Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [10]
The horses, lathered and terrified, galloped across the cavern to the others, where the priest was hastily administering a goblet of something—sacramental wine, perhaps—to the guardsmen. Caelan kept pace at Elandra’s horse’s side, running effortlessly, his golden hair on fire, his eyes cold white flames. His skin was like tempered bronze, shining in the unearthly light. He was singing as he ran, the words still in some mysterious tongue that awakened strange sensations in her.
Elandra felt as one with this man, as though she had joined his heart and mind. She saw his goodness, his loyal heart, his honesty, and his pain.
As for Kostimon, on her other side, she felt as one with him also, joined with him for the first time. His aged looks had fallen away. He looked as young as Caelan, lean and glorious, his face radiant as he tipped back his head and laughed aloud. White flames shot from his mouth, driving back the shyriea again. She had never seen a man more handsome or magnificent than Kostimon, with his black curly hair and strong shoulders.
Laughing again, he spoke something even older and more powerful than Caelan’s incantations. The word appeared in the air, blazing with fire, and the largest shyriea swallowed it, only to scream and explode into ashes. The other demons vanished also, their screams echoing long after they faded.
There was an awful stink of sulfur and death in the cavern, choking the air.
The fire blazing in Elandra died, as suddenly as it had come to life. She dropped down in her saddle, not realizing until then that she had been standing in her stirrups. She felt dazed and winded.
On her left, Caelan lowered his hand with the warding key and stumbled. He released her stirrup and let her horse shoot past him. The fiery radiance encircling him like a halo faded and disappeared.
On her right, Kostimon looked around and laughed. Strong, vigorous, and handsome, he was glorious, more splendidly male than she could have ever imagined. This was the man who had vanquished countless foes, who had gathered an army and forged an empire. This was a man who had ruled the world for a thousand years, Kostimon the Great, a man above all men.
Then his sword stopped flaming and the fire in him vanished.
Before her eyes, his youthful looks aged swiftly until he was once again an old man slumping in his saddle. He looked haggard and exhausted. His yellow eyes held torment and regret of a degree she could not bear to witness.
She wanted to weep for him, this man who had once held everything in the palm of his hand. How old he was now, how diminished. And yet, she could see in his eyes that he still had the spirit and the soul of a man in his prime. Only his body was failing him, and perhaps, at last, his mind also. She could see his rage, his frustration, and his fear as his own mortality loomed over him. Now, at last, having glimpsed what he had once been, she could grieve for him.
“Majesty,” the priest said urgently. “Come. You must go through the portal now.”
“Sien,” Kostimon said, his voice quivering and feeble. He reached out blindly. “I want Lord Sien.”
The priest came running to his side. “Lord Sien is not here,” he said. “Please, Majesty. I cannot command the portal as you wish. Drink this and grow strong.”
Kostimon slumped lower and moaned. “Help me.”
“Here is the cup, Majesty,” the priest said, lifting the goblet to the emperor’s lips. “Drink deeply.”
Elandra drew rein beside the guardsmen, who were gaping wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She was not sure just yet exactly what had happened. But the shyrieas were gone. That she did understand.
Kostimon pressed one hand against his face. His shoulders were shaking, and he leaned over his horse’s neck as though he would fall out of the saddle. His sword slid to the ground with a clang of steel upon stone.
“Help him!” Elandra called.
Baiter and another man hurried to him, but the priest was already pushing the emperor back into the saddle. The sergeant bent and picked up the emperor’s sword. Slowly he slid