Paragon of Destruction

Chapter 408 The Master's Bloodline

Arran hid his unease as best he could, facing the Archon with an expression he hoped conveyed a confidence he did not feel. Bloodlines were a dangerous topic, and appearing to hide something might be just as dangerous as revealing too much.

"What I know of the bloodlines?" He paused in thought, choosing his words with the care of a clumsy man forced to juggle knives. "Truth be told, I don't know much. From what I've heard, the bloodlines were granted by the gods to help the Imperium resist the Blight. Other than that, I know little of either the gods or their bloodlines."

Archon Roshan gazed at him with disapproving eyes. "You arrived in the Imperium well over a year ago. By now, you should now more than that."

"I've been preoccupied with other things." Arran managed an uneasy smile, as if embarrassed at his lack of knowledge. "I hoped to prove my gratitude to the Imperium by fighting against the Blight."

The Archon sighed. "The folly of warriors. To believe that there is no question so great a sharp blade cannot answer it."

"Perhaps you can teach me about the gods, then?" Arran did not let the opportunity go to waste. The more he got Roshan to speak, the better, because if the Archon was speaking, then Arran could hold his tongue.

Roshan hesitated for a moment, and he briefly seemed tempted to accept the offer. Yet after a moment, he shook his head. "To remedy your ignorance would be a matter of days, perhaps even weeks. I do not have that much time to spare."

"I would be grateful for whatever wisdom you could impart," Arran replied, imitating the way he'd seen Kaleesh interact with the priests. It was a poor impression, but one he hoped would be sufficient.

To his relief, Roshan responded with a slow nod. "Very well," he said. "I suppose there's no harm in steering you toward the proper path."

Though Arran was relieved to hear these words — if nothing else, they meant the Archon had no intention of killing him — he didn't fail to notice how easily the man was convinced. From the sound of it, the Archon had intended this all along — to not only steer Arran toward a path, but to make him ask for it, first.

It seemed a pointless thing, so petty as to be almost childish. Yet Arran understood what it really meant. The Archon wanted something from him.

As Arran pondered the Archon's true intentions, Roshan gestured toward the white marble statues that lined the walls of the circular chamber, a reverent look in his eyes as he gazed at each of them.

"Each of these statues represents one of the gods," the Archon said, "but there are many other gods, both known and unknown to us. And while it is true that the gods' power has allowed the Imperium to thrive even in the face of the Blight, that is not why we revere them."

This caught Arran's attention. "Then what is the reason?"

"The reason," Roshan said, an affected tremble in his voice, "is that they represent a path to salvation — a path to divinity that even the least among us can walk. Their existence tells us of what lies beyond mortality, and of what we may become if we follow the divine path."

The words sounded well-rehearsed, as if he'd spoken them thousands of times before. Still, Arran found himself intrigued by what he heard. "You mean to say that we can become gods?"

"We can," Roshan said, and this time, the fervor in his eyes appeared to be entirely real. "Do you know what makes a god?"

"Power?" Arran guessed.

"Indeed," the Archon confirmed. "It is power that separates us from the gods, and power alone. Should you — or I — become sufficiently powerful, we will become gods ourselves. But the power they wield is no mere strength. It is the power to change the world itself — to shape both the earth and oneself."

A frown crossed Arran's face. "Shape the earth? The way Sacrifice was created?" The words had barely left his mouth when a thought occurred to him. "And the gods' bloodlines…"

"Exactly!" Roshan replied. "The gods created both the Desolation and Sacrifice, changing the very nature of the world in doing so. Yet that wasn't all they changed — they altered their own nature, as well, granting themselves abilities mere mortals can scarcely begin to imagine. Abilities that linger in their bloodlines even today."

"Then by gaining the gods' bloodlines, we gain their powers?" Despite himself, Arran felt some enthusiasm at the man's words. While he had no interest in worshiping the gods, gaining their powers was another matter. That was something he was most interested in.

"Only the tiniest sliver of them," the Archon said. "Bloodlines are mere seeds. While they grant power, what they grant is only a shred of what the gods possessed." He paused meaningfully, then continued, "Yet with time, a seed can grow into something more. And with endless toil and labor, even the smallest seed can grow to match the tree from which it came."

Arran furrowed his brow. "Has anyone ever achieved that?"

"Of course," Roshan replied at once, as if he'd expected the question. "The gods themselves started life as mere mortals, men and beasts both. Yet they became more than that, and in so doing, they showed the rest of us the path to divinity."

At this, Arran's frown deepened. The Archon's words did not answer his question in the slightest — the gods could hardly have followed in their own footsteps, after all. Yet from the Archon's fervent expression, he suspected that saying as much would be ill-advised.

"So the gods' bloodlines offer us a path to divinity," he said instead. "And by following the gods' example, we can become gods ourselves?"

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. While there like was more to the church's teachings than what the Archon could tell in a few short minutes, what little he'd heard hardly inspired confidence.

Yet Roshan nodded as if he'd spoken an obvious truth. "Indeed," he said. "The gods' bloodlines offer a path, and greatness awaits those who walk that path. That holds true even for those who fall short of the destination."

"Then what's the difference between the types of bloodlines?" Arran asked. "If all the bloodlines come from gods, why are there greater and lesser bloodlines?"

"A good question," Roshan said, the earlier excitement gone from his voice. Now, he sounded more like he was lecturing a student. "The answer is that not all gods are equal. While even the smallest among them test the limits of our comprehension, the greatest created bloodlines so powerful that even a sliver of them can remake those fortunate enough to gain them." He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Arran. "Which brings us to your situation."

"My situation?" Arran gave a puzzled look. "Are the bloodlines connected to the dagger, somehow?"

���One of them is," the Archon replied. "Come, follow me."

He walked to the other side of the chamber, coming to a halt before a white marble statue in the shape of a tall man with a severe expression.

"This," Roshan said, pointing to the statue, "is the Master. Among the gods, there are few who can match his power. It is said that in his battles against the Blight, their foul magics never so much as touched him, and that he turn their own attacks against them with a mere wave of his hand."

At this, Arran's eyes went wide. "He was a mage?"

In an instant, the Archon's eyes filled with fury, and he burst out, "Do not utter such blasphemy in this sacred hall!"

"I apologize for my ignorance," Arran said hurriedly, silently cursing himself for being so careless. Of course an Archon would not respond well to hearing one of his gods called a mage.

It took the Archon's expression a moment to calm, and even when it did, some annoyance remained — though, oddly, it almost seemed like he was more annoyed with himself for the outburst than he was with Arran for sparking it. 

"I forget that you are an outsider," Roshan said, speaking in a tone that was too friendly by half. "You do not yet fully understand our customs."

"I apologize," Arran said again. "I know little of magic, and I assumed that…" He caught himself mid-sentence, barely avoiding a repeat of his earlier mistake.

"The gods' powers are great," Roshan said, quickly cutting Arran off before he could utter any further blasphemous thoughts. "And few among them as great as the Master's. So complete is his control of this world that he can direct even unnatural energies that taint it."

"And his bloodline grants a similar ability?" Arran spoke as calmly as he could, though his heart raced. If a bloodline could increase his control over magic — even the magic of others — then its value would be beyond anything he had imagined.

"A sliver of it," the Archon said. "But even that is a gift beyond compare. This single bloodline is the reason we have resisted the Blight for so long — the reason that the strongest among us are able to face the magic of our enemies."

"I understand," Arran said, nodding slowly. "A great gift indeed. But how is that related to the dagger?"

"Magical attacks carry tremendous power," Roshan replied. "And although the Master's bloodline allows one to redirect a part of that power, that is of little use if one cannot get rid of it — the force will merely wreak havoc within one's body until it is completely spent."

"Is there a way to solve that problem?" Arran asked, although by now, he already knew what the answer would be.

"There is," the Archon said. "There are weapons — Shadowblades, they are called — that can absorb magical energies. One who possesses both the Master's bloodline and a Shadowblade can channel part of the power of magical attacks into the weapon, making it possible to survive attacks that would otherwise be certain to kill."

Arran paled slightly, though out of concern rather than surprise. If what the Archon said was true — and he had little doubt that it was — then the Shadowflame Society would get slaughtered if the full might of the Imperium ever turned eastward.

He had uncovered another of the Imperium's secrets, and this one was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

Now, he understood how Lady Merem had walked the ruined battlefield at the edge of the borderlands so easily — how she had withstood the violent unbound Essence that raged there with no apparent effort whatsoever.

And if that was a power shared by all the Imperium's Knights, Lords, Archons, and Paladins, then using magic to fight the Imperium would be like trying to kill a fish by drowning it.

Yet at the same time, he knew that he must gain the Master's bloodline for himself, no matter the cost. Even if it would not increase his control over magic — though he suspected it would — the advantage it would give him against mages and Blightspawn was too big to ignore.

"The dagger I possess is a Shadowblade?"

A small smile crossed Roshan's lips as he saw Arran's shocked expression. "So it is," he said. "And as you can see, the weapon is of little use to you without the bloodline to match it."

"Then how can I gain the Master's bloodline?" Arran asked, no longer bothering with subtlety. He understood perfectly well that the Archon had deliberately led him to this point.

From the start, Roshan had set out to leave Arran desperate to gain the Master's bloodline. And now, the Archon would reveal what it was he wanted in return for the prize he offered.

"As you might have deduced," Roshan said, "a bloodline as great as this cannot simply be bought. It is given only to those who are worthy."

"Then how do I prove myself worthy?" There was no point in pretending he was anything but desperate to gain the Master's bloodline. No sane man would be unmoved by the prospect of gaining such a power — and especially not within the Desolation, where it would be invaluable against the Blight.

"A good question," the Archon said, a satisfied smile on his face. "And one to which I have yet to find an answer. But perhaps we can reach an understanding. Tell me, is it true that Lady Merem has taken an interest in you?"

Arran barely managed to suppress a groan. For all his hopes of avoiding the Imperium's politics, it appeared that he'd already achieved the exact opposite.

Yet with the Master's bloodline at stake, there was no choice but to endure.

"It is," he said, forcing a polite smile to his face. "I take it the two of you are already acquainted?"