Now it was Solomon who frowned. How did Pleasant know about that? It was true, Solomon had mentioned the title to Valkyrie, but the way Skulduggery spoke made it clear he knew something even more than that--something about what the Death Bringer was meant to be.
Did he know what the Death Bringer was meant to do? the Necromancer wondered. Did he know that the Passage would block the planet from the lifestream, the sacrifice it would require from three billion souls? Surely not. Otherwise he would never have left the Temple alone. "Our beliefs are private," he said. "They are not discussed with--"
"No," Gabe whispered, and there was a strangled note in his voice, almost a moan, which cut through anything Solomon was going to say. His gaze snapped back to the stranger to find he'd paled considerably, that he was leaning on Skulduggery and trembling and staring at Solomon with a wide-eyed expression of shock and horror. As the Necromancer watched, tears spilled down the man's cheeks.
He clutched at Skulduggery's arm. "Skul--"
The realisation was such a bolt that Solomon bit his tongue to avoid cursing out loud, and concealing the surprise in his expression took all the effort at his disposal. The man was a mind-reader. Where had Skulduggery Pleasant found a mind-reader, and why did no one else know about him?
The Necromancer had seconds at most. If they discovered what the Passage entailed, Valkyrie would surely turn her back on Necromancy forever and Skulduggery would certainly kill him. If Solomon killed Gabe, the same would result. But under the premise of the Necromancers' beliefs being sacred, perhaps he could restrain the man.
In the split-second between realisation and action Solomon opened himself to the shadows and stretched out one hand. Tendrils gathered around the shadows hanging on the buildings and shot toward Gabe, their intent only to withhold; they snapped around Gabe's mouth to stifle what other words he'd have spoken, around his arms to tug him away from Skulduggery.
Except ... they didn't. Not as they should have. Certainly, they kept Gabe from speaking, but the action which ought to have yanked Gabe away only made him stumble a single step. Solomon felt a prickle of unease which turned into a sweatiness on his palms, a dryness of his mouth--a sudden terror he couldn't pinpoint except that it had only begun when his shadows touched Gabe.
Then they fell away. They didn't merely turn dead. The shadows simply dissolved, the way that ordinary shadows did in light, except there was no light here that could do that to Necromantic magic; none at all.
Gabe caught his balance with a stagger and turned to look at Solomon.
Solomon had always believed that Necromancy had no opposite. When Necromancers used their magic, they opened themselves up to retaliation, but it was difficult to see a doorway when the darkness was illuminated by nothing but still more darkness. Until now.
Until now when Solomon looked into the eyes of a stranger and all the magic around him and in him burned away. It was like being blinded by sudden light, except that instead of his vision being compromised it was as if he could suddenly see every detail he had once missed with such stark vividness that it was painful. Gabe was gold-skinned and shining, his black hair lit with a halo, his wings furled around him like a soft white cloak. The way he stood wasn't mere standing; there was a resonance around him that was more physical than audible, a waver which made his figure sharp and blurry at once. That pulse hit everything around him and rebounded off them, and that rebound rebounded off others, and behind him Solomon saw waves, saw them crash against one another in an endless wash of tides.
And Solomon knew he was looking at the lifestream.
He was looking at an angel, and the angel seemed to almost be made from the lifestream, and every speck of Necromancy that came near to it--to him--was taken by his brightness and swept away into the stream as inexorably as people believed death was.
The angel spoke and didn't at once. 'Your eyes are opened, Solomon Wreath. Choose wisely the path you walk from here.'
Solomon's knees hit the asphalt, but the pain was hardly a spark through the thrum in his head and body. His cane clattered from his hand, and finally he dropped his gaze with a shuddering gasp, bracing himself against the bitumen. He felt wetness on his cheeks, but tasted copper when it seeped across his lip, and when he lifted his shaking hand to touch it he was not quite surprised to find blood on his fingers instead of tears.
no subject
Did he know what the Death Bringer was meant to do? the Necromancer wondered. Did he know that the Passage would block the planet from the lifestream, the sacrifice it would require from three billion souls? Surely not. Otherwise he would never have left the Temple alone. "Our beliefs are private," he said. "They are not discussed with--"
"No," Gabe whispered, and there was a strangled note in his voice, almost a moan, which cut through anything Solomon was going to say. His gaze snapped back to the stranger to find he'd paled considerably, that he was leaning on Skulduggery and trembling and staring at Solomon with a wide-eyed expression of shock and horror. As the Necromancer watched, tears spilled down the man's cheeks.
He clutched at Skulduggery's arm. "Skul--"
The realisation was such a bolt that Solomon bit his tongue to avoid cursing out loud, and concealing the surprise in his expression took all the effort at his disposal. The man was a mind-reader. Where had Skulduggery Pleasant found a mind-reader, and why did no one else know about him?
The Necromancer had seconds at most. If they discovered what the Passage entailed, Valkyrie would surely turn her back on Necromancy forever and Skulduggery would certainly kill him. If Solomon killed Gabe, the same would result. But under the premise of the Necromancers' beliefs being sacred, perhaps he could restrain the man.
In the split-second between realisation and action Solomon opened himself to the shadows and stretched out one hand. Tendrils gathered around the shadows hanging on the buildings and shot toward Gabe, their intent only to withhold; they snapped around Gabe's mouth to stifle what other words he'd have spoken, around his arms to tug him away from Skulduggery.
Except ... they didn't. Not as they should have. Certainly, they kept Gabe from speaking, but the action which ought to have yanked Gabe away only made him stumble a single step. Solomon felt a prickle of unease which turned into a sweatiness on his palms, a dryness of his mouth--a sudden terror he couldn't pinpoint except that it had only begun when his shadows touched Gabe.
Then they fell away. They didn't merely turn dead. The shadows simply dissolved, the way that ordinary shadows did in light, except there was no light here that could do that to Necromantic magic; none at all.
Gabe caught his balance with a stagger and turned to look at Solomon.
Solomon had always believed that Necromancy had no opposite. When Necromancers used their magic, they opened themselves up to retaliation, but it was difficult to see a doorway when the darkness was illuminated by nothing but still more darkness. Until now.
Until now when Solomon looked into the eyes of a stranger and all the magic around him and in him burned away. It was like being blinded by sudden light, except that instead of his vision being compromised it was as if he could suddenly see every detail he had once missed with such stark vividness that it was painful. Gabe was gold-skinned and shining, his black hair lit with a halo, his wings furled around him like a soft white cloak. The way he stood wasn't mere standing; there was a resonance around him that was more physical than audible, a waver which made his figure sharp and blurry at once. That pulse hit everything around him and rebounded off them, and that rebound rebounded off others, and behind him Solomon saw waves, saw them crash against one another in an endless wash of tides.
And Solomon knew he was looking at the lifestream.
He was looking at an angel, and the angel seemed to almost be made from the lifestream, and every speck of Necromancy that came near to it--to him--was taken by his brightness and swept away into the stream as inexorably as people believed death was.
The angel spoke and didn't at once. 'Your eyes are opened, Solomon Wreath. Choose wisely the path you walk from here.'
Solomon's knees hit the asphalt, but the pain was hardly a spark through the thrum in his head and body. His cane clattered from his hand, and finally he dropped his gaze with a shuddering gasp, bracing himself against the bitumen. He felt wetness on his cheeks, but tasted copper when it seeped across his lip, and when he lifted his shaking hand to touch it he was not quite surprised to find blood on his fingers instead of tears.