The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [73]
She and Ekhaas turned their backs. Geth shrugged and followed her instructions. As he undressed, he asked as casually as he could, “Ekhaas, what would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to go to Sigilstar with Chetiin?”
“I would have gone to Lathleer or wherever you were and tried to talk you into coming myself.”
The answer was direct and honest, but Geth couldn’t help but wondering if it came too easily. He pushed away the cold feeling that welled up inside him and pulled the robe over his head, tying the belt around his waist.
“Ready,” he said.
Senen turned and looked him over, then pointed at his throat. “Nothing else.”
Geth reached up and his fingers touched the collar of black stones. “No,” he said. “I keep this.”
“Anything you wear could affect the ritual,” Senen insisted. “Take it off.” She stepped forward as if she’d pull it off him herself.
“Senen,” Ekhaas said quickly, “it won’t interfere. It’s an orc Gatekeeper artifact, and Gatekeeper magic only makes Aram more powerful. I’ve seen it.”
Senen looked at Ekhaas, her ears folded down, then she moved back. “Are you certain?” she asked. “Nothing can go wrong.”
Ekhaas glanced at Geth, then nodded.
Senen pursed her lips and for a moment reminded Geth very strongly of Vounn. “Ban,” she said. “Bring Aram in its scabbard and come with us.”
They led him up, climbing higher and higher in the tower. Geth’s stomach gurgled unhappily, and the exertion of climbing made his head feel a little bit light. Senen nodded approvingly. “It is as it should be,” she said.
Geth held back a curse.
The final climb was up a tightly wound spiral staircase down which flowed the smell of night air. The stone steps were cold under Geth’s feet. When they stepped up from the staircase, they were on the very roof of Khaar Mbar’ost, a small space that was perhaps fifteen paces from side to side and surrounded entirely by open air. Geth didn’t need to go near the edge to know how high above the ground they were. The sounds of the city that were clearly audible from lower windows were only a dull murmur, obscured by the constant whisper of a breeze. The sun was just settling below the horizon, and the sky that surrounded them was a fiery canopy, purple like Wrath in the east and overhead, blue, then pink, then red and orange to the west. The moons had not yet risen, no stars were visible, and the Ring of Siberys was a pale smear in the south.
Another person waited on the roof, another hobgoblin woman in a black robe like those Ekhaas and Senen wore. The third woman was old, though—so old and seemingly frail that when she moved to meet them it was like watching an injured bat crawl across a rock. Her eyes were sharp, however, and she looked him over carefully, asking the same questions about the stone collar—in Goblin this time—that Senen had. Ekhaas gave her the same answer, but at least the old woman grunted and nodded with more conviction than Senen had, then turned to Geth.
“I am Aaspar,” she said. “This is the first part of the ritual that will wake Aram.” She gestured around them with a gnarled hand. “Tonight you will hold vigil beneath the moons and think on the history of the sword that you hold in your hand.”
“I don’t know its history,” said Geth.
The old woman looked at him blankly and Ekhaas murmured in her ear, translating his words for her. Aaspar clicked her tongue. “You know the history. Ekhaas tells me she has told you stories of the name of Kuun. They are the same.”
Geth blinked. He remembered—vaguely—stories Ekhaas had told him to pass the nights during a desperate race across the Shadow Marches. “I … I might not always have been listening,” he said.
Ekhaas scowled at him as she translated, and Aaspar laughed.
“Think on them. You’ll remember more than you believe. Now go to the circle and kneel. Leave Aram’s scabbard outside it before you enter.”
There was a circle drawn on the rooftop in charcoal. Geth walked to it,