“Before you, there is a choice. You may proceed through one door or the other. Choose the gold, and I will release you back to where you just were, and you will have my apology for interrupting your journey.”

“My journey?”

“Your journey to heaven or hell or oblivion or reincarnation or whatever it is that death holds.”

“Do you know?” Kylar asked.

“This is the Antechamber of the Mystery, Azoth. You will find no answers here, just choices.” The Wolf grinned, and it was a joyless grin, a predatory grin. “Through the wood door, you will go back to your life, your body, your time—or nearly so. It will take a few days for your body to heal. You will be the Night Angel in truth, as Acaelus was before you. Your body will be immune to the scourge of time as Acaelus’ was—something that perhaps one must become old to appreciate. You will also heal at a rate beyond that of mortal men. What you call your Talent will grow. You can still be killed; the difference is, you will come back. You will be a living legend.”

It sounded wonderful. Too good, even. I’d be like Acaelus Thorne. I’d be like Durzo. The latter thought gave him pause. The burden of immortality—however it worked—or the power of it or sheer press of so much time was what had turned Acaelus Thorne, the prince, the hero, into Durzo Blint, the hopeless, bitter murderer. He remembered his snide remark to Durzo:

“Here I thought the Night Angels were invincible.”

“They’re immortal. It’s not the same.”

“Why would you do this for me?” Kylar asked.

“Perhaps I don’t do anything at all. Perhaps it is the ka’kari’s work.”

“What’s the price?”

“Ah, Durzo has taught you well, hasn’t he?” The Wolf looked almost mournful. “The truth is, I don’t know. I can only tell you what I have heard from those more enlightened than I. They believed that coming back from death as you would was such a violation of the natural order of things that this unnatural life cost the afterlife. That for his seven centuries of life, Acaelus traded all eternity. But they might be wrong. It might have no influence on eternity whatsoever—or there may be no eternity to influence. I’m the wrong . . . man . . . to ask, for I have chosen this life myself.”

Kylar walked toward the golden door. It was so beautiful there. He’d had such peace. What fool would trade the eternal peace and happiness in that gold light for the blood and gore and dishonor and despair and duplicity of the life he’d led?