Beneath the Sunless Sky

Chapter Sixteen

—Isca Caerleon, Avarra, Andavaran—

It was there, just ahead. A handful of steps were all that stood between him and his prize. The Abyssal Rift, the gate between the physical world and the Grave. To step through—to be made whole again—he longed for such a possibility, but, like every other time before, the moment he reached out, fingers brushing against the swirling magic sealing the gate shut, he was thrown back, cast out, and denied. The jolt sent pain trailing through his entire body. Indeed, it would have killed a mortal, but, to him, it was only a momentary shock. It was not enough to truly wound him, but it was more than enough to rouse his ire.

With a sneer, he opened his eyes. Seven Hells, they were still talking. Were mortals always this boring? The answer was, undoubtedly, yes, but, then again, patience had always been one of his virtues. For the moment, however, he seemed to have run out. There was so much talking, so much noble talk of sacrifice and for the greater good. Honestly, it was making him sick.

So, he stood and bid a curt goodbye to the others positioned around the war table and strode from the room, stretching as he did so. Seven forefend, but this dress was tight. How did women ever get comfortable with their chests bound so? A few steps outside and he bade for the guards to leave. They did so without question. Once alone, he removed the glamour without so much as a snap of his fingers and took a long, deep breath.

The King of Bones, Defender of Chaos, Destroyer of Worlds, Hopes, and Dreams, and he was still reduced to hiding behind glamours. How the shackles burned around him at the thought.

There was no reason to descend into anger over something still out of his control. There were far more important things that needed tending to, sooner rather than later. First and foremost on that list, was finding where Orianna Tor'Varyan had vanished to. It was certainly beyond the bounds of Ishara. He had scoured the Thirteen Realms for her—well, they were really Twelve and a Half Realms now, he supposed. The Beast certainly had made messy work of the Faye homeworld. Yet, scour as he did, there was no sign of her.

And that was particularly irksome.

She was there, within his grasp—not physically, but that hardly mattered. How much progress he could have made with her trapped in the jail cells of Isca Caerleon. But, then the sky ripped opened and a Khaasa had dragged his prize through an awaiting rift. Until that moment, he had thought the Khaasa extinct. If, whoever the horned fellow was, was, indeed, the last of his race, they certainly would be extinct soon enough. He would not tolerate someone taking away that which was his.

He surveyed the area, the very place where Orianna had been taken. Bits of her aether still clung there, the power making his mouth water. His magic was heavily weakened from not only the glamours, but also from projecting his soul so far from his prison of Saad'yna. In his current state, he couldn't track the remnants no matter how he wished to follow the trail.

A groan escaped him, hearing footsteps ascending the staircase. It was easy enough to recast the glamour, but he had rather been hoping for some peace and quiet. If she were still alive, he might have given Queen Katrina a few pointers on raising her son. The boy was awfully clingy, seeking both her approval and her guidance at every turn. While that once would have been a highly desirable trait given his plans for the future, currently, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone so he could concentrate on finding the Savior.

"Mother?" Alistair's voice sounded the moment he opened the door to the top of the tower.

"What is it?" he asked, his form resembling the queen once more, the glamour flawless in its perfection as he turned toward the son.