“She can be quite persuasive.”
“All right. We need all the help we can get.”
“What about Aber?” Conner asked.
I frowned. “Someone must stay here to supervise the workers. Fighting isn't to his taste or talents, anyway. He wouldn't know what to look for in an army.”
Half an hour later, I walked alone toward the forest, away from the castle, letting my imagination soar. A hint of mauve in the leaves, a twist of the trail, and the world began to flow and change around me. Taller trees. Oaks giving way to pines. A rocky ground. And people… most especially people.
Each new element I introduced to the landscape brought me closer to my goal. I kept my destination firmly in mind… a land of beautiful fields, clear skies, and matchless warrior-priests, who worshipped me as a god. If such a place existed in Shadow, I would find it.
The forest trail opened onto a road made of jet-black stone. As I walked over a hill, fields of wheat and rye spread out before me as far as I could see, worked by thousands of slaves from conquered nations. Overhead, an eagle soared, its voice raucous.
A pair of golden chariots pulled by high-stepping black horses sped toward me. Two men stood inside each chariot, their long moustaches and golden hair whipping behind them.
I paused in the middle of the road, hands on my hips, waiting patiently. The large yellow sun warmed my back. Scents of thyme and wild lavender rode the breeze. This was a pleasant Shadow; I wouldn't have minded living here.
The two carriages skidded to a halt ten paces from where I stood. Four men—one old, three young, all dressed in beautiful golden armor—leaped to the ground and knelt before me.
They had to be King Olam and his three sons. I knew all their names, just as I knew the history of their world. It had come into my mind, and I had sought it out, following a path through Shadows until everything matched my vision.
Thus had I come to the Kingdom of Ceyoldar… where millions worshipped a warrior-god named Oberon who happened to look just like me.
“Rise, Aslom,” I said, trying to sound godlike. My voice hung in the air, low and powerful. “I am Oberon, returned to lead my chosen people to glory!”
Aslom stood slowly, scarcely daring to gaze upon my face. He looked every day of his fifty-five years. Although decades spent outdoors on military campaign had creased and weathered his face, his eyes spoke of a pleasant temper and a keen intellect. The broken nose and long white scars on his hands and along his left cheek and jawline spoke of battles fought through the years. He was the greatest king and warrior his people had ever known.
“Most exalted Oberon, Lord of Light, Shaper of Dreams!” King Aslom cried, trembling slightly with awe and fear. “Our lives are yours! Command us, I beg you! We live to serve you!”
I gazed beyond him to the three younger men still kneeling in the road with their eyes respectfully downcast. Only the youngest dared to cast wondering glances at me when he thought my attention lay elsewhere. They shared his sharp-hewn features, but few of his battle-scars. Give them time…
“You brought your sons,” I said, smiling.
“All is as the prophecy said, Lord Oberon!”
“All?” I asked. This would be the test. “Where is your fourth son, King Aslom?”
“You must tell me, Lord!”
The sharp twang of a bowstring sounded behind me. I had known it was coming, but it still surprised me. All gods needed to be tested now and again to prove their divinity. An arrow in the back would be my test.
I whirled, arms a blur, turning faster than any mere man could ever move. Time seemed to be slowing down as I focused on the arrow heading straight for me. It whistled faintly as it flew, a black shaft with black fletching, its barbed arrowhead tipped in gold. How fitting for a god.
I snatched it from the air before it could strike me and continued my pirouette. I wound up facing King Aslom again. He gaped, eyes wide, hardly able to believe what he had just seen. A miracle to them… a trick of speed and coordination for me, as easy as catching a ball.
Then fear began to replace joy in his expression. I was the god, and on his order, his son had just tried to kill me. What would I do? What punishment fit this crime?
“A fair shot, but it will take far more than an arrow to kill me,” I said easily, letting a note of amusement creep into my voice. Better to treat it as a joke and let him off the hook. Tightening my fist, I snapped the arrow in half, then tossed it casually at his feet. “Bring forth your first-born son,” I continued. “I want to look upon him.”
“Iankos!” cried King Aslom. “Join us!”
Still pale, Aslom knelt again and bowed his head. He dared not look at my face—I couldn't blame him for his shame. Things were going even better than I had hoped.
Iankos—a lanky version of his father—trotted out from the bushes behind me and joined his brother, kneeling with eyes turned down.
“Command us, Lord Oberon!” King Aslom cried. “How may we serve you?”
His sons looked startled when I called each by name: “Iankos. Eitheon. Lymnos. Haetor. Stand and let me look upon your faces.”
They rose slowly, the three eldest daring now to gaze upon me with awe and wonder. The youngest, Haetor, had a curious expression somewhere between suspicion and disbelief. There had to be an unbeliever in every family, after all. Despite my trick with the arrow, he still had doubts. If I could convince him, they would all be won to my cause.
“You do not believe the prophecies about me,” I said to Haetor, smiling. “It is good to be skeptical.”
“Lord Oberon!” he protested. “I do believe!”
“You want to test me,” I said. I drew my sword in a smooth motion. “Do not protest. I see it in your heart.”
“Most exalted one—” he began uncertainly.
“Draw your blade, Haetor,” I said in a kindly voice. “You will not be satisfied until you have tried your steel against mine. This I know.”
King Aslom threw himself at my feet. “Spare him, Most Revered Oberon!” he gasped, eyes desperate. “He is young and rash!”
Aslom's other sons shifted unhappily. I glanced at them and smiled. Had their father commanded, I knew they would have drawn their swords to protect Haetor from me… even at the cost of their own lives. Such loyalty would serve me well against Chaos.
“Be at ease, good King Aslom,” I said softly, so only he could hear. Haetor must be his favorite, I decided. I would play to his emotions. “Your son is not destined to die this day, but he must learn his place if he is to serve me. I have important plans for his sword. In years to come, he will become my strong right hand. As will you. I have need of you all.”
“Thank you!” Aslom whispered. “Thank you!”
I looked at Haetor and motioned him forward. The boy swallowed audibly. Clearly he was having second thoughts about facing a man who might be a god.
“Draw your sword,” I told him. “Would you slay me this day?”
Haetor knelt suddenly, blushing furiously. “Forgive me, Most Exalted Oberon!” he cried.
“Rise!” I said sharply. “Draw, Haetor! Show me what a warrior-prince can do! Or are you a coward, ashamed of your meager talents?”
He climbed to his feet. Then, in a single fluid movement, he drew his sword and attacked.
I had wanted a race of warriors. I had deliberately sought out a Shadow where the strongest, fastest, bravest swordsmen lived… where they worshipped me as a god. But I never imagined how fast Haetor would move—or how brilliant a natural swordsman he might be. With the supple grace of a dancer, he launched a blistering attack that would have overwhelmed lesser men. I fought defensively, slowly giving ground before him, watching the darting tip of his blade for an opening. It moved like a hummingbird, left and right, up and down, testing my defenses and my speed. Other than my father, I had never seen a finer fighter. His enthusiasm, finesse, and technique could not be faulted.
But neither could mine. For every move he made, I had a counter. If his sword hummed with speed, mine sang. If his footwork dazzled, mine shone brighter than the sun. We fought differently, but the match was still uneven.
Finally, I saw the faintest of hesitations. His sword turned slightly out of position following my riposte, and his recovery had a second's hesitation. I knew, then, that his arm had grown tired.
I leaped at him. Sparks flew as steel rang oh steel. I advanced, falling into a deadly rhythm—thrust, thrust, lunge—thrust, thrust, lunge. He fell back, and his face showed sudden alarm.