Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  “It’s a wedding,” Xiana said, gesturing vivaciously. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  Thinking of all the stares he’d already received, Rylan balked. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, trying to pull away.

  “Nonsense!” She caught his hand and jerked him forward.

  He went with her grudgingly. They turned onto the path lined with lanterns, where Xiana stopped and looked him over quickly. Frowning, she leaned forward and adjusted his robe and pushed his leather belt lower on his waist. At last seeming satisfied, she led him down the path toward a two-story house constructed of dark wood, the windows made of some type of oiled paper covered by lattice. They entered the building without knocking. Rylan found himself in a room filled with people wearing traditional cotton robes. Both men and women were dressed in soft, muted colors.

  All except one man.

  Standing at the end of the room was a man wearing an exquisite robe of a shimmering white silk tied with a red sash. He wore his long brown hair in a braid, and a well-groomed beard sharpened his jawline. Beside him stood a dainty woman wrapped in an exquisitely embroidered robe. She was young, her hair arranged in intricate braids and spirals, a band of red makeup spanning both her eyes.

  All conversation abruptly died the moment they entered the room. Every face turned toward them with looks ranging from shock to adulation. Xiana led Rylan forward, the crowd parting before them, every person bowing their heads, except for children sneaking wide-eyed peeks from behind the colorful robes of their parents. Xiana smiled and said words of greeting to people as they passed by, touching hands and bobbing little bows. She stopped before the bride and groom, rotating her hands until her palms faced upward.

  With a flowing gesture, she said, “This is Kodiro and his bride, Nida. Kodiro is of the royal family, the fourth heir to the Dowan of Laoni. Nida is his bride.”

  Rylan nodded at Kodiro, then took Nida’s hand to kiss it. The moment he touched Nida’s skin, Kodiro let out a furious cry. Enraged, he lunged at Rylan, knocking him off his feet. Rylan hit the floor and scrambled backward through the crowd, people screaming and dodging away from him. Panicked celebrants started spilling out the door, others backing up as far as the walls would allow them.

  The groom sprang forward, cornering Rylan against a wall. He yanked him to his feet, gripping him by the collar of his robe. He started bellowing sharp, cutting words, his cheeks red, spittle flying from his lips.

  Xiana leaped forward, screaming a high-pitched deluge of frantic protests. She pleaded with Kodiro, wrenching on his arm, but couldn’t budge him. Undeterred, she wormed her way between them, giving Rylan the chance to slide out from the wall. The man whirled, bellowing and gesturing in rage.

  “What happened?” Rylan shouted, trying to be heard over Xiana’s screeching and Kodiro’s yelling.

  She turned to him, her face pale, her eyes wide and horrified. “You touched his bride!” she cried. “You do not touch a bride on her wedding day!”

  Rylan’s mouth fell open. He took a step toward Kodiro, shaking his head and throwing his hands up. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”

  Behind him came a sharp, metallic ring. Rylan swung around to find an old man standing with his sword drawn, the cutting edge leveled at his throat. Xiana shrieked a panicked outcry, gesturing wildly.

  Everyone was shouting, the bride sobbing. Rylan stood with his hands up, keeping his attention on the sword. All at once, Kodiro threw his head back and issued an explosive howl that shook the windows. The entire room fell still. Kodiro grunted, crossing his arms. The blade remained poised next to Rylan’s throat and didn’t waver. Glaring fiercely at Xiana, Kodiro let loose with a string of words.

  Xiana turned to Rylan, her eyebrows pinched in dismay. “Kodiro instructs me to tell you that you have sullied his bride, and their marriage is now nullified.”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Rylan gasped, spreading his arms wide in desperation.

  Xiana waved her hands, cutting him off, her gaze dancing between Kodiro and himself. “Normally, the penalty for such an offense would be death.”

  Shocked, Rylan glanced at the blade.

  Xiana went on, “I told Kodiro your life is protected by the Sensho. But he demands recompense. He asks that you name someone here to accept your punishment in your place.”

  Rylan’s mouth dropped open. He looked at Xiana, then swept his gaze around the room, taking in the sight of the remaining wedding guests standing terrified, pressed up against the walls. He turned back to Kodiro, shaking his head.

  “I can’t do that!” he gasped.

  In reply, Kodiro barked terse words at Xiana.

  Pale and apologetic, she told Rylan, “Kodiro says if you refuse to choose someone to accept your punishment, then he will choose for you. And he will choose me.”

  Rylan closed his eyes, wanting to howl in frustration. This was impossible. There had to be another way. Something else he could do. He shook his head desperately.

  “No. Please—tell him I beg him to forgive me!”

  “Dokh!” Kodiro bellowed.

  Xiana spread her hands. “The offense is unforgivable! You must make up your mind! Quickly—choose!”

  “I can’t!” Rylan growled.

  The old man next to him pulled his sword back over his shoulder and took a broad step sideways, swinging around to face Xiana. Rylan dodged quickly between her and the sword.

  “Tell him I’ve made my choice!” he shouted.

  Xiana gasped, her eyes going wide. Her lips trembled. “Who?” she whispered.

  Rylan balled his fists, his panic giving way to anger. Licking his lips, he told Xiana, “Tell Kodiro I choose him.”

  Xiana went rigid, her mouth open, her eyes unblinking. For a moment, she stood frozen, like a hare in the path of a snake. At last, she inhaled a sharp gasp. Letting out a high-pitched moan, she turned to Kodiro and relayed Rylan’s words.

  Kodiro’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a snarl. His gaze snapped to Rylan, his eyes filled with molten fury. He growled something, a phrase Rylan couldn’t hope to understand. Then, in one swift motion, Kodiro unsheathed his dagger and drew it across his own throat.

  Rylan flinched back in shock.

  Blood fountained from the deep gash in Kodiro’s neck, quickly saturating his white tunic. He stood there for impossibly long seconds, dagger in hand, his breath a harsh, bubbling gurgle. Then, at last, he staggered. He came toppling down, falling heavily on his face.

  The bride screamed and kept screaming.

  Xiana raised her hands to cover her eyes.

  Blood pooled on the floor, spreading quickly.

  Xiana shot her arm out, grabbing Rylan’s hand. Suddenly, he was being propelled toward the door as terrified people fled before them. He stumbled after her into the street, past groups of sobbing and screaming wedding guests. Xiana yanked him forward, forcing him to jog to keep up with her. She didn’t slow until they were out of the village. Once they were in the fields, Rylan ripped his hand out of Xiana’s grasp. Drawing ragged breaths, he scrubbed his hands through his hair, feeling cold and faint.

  “What did he say?” he demanded.

  Xiana didn’t respond. She looked too shaken. Instead, she turned back toward the village and stared wide-eyed at the rooftops. Rylan grasped her by the shoulders, swinging her back toward him.

  “What did he say?”

  Xiana’s distant eyes locked on his. “He called you a demon,” she whispered, her voice and body trembling.

  20

  The Sultan’s Command

  The gouts of black smoke darkening Murkaq Square made Gil’s eyes sting and water. Behind him, fires still crackled along the Waterfront and across the Grand Canal, consuming debris riding the slow currents toward the bay. The screams of dying men echoed in the near distance, along with the occasional ground-shuddering thunder of a fire strike. The square was the embodiment of organized chaos, with the Sultan’s forces racing against t
ime to both entrench their base camp and deliver men and equipment to their perimeter.

  Gil stood beside Ashra next to the command tent, arms crossed, watching her father hold court over a small collection of his elite officers. The Sultan stood with one foot raised on an overturned water bucket, punctuating every command with a brusque gesture. Shadows cast by the fires roved over his features, making him look even more ominous than usual. Certainly not a man to be argued with.

  He raised his hand, beckoning two of his officers forward. “Farad! Hakeem!”

  The two men fell to their knees at the Sultan’s feet, bowing to the ground. They remained in that posture until he motioned at them.

  The first man, Farad, removed his helm with a rain of sweat-drenched hair. Head bowed and eyes lowered, he reported, “Your Majesty, we are working to fortify the Kazri Souk. As it stands, we have lost everything north of the canal. We retain only the Lower City, Your Majesty.”

  Sayeed bared his teeth like a rabid animal. “Give me numbers.”

  The second man, Hakeem, stepped forward, clutching his conical helmet in front of him. With a bob of his head, he reported, “Your Highness, the enemy has paid a heavy price for their gains. They stand now at less than half the strength they were at the outset. However, we have also paid heavily in blood. We have lost the vast majority of our brothers-in-arms. Our numbers will surely prove insufficient to hold the Lower City.” There was a brief pause as Hakeem drew in a deep breath and glanced sideways at Farad. “Your Majesty, surrender is advised.”

  The air itself seemed to stiffen. Every man in the gathering froze, all eyes on the Sultan.

  Into that great silence, Sayeed promised, “There will be no surrender.”

  Farad inclined his head. “As you will, Your Majesty. Your men stand ready to fight and die at your side.”

  “Then it is settled.” Sayeed dismissed his men, then strode over to where Gil stood with Ashra. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said to Gil, “That’s all for now. Return to your Prime Warden. Inform her of her husband’s loss and then evacuate the Lyceum. Deploy every asset you have along our northern perimeter.”

  Gil didn’t move. He was too shocked by the Sultan’s words. “Your Majesty… we can’t just abandon the Lyceum,” he protested.

  Sayeed spread his hands. “The Lyceum is a valuable target our enemy will no doubt prioritize. We will not be able to defend it with the numbers we have, so it makes sense to abandon it now, rather than waste resources on a battle we cannot win.”

  Gil understood the logic; it was a sound argument from a tactical standpoint. But the Sultan was operating off a false premise: that protecting the city had to take priority. As far as Gil was concerned, that objective was secondary to protecting the Lyceum.

  “I beg to differ, Your Majesty,” he said. “There’s more in the Lyceum than just mages. We’re talking about all of our work and all of our knowledge—artifacts, heirlooms of power, thousands of texts! We can’t just let our enemy get ahold of all that! If they do, they’ll have a tremendous advantage.”

  The Sultan merely shrugged. “Then carry those things out with you.”

  Gil had a hard time believing what he was hearing. Perhaps Sayeed didn’t understand the magnitude of disaster the Lyceum’s fall would precipitate. “Your Majesty… do you want them to have access to the transfer portals?”

  Sayeed grimaced, drawing in a slow and heavy breath. His eyes wandered to the side. “No,” he answered. “But neither can I keep them from our enemy. Very well. Destroy the transfer portals.”

  Gil took a step back, rocked to his core. He shook his head mutely, at last managing to whisper, “You don’t know what you ask….”

  Sayeed shot him a reproachful glare. “Of course I do.”

  And with that, he walked away.

  Gil stared after him, his eyes loosely focused on the Sultan’s back. Letting out a sigh, he stood there feeling numb, staring down at his blood-encrusted hands. With a sigh, he turned away from the command tent and started back toward the barricaded street that led eastward toward the Lyceum. The sounds of distant battle still carried over the water from the North City, but they barely registered. The noises were remote and constant, not an immediate threat. Nothing important enough to suck his attention away from the brute focus it took to stay awake. He passed through the barricade and headed down the street, only then realizing that he was being followed. He glanced back at Ashra with a frown.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Going with you.”

  Gil scowled in dismay. He’d already led her through more danger than she had any business being in. He didn’t want to be responsible for her, especially considering who her father was. The last thing he wanted was to make an enemy of the Sultan.

  “You should stay here,” he said.

  But Ashra shook her head and smiled. “You know my place is with my mentor.”

  Technically, she was incorrect—that logic didn’t apply to a war zone. Nevertheless, he didn’t push it. He didn’t have the patience or the energy to fight with her. So he decided to ignore her as he set off down the street, stepping carefully around fallen roof tiles and assorted debris that impeded his every step. Ashra walked silently at his side, every few seconds casting a concerned glance his way. She didn’t say anything. But she kept the looks up for blocks, and it was getting annoying.

  “I’m fine,” Gil finally grumbled, hoping that would make her stop.

  He turned a corner onto a side road that would take them straight to the Avenue of Elms, in the direction of the Lyceum. The buildings to either side were still intact, high-roofed structures made of dark bricks. The sounds of their footsteps echoed hollowly off the empty walls.

  “I’m very sorry about the Warden,” Ashra said in a sad voice. “I know he was your mentor.”

  Gil nodded, feeling ragged. The emotions bubbling up in his throat were unexpectedly strong. He hadn’t realized how attached he’d been to Quin. They walked on in silence, Gil doing his best to ignore her by focusing instead on the relentless quiet that surrounded them. It was an eerie, unsettling feeling that should never be heard in a city the size of Karikesh. The streets were empty. From behind them, he heard distant shouts coming from the Waterfront. But from the southern neighborhoods, there was nothing but stillness, as though the city had taken a mortal wound.

  The entrance to the Lyceum was only a few blocks away. The street was empty, save for a few abandoned carts and tumbled merchant’s kiosks. The streetlamps were still lit; the lamplighters hadn’t made their usual morning circuits. Gil couldn’t help wondering if they ever would again.

  The Lyceum’s wide, golden dome came into view long before the rest of the building did. There were no people about, which didn’t set right with his nerves. The square in front of the Lyceum was usually busy this time of day. But only leaves blown by the wind moved along the street. They ascended the wide marble steps and entered the building through an enormous arch encased by two thin towers that extended high above the roof. As they moved into the hall, two dirty and battle-weary men rushed toward him.

  “Gil!” called Brinn, the taller one. “Where’ve you been? What word have you?”

  “We’re losing,” Gil snapped, evading both men by turning into the hallway that led to the Prime Warden’s office. He had no interest in conversation. The hallway was bustling with a flurry of people. Outside Naia’s office, her secretary stood directing what looked like her own command center, waving her quill in the air as she directed people about.

  When Gil made straight for the Prime Warden’s door, the woman sprang in front of him. Gil halted and looked at her with an exasperated sigh.

  “Look. I need to speak with the Prime Warden.” He peered intently into her face, praying he wouldn’t have to spell out his reasons in front of twenty listening mages.

  The woman stared at him long and hard. Finally, with a nod, she drew aside.

  Gil said
to Ashra, “Wait here.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder, offering him a small smile of encouragement.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Gil opened the door.

  He found Naia sitting behind her desk, surrounded by a cluster of men and women, all engaged in heated conversation. At first, no one noticed him. He didn’t know what to do, so he stood there for a moment glancing around, trying to work up enough courage to say something. Long before he was ready, Naia glanced up and saw him.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice silencing everyone in the room.

  “I’ve been with the Sultan,” he said wearily. Staring only at Naia, he addressed the others in the room with as steady a voice as he could muster, “Please excuse us. I need a word with the Prime Warden. Alone.”

  At the sound of his tone, the men and women gathered around her desk glanced at each other then at Naia. She peered at him hard, her eyes slowly widening as they searched his face. “Do as he says.”

  Without a word, everyone filed out, leaving Gil alone with the Prime Warden and her personal assistant, a small woman with a leather notebook who sat huddled in the corner. Gil glanced a question at Naia.

  “It’s all right,” she assured him. “Priya can stay.”

  Her voice sounded thin and hollow, as if she had already guessed what he was there to say. Gil swallowed, running his tongue over his lips, suddenly at a loss for words. He glanced at the acolyte in the corner. Then he stared at the ground.

  Her face emotionless, Naia asked softly, “I’m not going to like this news, am I?”

  Gil took a deep breath. “Prime Warden… Your husband…” He couldn’t continue.

  He saw on her face that he didn’t have to.

  Naia sat rigid, her eyes staring straight ahead at nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Gil whispered, wishing there was something better he could say. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, lingering awkwardly on his feet, watching her wrestle with her grief.