his mother Laida had until recently called her home, had been washed away in the flood of the Holy War. Refugees had told him Laida was dead. He did not know what fate had befallen his sister Melissa, but he hadn’t heard from her.

      Tears filled Marak’s eyes, and he angrily rubbed them away. Verina offered him a piece of cloth, which he used to blow his nose. Marak handed it back to her, a bit embarrassed.

      “Crossroads,” he mumbled quietly, too quietly for Verina to hear. That was the word his mother had used when he was taken away by the red priests. You’re standing at a crossroads in your life now, Laida had said. Use the opportunities life hands you. Make me proud, son. Believe me, you’re special. You could achieve more than all the Betumars who have gone before you.

      Laida Betumar had not just been a caring mother, but also a beautiful and wise woman. The villagers often came to her for advice, and the herbs she mixed against all kinds of ailments had been in high demand. She had always stood by Marak, consoling him when the other children picked on him. He had been a quiet boy, a dreamer, a thinker. And what was wrong with that? He was who he was. And Laida had understood that.

      He was at a crossroads in his life again now, he thought dejectedly. For the second time in his young life everything he was sure of had been smashed to pieces. The choice he made now would determine the course of his future.

      Whatever the case, it looked as though he were alone in the world; he had no one left. No one except for this extraordinary woman, who had so unexpectedly taken him under her wing. But did she really have his best interest in mind? Or was there some other reason for her concern? Well, he would just have to wait and see.

      Marak looked up. “I’m coming with you to Tulda,” he said, determined.

2

The Test

Torrential rain blurred the contours of the city into a grubby palette in shades of grey. Lightning flashes and rolling thunder darkened the gloomy atmosphere even further. It was not exactly what Marak had imagined his first glimpse of Tulda to be.

      And there was another setback. The downpour turned what should have been a festive entry for the troops into a race toward the barracks.

      Under heavy guard, Zabatha was escorted to the Temple of Viguru.

      Verina wiped wet strands of hair from her eyes. “Believe it or not, Marak, but there’s a full moon behind those clouds. We’ve arrived just in time. The mud will be making the roads impassable soon.”

      Marak nodded absentmindedly. His new robes were drenched. He was cold, wet and tired. He could hardly imagine any worse preparation for the Test. Dejectedly, he held on to the back of the one person in his life who seemed to care about him, the only one who could look at the stump of his little finger without repugnance.

      “I’m taking you straight to the Citadel. That’s where the Test will be held.”

      Their journey through the city passed Marak by like a dream. The sound of the horse’s hooves changed from soft and squishy to hard and rattling as they left the muddy alleys behind and entered the paved streets in the wealthier part of the city. Buildings slid past on either side of them. Most were made of bricks covered in loam and not very big. In the upper city the houses and inns were larger, most of them several stories high. Verina and her charge crossed a large square dominated by the fanciful architecture of a lavishly decorated temple. Then they moved into another labyrinth of streets and alleys. The signboard of an inn, swishing back and forth in the wind, almost grazed Marak’s head as they rode beneath it.

      From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of wet helmets and chainmail in the dark – a detachment of city guards. Then, suddenly, Verina turned her horse into a wide street. Marak heard nothing but the splashing rain and the sound of waves crashing into the shore. They had reached Tulda’s harbor district. In the distance, he spotted the bobbing masts of ships lying at anchor. Straight ahead were the weather-beaten walls of an enormous structure. The crenellations on top of the towers and walls identified the colossal building as a stronghold.

      “The Citadel,” Verina shouted, but the gale made any further attempts at conversation impossible. The high priestess reined in her horse outside the gates. One of the two giant doors was open. Verina dismounted and helped Marak down. She took the horse’s reins in one hand and Marak’s hand in the other and led them both inside. They entered a large central court, closed in on three sides by colonnades. Outside a building in the center of the courtyard, a stable by the looks of it, two carriages stood waiting. Under cover of the colonnade, they made their way to a second archway.

      “Don’t forget what I told you, Marak,” she cautioned. “Once inside, we’ll have to part ways. You’ll be left to your own devices, and there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

      Marak didn’t fail to note the concern in her voice. Had she lost faith in a successful outcome of the Test? Granted, he himself didn’t think much of his chances, but what had made Verina change her mind?

      Until now, she had given the impression that taking the Test would be no more than a formality for him; something about that struck Marak as odd. Verina thought he had the Gift, but if he did, he had never been aware of it. Besides, he couldn’t imagine someone like himself, branded as a would-be red priest, ever finding acceptance here.

      He mulled over what Verina had told him on the way over, and it only made him more nervous. Verina had explained that he would have to wait his turn in a big hall, the Hall of a Thousand Nights. According to legend, the ancient Citadel had once withstood a siege lasting almost three years, hence the name. Though the name ‘Hall of a Thousand Fears’ would be more appropriate, Marak thought sadly.

      He wouldn’t be alone there. There would be other children waiting their turn, just like him. But unlike him, they would still be ‘unblemished’. Most of them would have been brought here by their parents, eager to have their offspring selected for the seminary. The clergy were held in high regard in Carolia, and having a child selected reflected well on the family.

      Candidates for the Test could declare their preference for one of the three official religious orders. Most popular was Viguru’s, the God of Life, the only order that also trained women. But the Order of Vorg, the God of Death, also had masses of followers.

      Least popular was the Order of Ava, the God of Universal Balance. For many people this was a concept that was difficult to grasp. Everyone agreed that Ava’s monks did good work, and their standing was by no means inferior to the priests of Viguru and Vorg, but only a few felt called upon to serve Ava.

      There was another thing bothering Marak. Little was known about the Test – it was shrouded in mystery. Verina had told him there were only two things he could be sure of when it came to the Test. Firstly, that it was supervised by the leaders of the three orders. And secondly, that the purpose of the Test was to determine whether a would-be priest had a talent for channeling energy. Only those with an ability to manipulate their god’s divine energy would be able to learn to use this spiritual energy on earth. Believers referred to the process as channeling. Others called it magic.

      Experiments had proven that only a very few possessed sufficient talent. After the Test, most children were sent home disappointed. Those who were deemed suitable for further training were immediately sequestered, and they wouldn’t see their families again for many years.

      Marak’s unease grew with every step that took him further across the worn floor tiles. Many had gone this way before him, but only a few had had so much to lose. He was shaking all over, and not just from the chill. He had no idea whether he had sufficient talent for channeling. It was a subject they hadn’t covered yet during his training in Grova. He had learned to read and write, and they had made him pray a lot. After all, the gods derived their power from the devotion of their believers.

      For that reason Zabatha had not been very fussy in the requirements he set his followers. The more souls he managed to bind, the better. He could not afford to impose a stringent selection process since Cataris needed to expand his flock as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until a later stage that other criteria would have come into play to determine Marak’s suitability for further training. Only then would he have had to take a test similar test to the one he was facing now, somewhere in an unknown, jealously guarded place.

      But his main concern was not his talent. How would the Patriarchs react when they noticed his missing little finger? His mutilation branded him a heretic, or worse, Devil’s spawn. He was all too aware that the latter appellation had become more and more widespread since Zabatha had raised a small army of undead soldiers several years before in a battle against the Royal Guard. The undead, risen from the grave, had wreaked gruesome havoc among the guards, and Zabatha’s atrocious abuse of his Gift had been labeled the work of the Devil.

      No wonder the Guard had such a deep-rooted hatred for the Catarists.

      Verina seemed to accept him for who he was. But would the same be true for the Order of Viguru?

      He would know soon. In the meantime, they had arrived at the heart of the Citadel. A warm golden light shone out from a doorway into the rain-slickened courtyard. Verina tied her horse to a pole and led Marak inside. The glow of a fireplace enveloped them like a soft blanket. Marak blinked.

      Sitting behind a large desk was a skinny man in the formal dress of a city clerk, making notes in a voluminous register. A guard stood a few paces away, leaning on a spear and looking bored. Puddles and dark spots of moisture on the floor were silent witnesses of the presence of the children who had come in before Marak. Verina stepped firmly toward the man behind the desk.

      “You’re too late to register,” he said, without bothering to look up.

      Verina took off her outer robe, maintaining silence. A moment later the man looked up, somewhat ruffled, and put his quill down on the table. Only then did the clerk spot Verina’s pin with the golden sun emblem of Viguru. His eyes went wide. He jumped from his seat as if he had been kicked in the rear and bowed low. “Pardon me, Your Reverence,” he stammered. “I didn’t realize it was you. In fact, I didn’t even know you were in town. No one ever tells me anything.”

      “Let’s start over, shall we? I’ve come to register this young man for the Test,” Verina said frostily.

      Deeply impressed, Marak looked up at her. It filled him with amazement every time he saw how much prestige his guardian angel seemed to have.

      “But of course, Your Reverence, immediately. You’re in the nick of time.” The man sat back down, took up his quill and dipped it into the inkpot with ceremonious attention.

      “Name?”

      “Marak Betumar,” Verina said.

      The man wrote it down. “Parents’ names?”

      “Marak is an orphan. I’m his guardian. My name is Verina Frachala.”

      Marak swallowed hard, but he managed to keep a straight face. Verina had already told him how she was going to introduce him.

      “Place of residence and birth?”

      “Kraznach.”

      “Which religious order would you give preference to?”

      “Isn’t this an open entry?”

      The motion of the quill wavered, and the man looked up. “No preference?”

      “You’re not deaf, are you, kind sir? This is an open entry. Let’s keep it at that.”

      “But of course. You’re right, this is an open entry.” The quill scratched across the paper, and then the man finished his work with a flourish. He blew on the wet ink and looked up again.

      “You can take the boy to the reception hall now, Your Reverence. You know the procedure, I take it?”

      “Indeed I do.” Verina took Marak’s hand and led him toward the wide door beside the fireplace. Without a word, she opened the door and gently pushed Marak into a gloomily lit passage. The two guards standing at the other end of the hallway kept their eyes firmly ahead.

      Halfway down the hall, Verina turned to him and spoke in an almost pleading whisper. “Do your best, Marak. It won’t be easy, but don’t give up. Never give up!”

      Marak steeled himself when he felt a tear gather in the corner of his eye. He lowered his gaze, momentarily lost for words. Verina wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. They stood like that for a while.

      “But what happens if … if they reject me? If I fail?” Marak forced the words out, feeling suddenly short of breath.

      “In that case I’m taking you to Kraznach with me, Marak. I have a daughter who’s your age, and I’m sure you two will get along. The only downside is that Cataris has a lot of followers around Kraznach, and you wouldn’t be able to move about freely. It would be too dangerous.”

      Marak nodded. He understood. And the prospect wasn’t very tempting. Verina kissed him on the cheek before pushing him gently toward the double doors. The guards opened them for him. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, and Verina nodded encouragingly. Then he stepped across the threshold into the unknown. The next moment, the heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

There were children everywhere, standing around in small groups. All eyes turned toward Marak when he entered the hall, and he buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his new robe to hide his discomfort.

      Despite the bustle of voices, the spacious hall seemed relatively empty. Apparently, most of the children had already been called in. The girls were far outnumbered by the boys, and the boys Marak saw were approximately of his own age or slightly older. All of them, both boys and girls, were now staring at him.

      Marak felt terribly uneasy. When he spotted a wooden bench, partly concealed inside a shadowy alcove, he hurried toward it and sat down. Staring fixedly ahead, he tried to pretend the other children weren’t there. Always a loner, he had developed ways quite successful ways of secluding himself. Even in Grova he had barely spoken to any of the other boys, and eventually they had started ignoring him. Marak hadn’t minded at all. He had always felt that there was an invisible wall between himself and everybody else.

      But his voluntary isolation did not last long. A tall boy with an impudent grin was coming toward him, trailed by three lads with expectant faces. The first boy looked older than Marak and was at least a head taller than him; he had short blond hair and a pockmarked face. His chin sported the first signs of a downy beard, and he was wearing a finely embroidered calfskin coat and shoes with gilded buckles. Marak noted absently that his shoes were dry. The boy must have been dropped off right outside the entrance by a carriage.

      “Look what the cat dragged in,” the boy sneered in an unnecessarily loud voice, staring at Marak’s soaking wet robes in mock surprise. The others sniggered.

      Marak did not respond.

      “What’s your name, boy?”

      Now Marak could no longer ignore him. He looked up, avoiding the derisive stares of the others.

      “Marak,” he said. “Marak Betumar. What’s yours?” Verina had urged him not to let himself be bullied. If you present a vulnerable target, they are sure to pounce, she had lectured him.

      The boy did not respond, leaving it to one of his mates, a muscular red-haired youngster, to act as his spokesman.

      “You have the great privilege of being addressed by Enrico Duarte, kid,” the boy said. “Enrico is Baron Duarte’s son.”

      Apparently, Marak’s unfamiliarity with the name was written all over his face because the noble boy’s grin disappeared abruptly.

      “You don’t honestly mean to tell me you’ve never heard my name before, do you?” Enrico said, speaking directly to Marak this time. “And another thing, get up. Don’t you know it’s rude to remain seated in my presence?”

      Despite the chill inside the hall, Marak was starting to perspire. The name Duarte meant nothing to him, incredible as it might seem to the others. Reluctantly he rose from the bench, folding his arms stiffly across his chest and shaking his head. “Honestly, I don’t recognize the name, but then I’m not from these parts.”

      Enrico stared at him, his eyebrows raised. “In that case I’m sure I don’t know what pile of clay they dug you up from. My father is Admiral Duarte, and he’s never lost a battle yet. So are you ignorant, stupid or simply insolent? Or maybe you’re looking for a fight, is that it?”

      “No. All I want is to be left in peace, if you don’t mind.”

      “All I want is to be left in peace, if you don’t mind,” the red-haired boy sneered. “Well, we do mind, actually.” Darting forward, the boy grabbed a hold of Marak’s arms and started tugging at them. “I’d show Lord Duarte a bit more respect, if I were you.”

      Marak was caught off-guard, momentarily unsure how to respond. But the others were at least as shocked. Gasping, they all stared at Marak’s left hand – the hand with only four fingers, the hand he had managed to keep hidden until now.

      “Devil’s spawn!” Enrico roared. His eyes were wide with shock and incredulity. “How is this possible? You’re here for the Test? A filthy Devil’s spawn? But that’s sacrilege!”

      Without warning, he swiped at Marak, but the smaller boy had expected no less and took a swift step backwards. However, he ended up bumping into the red-haired lad, who had positioned himself behind Marak and immediately put him in a hold.

      Enrico’s fist thudded into Marak’s midriff. A bolt of pain coursed through his body as the air was squeezed from his lungs. Baron Duarte’s son swung again. And again. Then the tip of a shoe slammed into Marak’s shin, and a sharp push sent him sliding across the stone floor. The boys gathered around and started kicking him from all sides.

      Marak tried to roll away, but he couldn’t get clear. The only thing he could do was make himself as small as possible while his tormentors continued their assault. Gradually, his vision blurred. The pain was unbearable.

      Then, suddenly, the hall went quiet. The beating stopped, and Marak felt a pair of strong hands grasping his shoulders. “Get up,” an unfamiliar voice ordered.

      Marak was slowly pulled upright until he was standing on his own two feet again. His knees were shaky, only just bearing his weight, and he was bleeding from his nose and breathing in gasps. Lancing pains coursed through his body. When he opened his eyes warily, he found himself gazing into the friendly face of a worried young man. His savior was dressed in simple grey robes, belted around the waist with a piece of black cord. Marak realized it was a monk, one of Ava’s servants, who had come to his aid.

      When the man seemed convinced Marak would be able to stand unaided, he handed him a cloth and said, “Your nose is bleeding.” Grateful, Marak accepted the cloth and pressed it to his face.

      The monk pursed his lips, staring around the circle of curious bystanders. “Who started this?” he asked sharply.

      There was no response. Enrico threw significant glances at his mates.

      The red-headed boy hesitated, then pointed at Marak. “He … he’s Devil’s spawn!”

      The monk glanced briefly at Marak’s hands. One eyebrow lifted, but otherwise he kept a straight face. Then he turned his stern gaze back to the lad who had spoken. “I admit it’s unusual for someone with his background to be here, but even he has a right to take the Test. He was admitted, and that makes him your equal. His potential Gift will be tested before the gods, just like yours. Would you contest that?”

      No one said anything. Marak could see in the faces around him that most of the boys begrudged him the privilege.

      “I’m taking the next candidate inside now,” the monk said. “Be warned, however. If, upon my return, I find that anyone has so much as lifted a finger against this boy, the culprit will be barred from participation in the Test. This I solemnly swear.” He gazed around the circle again, making eye contact with each of them. When there was no response, he drew a folded piece of paper from one of the pockets of his robe. “Julia Grasia?” he asked, looking up from the list of names.

      A skinny girl raised a timid hand.

      “Follow me, Julia.”

      The monk led the girl to the iron-clad door at the other end of the hall. He disappeared beyond it, but not before throwing one more warning glance across his shoulder.

      A frantic hubbub erupted in the waiting area as soon as the door closed. Seeing the looks in their eyes and hearing the tone of their voices, it wasn’t hard for Marak to guess who the topic of their conversations was. Everyone stayed pointedly away from him after that. It appeared that the prospect of being banned from the Test was sufficiently daunting to prevent any further attacks.

      Stiffly, Marak limped back to the bench and sat down. It was a miracle he had no broken bones or sprains. If this had been a taste of what was in store for him, his future wasn’t looking very bright. He closed his eyes, trying to let the pain slip away. To his surprise, it seemed to be working. His soreness eased; his nose stopped bleeding. Keeping his eyes closed, he forced himself to breathe evenly.

      His heart rate was slowly going down, and he took a deep breath. Easy, Marak, easy. You’re here for the Test, nothing more. You’re not going to find any friends here. Take the Test and succeed; that’s all you need to do. If you can get admitted to the seminary, you’ll be surrounded by people who will accept you for who you are.

      Some time later the iron door opened again. The monk who had saved him stepped out into the hall. He glanced at Marak, nodded in satisfaction and then called out the next name on his list. A chubby boy responded, and then followed the monk out through the door.

      Marak’s chin dropped to his chest and he closed his eyes again.

      Every ten minutes or so another boy or girl left the waiting area, and before long Marak realized that he was the only candidate still waiting. He was feeling a lot better. The pain had dulled into a nagging, pounding sensation that didn’t bother him too much. When the iron door opened once more he felt completely recovered, alert and prepared for anything.

      He rose and walked toward the waiting monk.

      “Marak Betumar, I presume?” the man asked in a gentle voice.

      Marak nodded, handing the monk his piece of cloth, which was now spotted red. “Thank you.”

      “Don’t mention it. My name is Brother Wessel. If you’ll follow me?” the monk said.

Marak sensed immediately that he had stepped into an extraordinary room.

      It was a large, hexagonal, windowless space. At the apex of the high-ceilinged room was a hole that allowed the smoke from dozens of flickering candles to escape. Each of the six walls held a door with large candle brackets mounted on either side, and symbols had been painted above three of the six doors.

      Marak recognized Viguru’s sun and Vorg’s golden skull, but the symbol above the middle of the three doors was unfamiliar to him. It consisted of two partly overlapping circles with a pupil drawn in the oval section between them so that it resembled an eye. This had to be Ava’s symbol.

      Brother Wessel led Marak to a white circle painted on the floor tiles in the center of the room.

      “Stand here,” he said quietly. “This is where you’ll be taking the Test.”

      The monk then crossed to a raised dais across from the three doors with the symbols. It held a long table, and in the gloom Marak could see two men and a woman sitting behind it. The woman was a distinguished, grey-haired lady – soft featured, but with surprisingly fierce eyes. She must surely be the Matriarch of Viguru. Seated next to her was a fairly old man with a glossy bald pate. Just like Brother Wessel’s, his robes were simple. This could be none other than the Abbot of the Order of Ava.

      Then Marak looked at the last man, who was obviously younger than the other two high-ranking clerics. He had a sharply chiseled face and was dressed in a splendidly embroidered velvet robe with a hood. He was also the only one of the three whose eyes radiated obvious distaste for Marak.

      Brother Wessel conversed quietly with the Matriarch of Viguru for a moment, moved to a small writing desk beside the dais and sat behind it.

      The woman welcomed Marak with a searching gaze. “Well, well. We haven’t had an opportunity to meet Zabatha in person yet, but now we find ourselves face to face with the fruits of his labors. An unexpected and … dubious pleasure, I hasten to add.” Her voice was remarkably powerful and clear. Marak would have called it a pleasant voice if her words weren’t so menacing. He didn’t know what to say, so he wisely kept his mouth shut.

      The Patriarch of Vorg turned slightly to address his female counterpart. “I say we clear him out of here and dispose of him, Suleine. Let’s not waste our time on this trash.” His words hit Marak like whiplashes.

      “Unfortunately, we can’t do that, Zubal,” the woman responded. “The boy was signed up by Verina Frachala, our high priestess in Kraznach. She brought him here from Grova personally.”

      “Fine. Let’s hurry and patch up her stupid mistake. Something like this would never even have occurred to any member of my order.”

      “Not to put too fine a point on it, but Cataris was originally a trainee of your order,” she said delicately. She held Zubal’s gaze until he lowered it.

      “Right then. On to what really matters,” Suleine continued briskly. “Verina is a self-willed and highly autonomous woman, which is why we gave her Kraznach in the first place. She’s not the most skilful healer, but I’ve never encountered a better aura reader. If she’s gone through the trouble of entering this young man in the Test, she must have read his aura and drawn her conclusions. Are we all agreed on that?”

      There was no response.

      Suleine turned back to Marak.

      “You’re very young, by the look of you. Have you ever been educated in the art of channeling?”

      Marak shook his head.

      “But you’ve been tested?”

      “No, Your Reverence.”

      “Do you believe in Cataris?”

      “No more than I believe in any other deity, Your Reverence.”

      “Mmm, very diplomatic. But is it the truth?” She leafed through some papers on the table in front of her. “I see yours is an open entry. You have no preference? Why not?”

      Marak hesitated. “Frankly, I don’t think I’d be suitable for the Order of Vorg.” He glanced surreptitiously at Zubal, the man in the velvet robes.

      “You wouldn’t stand a chance anyway,” the Patriarch said haughtily.

      “I propose we have the boy take the Test first. If he doesn’t have the Gift, this entire debate is pointless to begin with,” said the Abbot, the leader of Ava’s small order of monks.

      The sound of heavy thunder reached them through the ventilation hole in the roof. Candle flames flickered in the displaced air almost as if the gods were losing patience. The Patriarchs exchanged meaningful glances. Zubal shrugged, staring at the Abbot disapprovingly. “As you wish, Davirius. Let the boy make a fool of himself.”

      The woman caught Brother Wessel’s eye and nodded briefly.

      At her signal, the young monk rose from his seat. He held up an hourglass and addressed Marak.

      “One of the elements of the Test is that you’ll only have a limited time to perform some type of energy manipulation,” he explained. “Your personal challenge today is to snuff out that candle over there.” He gestured vaguely toward a large candle that was flickering in the draft about eight steps in front of the dais. “The task is simple. As soon as I turn the hourglass, you may start trying to extinguish the flame from your current position. You are not allowed to leave the circle during the Test. Your time starts now.” Brother Wessel turned the hourglass over and placed it on his desk.

      Marak stared at the large candle, bewildered.

      Was that all?

      Child’s play.

      He soon reconsidered, however, when he realized that the candle was too far away to simply blow out. What should he do?

      As he beat his brain trying to think of a solution to the problem, the grains of sand poured steadily into the bottom half of the hourglass. From the corner of his eye he could see the mocking face of the Patriarch of Vorg. The man yawned, overdoing it to make sure Marak would not miss it.

      Marak felt anxious. He redirected his gaze to the candle flame and employed all of his willpower. “Go out, go out,” he murmured, pleading.

      Nothing happened. A brief glance toward the podium told him the man in velvet was twiddling his moustache. His contemptuous gaze made Marak think he had been judged a lost cause as soon as he had stepped into the room.

      Half of the sand had now trickled into the bottom part of the hourglass. Marak closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Breathe in, breathe out. He visualized the candle and saw the flame in his mind’s eye.

      Breathe in. Out.

      He pictured himself as the candle flame. And then he became the flame; he was the flame. He was the fire.

      Breathe in. He felt himself slowly warming up, as if the cold was being driven from his body.

      He was the flame; he was the fire. Thinking clearly was becoming more of an effort, though somewhere deep inside he remembered his goal. Extinguish the flame! Extinguish the flame!

      But how? He tried to imagine the flame being doused with water. It did not work. He was still the flame. He was still the fire.

      The last grains of sand started their downward slide through the narrow hourglass funnel.

      Impulsively, Marak held his breath. Fire needed air, didn’t it?

      And he was the flame! If he cut off the air supply … Marak squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and held his breath until his head felt fit to burst.

      Then something snapped. A hot bolt of pain sliced through his body, and his legs buckled. He landed on the floor on his hands and knees, sucking in mouthfuls of fresh air.

      The heat slipped away from his battered body.