“Because I want to destroy them,” he said. “The Republic, the Order. I want to break them once and for all.”
Naumoriel cocked his head, waiting.
“The Order did this.” Gyre tapped his ruined eye. “They destroyed my family. They dragged my sister away and turned her into one of their soldiers. When I started, that was enough for me to hate them, but it’s worse than that. In the name of keeping humanity safe, they put their boot on anyone trying to make a better life. We have bound ourselves to a corpse, and the Twilight Order is the shackles.” Gyre spread his hands. “I want to set humanity free.”
“Bold words,” Naumoriel mused. “But Elariel tells me a single one of their centarchs sent you scurrying for cover.”
“Of course,” Gyre said. “The Order claims the moral high ground, but behind all their pious bleating are the centarchs and the Legions. The Chosen are gone, but as long as their heirs hold their weapons over the rest of us, who can stand up to them?” Genuine anger crept into his voice. “They say they have the right to rule, out of a duty to keep the rest of us safe. As though we were children, inferior, just because we weren’t born with whatever special trick that lets the centarchs touch deiat.”
Naumoriel remained silent, waiting. Gyre took a deep breath.
“I went looking for the Tomb because I thought there might be something here that would tip the balance in favor of ordinary humans,” he said. “The stories of the war say that only the Chosen could use deiat, but anyone could learn dhaka. I thought …” He shook his head. “Instead of the Tomb, I found Refuge, but my goal hasn’t changed.”
“Oh, how young you are.” A very slight smile crept across the old ghoul’s face, showing a line of pointed teeth. “And how ignorant of the true history of things. But now that you know our secrets are not simply lying around for the taking, what makes you think we have any use for you or your plans?”
“You must hate the Order, too,” Gyre said. “After what you did to the Chosen, the war—”
“Lies,” Naumoriel spat, suddenly rigid with fury. “The sun-lovers struck first, as they always did. My people wanted nothing but to be left in peace.”
“I believe you,” Gyre said. “All we know of the war comes from the Order. But there are stories of hunts and purges of your kind, even as the Chosen dwindled. At Deepfire—”
“They found our defenders too brave, our power too formidable,” Naumoriel said. His eyes got a faraway look, as though they were looking through the walls to the distant city. “But they dared not simply leave us be. Instead they broke the mountain around us and killed more of my people in one night than survive in the world today. And then they sent their slaves to hunt the cowering remnants through their own tunnels. The Chosen.”
“Elariel told me most of your people aren’t interested in anything happening outside Refuge,” Gyre said, watching the old ghoul carefully. He felt as though he were inching across thin ice, with a bottomless cold depth beneath him. “But you’re different, aren’t you? You sent Kit out into the world for a reason.”
“Don’t presume to know me, boy.” Naumoriel’s chair lurched sideways, turning abruptly. “I have little use for your kind at the best of times. You and Kitsraea have already failed me once.”
“If it’s the Core Analytica you need, I can get it for you. Give me the power to confront the Order, and I will do whatever you require.”
“Give you the power.” Naumoriel sneered. “How much would you sacrifice for it, human?”
“I’ve spent years searching for this place,” Gyre said. “I came here, knowing it would probably mean my death. I abandoned my life in Deepfire, whatever security I had.” He closed his eyes and saw Yora’s face. Sarah’s, Harrow’s. “I let my friends die.”
Naumoriel beckoned with one hand, and Gyre hurried after him as the animated chair stalked across the room. It came to a halt beside a long, low table, almost like a bed. It had neatly rolled strips of silvery cloth attached to it, and Gyre took a moment to recognize them as restraints.
“And if I were to tell you that is not enough?” Naumoriel said. His voice was quiet.
“Then I would say,” Gyre said, struggling to keep his voice steady, “that I would be prepared to offer whatever was required.”
There was a long silence.
“We shall see, human.” The old ghoul leaned forward and stroked the table. With a clicking, whirring sound, insect-like limbs spidered out from underneath it, unfolding in a horrible ballet of steel and dark, pulsing muscle. They were tipped with spikes, and grippers, and exquisite little knives in a hundred varieties. Naumoriel looked at them like a doting father at his children. “We shall see.”
Chapter 20
“Agathios-Challenger Maya.” Prodominus’ voice was clearly audible in the hall. “Present yourself to the Council.”
Maya looked at Evinda, who was once again on watch outside the Council’s door. The old centarch gave her a nod and stepped aside, and Maya bowed deeply in return. For a moment, she thought she caught a hint of a smile on Evinda’s stern face.
Taking a deep breath, Maya straightened her formal uniform, touched the Thing for reassurance, and opened the door. Inside, the Council sat as before, except that the edges of the chamber were much more crowded with aides and onlookers. Everyone who could contrive an excuse to be here, Maya guessed, had packed themselves in along the walls to see what happened to the upstart agathios who had challenged the centarchate.
And, of course, one of the twelve chairs was empty.
“Kyriliarchs,” Maya said, when she reached the center of the chamber. She bowed again, and waited.
“You have challenged the centarchate, as tradition allows,” Prodominus said. “And in accordance with tradition, the centarchate has answered. The ancient forms have been followed.”
From the Dogmatic wing of the Council, two Kyriliarchs started saying something in low voices. A buzz ran through the onlookers, then cut off when Prodominus raised one hand.
“Your duel with Centarch Tanax Brokenedge was most impressive,” Prodominus said. “There were, however, some … irregularities.”
Maya tried to keep herself under control, but her chest went tight. In spite of generous doses of quickheal and the care of the Forge healers, the gouge on her hip still hurt when she walked, and she held her arm stiffly at her side. Irregularities.
“Some of my colleagues have asked whether the result of the duel should be accepted,” Prodominus said, glancing at the Dogmatic wing. “They question whether Centarch Tanax, once he knew your panoply belt had failed, could have fought at full strength.”
“He offered me the chance to yield,” Maya said. “I refused, and accepted the consequences.”
“Even so—” a woman on the Dogmatic side began.
Prodominus held up his silencing hand again. “The Council questioned Centarch Tanax fully as to his state of mind at the time.”
“And he said he was holding back?” Maya felt her fury boiling over. Of course. “Don’t you think—”