Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  Emma lifted the daisy, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply of its scent. She looked up at him with a blissful smile. “I know you’ll come back, Rylan,” she said. “But when you do, I won’t be here. I’ll be dead and in the ground, and our son will be charred bones and scattered ashes. You failed us, Rylan, just like you’ll fail every person in your life.”

  Rylan felt his heart freeze and fracture into shards of ice. In his wife’s hand, the daisy wilted and began to dry. The flower blackened and then crumbled to ash. The wind carried the ashes away, leaving her fingers lingering and empty.

  Emma smiled at him. Her smile deepened and saddened. “I know you’ll try, Rylan,” she whispered. “But the harder you try, the worse you’ll fail and the more people you’ll hurt.”

  Before his eyes, his wife dried to ash, just like the flower had, darkening to char and then dulling to gray. Emma crumbled in his arms, turning to dust that scattered away, carried by the wind. He reached out to catch her, but she spilled through his fingers like sand. And then she was gone, taken by the wind. The merciless wind.

  The pain he felt was staggering. It stabbed right through his heart.

  He awoke with a cry.

  Metal glinted, and a knife sliced through the darkness.

  Rylan rolled out from under it, and the knife stabbed deep into the mattress. He kicked out through the covers and tried scrambling out of bed. But his assailant jumped on top of him, using the blankets to pin him down. He caught just a glimpse of the blade falling before it tore through his rib cage.

  A terrible agony clawed into his chest, ripping him apart. He flailed against the pain, gasping for breath. The more he struggled, the worse it got. White-cold panic set in as he realized he was dying.

  He couldn’t die yet. Not without finding his daughter.

  Amina…

  The agony in his chest was appalling.

  “Don’t fight it,” whispered a soft voice. “The more you struggle, the more it will hurt.”

  But he had to fight. He was his daughter’s only hope. He couldn’t let go. Couldn’t leave her.

  There was a loud crash and a shrill scream.

  His assailant flew off him. There was a scuffling noise. Then hands were upon him.

  “What’s wrong with him?” cried a woman’s voice.

  “I don’t know!”

  The pain swelled, became unbearable. He was at the end of his strength. He couldn’t fight any longer.

  A warm, soothing energy poured into his body from somewhere outside, flooding every part of him at once. It washed away the pain, calmed his panic, and rocked him gently on comforting tides. He didn’t fight it. He closed his eyes and let go, drifting peacefully away.

  When he awoke, Rylan discovered it was morning. He was in his parents’ room, in their bed. Warm sunlight diffused through the curtains, bathing the bedroom in a muted light. The air was stuffy, swirling with circulating dust. He lay still, gazing upward at the waxed beams of the ceiling, letting awareness seep slowly back into him.

  “Thank the gods, Rylan. I thought we’d lost you.”

  He turned toward the sound of the voice. His father sat at his bedside, his face even more haggard than Rylan remembered it. Clemet Marshall looked very frail and very old. Beside him on the bedstand stood a ceramic bowl filled with bloody rags. Rylan stared at the rags for a while, memory of the knife slowly coming back to him. Pain stirred awake in his chest and pulsed dully.

  “What happened?” Rylan whispered, finding his voice. It came out in a croak, like a frog’s voice.

  His father grimaced and shook his head. “You were attacked.”

  “By who?” Rylan asked.

  “We don’t know.” Clemet shook his head. “They got away.”

  Rylan tried to sit up, but the pain made it difficult. With his father’s help, he accomplished the motion. He brought his hand up to his chest and felt at the compress bandaging a wound over his heart.

  His father dropped his gaze. “They tried, but they couldn’t heal it. At least, not all the way.” He sounded dismal. “It should have killed you. Thank every god it didn’t… but it should have.”

  Rylan retracted his hand. “It’ll mend,” he mumbled, feeling numb. His father was right; he should be dead. He’d seen enough casualties to know a mortal wound when he saw one. Then he remembered the oath he had sworn to the man in the cornfield. He had pledged his soul to the God of Chaos. Had that terrible god intervened and forestalled his death?

  His father said, “They’re taking you to Karikesh with them. They’re going to get you help.” Clemet looked down, licking his lips and hesitating. “Rylan…” His voice shook. “I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s the hardest damn thing I’ve ever said in my whole damn life.” He drew in a long, ragged breath, puffing his lips as he let it back out. “I need to talk to you about Gerald.”

  5

  A Half-Healed Wound

  Gil stood leaning against the rough wood of the barn, arms crossed, waiting for Ashra to finish tightening the girth strap of the horse Clemet had given her. The mare hadn’t been saddled in a while and wasn’t taking well to the notion of a rider on her back. The harder Ashra tugged, the more the mare bloated its belly. It was a fine game, and mildly entertaining to watch. Gil stood grinning as Ashra finally kneed the horse in the gut and tugged the strap tight before the animal could react. She stepped back, dusting off her hands.

  Gil nodded in the direction of the farmhouse. “I think we should go check on him.”

  In his hands, he fingered the knife they had found by Rylan’s bedside after the attack. It was old. Perhaps ancient. It was etched with a series of characters that were completely foreign to him. Whatever they were, they were lethal. The wound Rylan had suffered hadn’t mended well. Gil had never seen anything like it, and he considered himself a capable healer. He wrapped the blade up in a shroud of cloth and stuffed it into his pack.

  The farmhouse door burst open, banging thunderously against the side of the house. Rylan trudged out into the yard, propelled by forceful strides. His left arm was in a sling, his right hand clutching a blanket that flapped behind him like a cloak. His face was pale, almost white, and rife with fury.

  He made it halfway across the yard before his parents spilled out of the house after him. Clemet caught his wife’s hand when she tried to run after him, holding her back. The farmer’s face was full of despair, and his wife’s cheeks glistened with tears. Gil didn’t have to ask to know what had happened. Rylan’s father—Gerald’s father—must have told him the truth about his birth.

  Rylan stopped in front of them and stood staring at the ground, his shoulders heaving with the angry tides of his breath. A dewy sweat had broken out on his brow. Gil wasn’t sure if that was from anger or the half-healed wound in his chest. Or both.

  Ashra cast an alarmed glance at Gil. She untied Rylan’s horse, a shaggy grey gelding, and handed him the reins. He gazed down at the leather straps in his hand as if not quite sure what to do with them, his eyes still focused on the ground.

  Concerned, Gil walked up to him. “You all right?”

  Rylan nodded but said nothing. Gil heard a crunching noise and glanced up to see Clemet approaching. The farmer paused in front of Rylan, the look on his face speaking volumes of regret. He shook his head wordlessly. Then he embraced the man he called his son. Rylan returned the gesture with a grimace, clutching him hard. Clemet patted him on the back and, releasing him, walked away without a word.

  Rylan brought a hand up to his face, wiping his eyes. For a moment, he wavered. Ashra moved quickly to support him. Gil hoped he was well enough to ride. The portal to Karikesh was a day’s journey southwest of Farlow, and not all of it was easy going. By the looks of him, Gil figured they had about a fifty-fifty chance of getting Rylan to Karikesh alive.

  Gil said, “All right. Let’s get you on that horse.”

  He helped lift him up. Rylan gritted his teeth as he swung his leg over the gelding’s back. Gi
l hoped the action hadn’t reopened the wound. If it had, there was little that could be done about it. Rylan’s injury would have to wait until they arrived at the Lyceum in Karikesh, where there were dedicated healers far more skilled than he.

  Gil waited for Ashra to mount, then climbed into the saddle and snapped his reins, clucking his horse forward. He watched Rylan’s face as they turned out of the farmyard onto the trail that led toward town. He studied him hard, intensely curious to see if Rylan would turn to look back. And if he didn’t, wondering what that would say about him. Just when Gil thought he wasn’t going to, Rylan surprised him. He glanced back at his home with a look of bitter sadness. Then he noticed Gil staring and twisted back around.

  They took the main road that led out of Farlow and followed it south toward Auberdale. Vast tracks of croplands spread to the flat horizons on all sides, a monotonous view that persisted as the hours wore on. Rylan rode at Gil’s side, his eyes closed, his blanket drawn tightly about him. His shoulder-length hair hung in oily strands over his face, so that it was hard to get a good look at him. By mid-afternoon, Gil was starting to grow worried. Rylan’s damp skin had taken on a pasty cast.

  “Rylan,” he said, trying to get the man’s attention. When he didn’t respond, Gil said louder, “Rylan!”

  The man flinched as if waking from sleep and glanced over. Gil edged his horse closer, studying the farmer carefully. He asked, “How are you doing?”

  Rylan shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look fine. Concerned, Gil leaned over and caught his wrist.

  Closing his eyes, he reached out from within for the magic field. Here, in this place, the lines of power that roamed over the earth flowed evenly across the plains. The pulse of the field was steady and serene, almost like the stately tempo of a waltz. He took hold of it, drawing it in and using that power to send his mind tunneling deep into Rylan’s body. It wasn’t difficult to find the reason for the man’s feverish appearance. The wound had broken open and was starting to fester.

  He let go of the farmer’s wrist and called back at Ashra, “We need to stop.”

  He turned his horse off the road. He led the others toward an old oak tree with a split trunk. There, he dismounted and tied his horse to one of the branches.

  “What’s wrong?” Ashra asked, glancing at Rylan with a worried expression.

  “He needs tending to.” Gil took the reins from Rylan’s hand and tied the shaggy gelding up beside his own. “We’ll stay here tonight, then move on tomorrow.”

  He helped Rylan down from his horse and, supporting him, led the farmer over to the trunk of the oak, where he sat him down in a crease between two great roots. Ashra knelt beside him and pressed a hand to his forehead.

  “He’s clammy,” she reported.

  Gil knelt beside him and released Rylan’s arm from the sling. The farmer clenched his teeth when Gil peeled the compress back from the wound. It came away wet with blood and pus. Gil grimaced at the smell. He placed his hands on Rylan’s chest and closed his eyes, feeling Ashra setting her hand lightly on his shoulder. He knew what she was trying to do: feel through him as he worked. He hadn’t spent much time trying to teach her anything, and he supposed she had a right to be growing impatient with him. He wanted to shrug off her touch but, grudgingly, decided to oblige her. The only way she was going to learn was by observation. And it was his job to teach her, whether he liked it or not. Gil did his best to ignore her and tried to concentrate.

  He bit his lip, his mind working furiously to weave all the minute changes that had to occur almost simultaneously in order to mend the festering layers of tissues. Beneath his hands, he felt the wound shrink and start to close. The bleeding stopped. Muscle fibers regrew and knit together. He burned away the infection that had started and cleaned the surrounding tissue. Soon, Rylan’s flesh was whole again, save for a puckered, shallow cut where the knife had pierced him.

  When Gil was finished, Ashra retracted her hand with a frustrated sigh. He knew he had worked too fast for her to have a clear understanding of what he’d done in those few seconds. It wasn’t intentional; healing was something that had to be done quickly and intricately, which was one of the reasons why it was such a difficult skill to master. Just watching a mentor perform it wasn’t enough.

  When he withdrew his hands, he saw that Rylan had fallen into the healing sleep, his body propped against the rough bark of the oak’s trunk. Leaving him there, Gil moved to fish in his saddlebag for a fresh bandage.

  “You work too fast,” Ashra complained, her arms crossed. “How am I supposed to learn anything if you don’t slow down?”

  “Maybe you need to learn faster,” Gil snapped at her. Then he signed, relenting. “Let’s do this again. I’ll probe him, and you can feel through me. Then all you have to worry about is what I’m seeing, not what I’m doing.”

  Ashra cocked an eyebrow, her gaze suspicious, as though she didn’t trust him to actually teach her without an ulterior motive. Nevertheless, she conceded, and placed a hand on Gil’s shoulder.

  He said, “Now, look as deep as you can and as close as you can, and tell me what you sense.”

  Ashra nodded and closed her eyes. Gil set his hands on Rylan and concentrated. An image of the wound came to his mind, as well as a general knowledge of Rylan’s overall health. The more he concentrated, the clearer the image became. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

  “I don’t understand,” Ashra said. “The wound is healed, but there is still something there. What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Gil admitted, and leaned forward to apply the new compress. “I’d rather not guess.” He had his suspicions, but he wasn’t about to mention them to Ashra until he was more certain. When he had the bandages replaced, he buttoned Rylan’s shirt and pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his trousers. He looked down at the man in sympathy. “All I know is, we’ve got to find a way to get whatever’s in him out of him. Unfortunately, that’s beyond my ability.”

  Ashra stared down at Rylan with a worried expression. “I’ll go start setting up camp,” she said.

  Gil stopped her. “I’ll get the camp. You go fetch some water.”

  “I don’t want to fetch water. I—”

  “Just get the water,” he snapped, wondering why the woman seemed bent on arguing with him.

  Ashra cast him a sideways glare but obeyed, wandering off to find a stream to replenish their canteens. He made himself busy by clearing a space for a fire and gathering wood. Getting the kindling lit took only a moment’s concentration; within minutes, he had a crackling fire going. He went to check on Rylan and found the farmer sleeping soundly, propped up against the trunk of the oak tree. Gil thought about moving him closer to the fire, but then thought better of it. The air wasn’t especially cold, and he didn’t want to disturb the wound again.

  It took her a bit, but eventually Ashra made her way back to camp carrying two full water cannisters swinging from their straps. She dropped them down by the rest of the supplies, then sat next to him beside the fire. From within her pack, she produced a biscuit and handed it to Gil, taking a strip of dried meat for herself. Gil stared down at the biscuit, half-wondering if it was poisoned, before tearing off a bite and popping it in his mouth. As he chewed, Ashra sat in silence, staring into the flames. Perhaps she was avoiding conversation. After long, awkward minutes, Gil picked up a stick and used it to prod the campfire. One of the logs broke with a loud crack and a shower of sparks. Ashra glanced sideways at him with a sharp look.

  “Did the fire do something to offend you?” she asked.

  “I’m just bored.” Gil shrugged, tearing off another piece of biscuit. “I find the fire at least mildly entertaining.”

  “Mmmmm.” Ashra worried at a strip of dried beef, tugging at it with her teeth before breaking off a piece. “So, are you actually going to teach me anything?” she asked.

  Gil tapped the stick against his leg in irritation. “I’ll teac
h you—though if I had a choice, I wouldn’t,” he admitted. “And you can’t blame me. What your father did to my people was despicable. His armies spilled more blood on this continent than anyone else in all of history.”

  Ashra’s gaze slipped to the fire. “My father saved millions of lives. And he wouldn’t have had to lift his sword if your kings had honored the treaty they struck with us. I’m sorry you lost your own father, though. He was a man of great sharaq.” Her eyes locked on his. “We can’t change the past. But we don’t have to let it control us.”

  He nodded, knowing she was right—at least the part about the past not controlling them. He didn’t know about the rest of it, though. He’d have to think on it.

  “All right, then,” he said, tossing the stick away. “I’ll train you. But you’d better start acting like a proper acolyte. You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

  Rylan woke to cold air and damp earth. A heavy fog rolled over him, obscuring the branches of the oak, misting his face with icy beads of moisture. His wound hurt. It ached a throbbing counterpoint to his heartbeat. He brought his hand up to his chest, feeling the bandage. It was wet with fresh blood.

  A startling screech pierced the fog.

  He drew himself upright, gritting his teeth against the pain. His gaze searched the blanketing gray, but he saw nothing, save for the remains of a campfire that had burned out. The mage and the Malikari woman laid curled up on opposite sides of the grayed coals, cloaks wrapped snugly about them, their supplies piled between them.

  Another shrill screech cleaved the darkness.

  “What was that?” Gil said, rolling over onto his back.

  “It’s an owl,” the woman said groggily without opening her eyes.