Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  To her credit, she didn’t break down.

  When the acolyte rose from the chair to offer her a kerchief, Naia waved her away.

  “How did he die?” she asked in a barren tone.

  Gil didn’t know how to answer that question. He said the first thing that came to mind. “He died a hero.”

  Naia looked at him, her eyes filling with unspilt tears. Nodding curtly, she whispered, “Then I’m proud of him.”

  She bowed her head and gazed down dully at her desk, absently chafing her hands as if trying to warm them. Gil couldn’t stop staring at the motion. It was much easier to look at Naia’s hands then at her face. He wanted to leave her to her grief, but he couldn’t. There was still more he had to say.

  Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Prime Warden. I’m sorry but…”

  Naia looked at him, her eyes red and watery.

  Gil shifted his weight, fidgeting. “The Sultan wants us to evacuate the Lyceum. He says he doesn’t have the men to hold it. I believe he’s wrong.”

  There was a long, unsettling span of silence. Naia stared down at her restless hands. Eventually, she looked up at him and said, “Then I will take your advice. With Warden Dalton gone, you’re the strongest battlemage we have. And every report I’ve heard tells me you’re the reason the Turan Khar hold half the city… instead of holding all of it. Because of those reasons, I’m naming you Warden of Battlemages in Dalton’s place.”

  Hearing that, Gil shook his head. “Prime Warden, no. There must be a dozen people with more experience—”

  Naia gazed up at him patiently. “It doesn’t matter. You’re by far the strongest mage we have and, so far, your decisions have been sound. I pray they continue to be.”

  He started to object, but Naia raised her hand, cutting him off. “You’ve heard my decision. Now, I’m sorry. I need a moment to myself. Please see to the defenses of the Lyceum. Do whatever you think is necessary.”

  Gil ducked his head. “Of course, Prime Warden.”

  He backed away from her desk, then turned and hastened out the door. Outside, he had to fight his way through the milling crowd of mages waiting for direction. He reached Ashra and breathed an intense sigh of relief.

  Leaning into him, she asked, “Did you tell her?”

  “I did,” Gil said, though he didn’t want to talk about it. Especially not where so many people could overhear the conversation.

  “How did she take it?” Ashra whispered, her voice full of concern.

  Without thinking, he snapped, “How would you take it?”

  Ashra’s eyes filled with hurt, and she looked away quickly. Gil reached out and caught her arm before she could walk away. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. With all this, I’m not thinking straight.”

  “None of us are,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushed. “You need to get some rest, even if it’s not much. But you should try before we evacuate.”

  Gill shook his head. “We’re not going to evacuate.”

  Ashra frowned. “What? You heard my father—”

  “Your father’s not in charge of the Lyceum,” he reminded her. “Naia is. And we’re not evacuating.”

  She glared at him hard. Then she turned and hastened away.

  21

  Desperate Methods

  The sun was going down behind the mountains by the time Rylan let Xiana guide him back through the door of the small hut. When she released his arm, he dropped to the floor and sat back against one of the rough, dark walls, drawing his knees up to his chest. He hardly noticed when she left. He sat there for a long time, trying to wrestle his thoughts back into focus. It was impossible. All he could think about was Kodiro’s blood spreading toward him on the floor. And of the bride he’d made a widow on her wedding day.

  Rylan scooted onto the rush-fiber pallet wedged into a corner and sat holding his head in his hands. A profound sadness welled up in him, tightening his throat. He thought of his son. He thought of Amina. His dead wife’s image lingered in his mind, torturing him further.

  His family was gone.

  His life was gone.

  All he had left was a boundless guilt and a terrible power he didn’t understand. He was a prisoner of both, and there was no escaping either. He sat on the floor for another hour, perhaps more, crippled by despair. Eventually, exhaustion got the better of him. He lay down on the pallet and fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

  He awoke the next morning to find that Xiana had returned. She entered and stooped to set down what looked like the same tray with the same clay pots. When Rylan saw the eggs come out, he wanted to groan. He rolled over on his pallet, facing away from her, and stared at the wall.

  “You must eat,” she said, tugging at the sleeve of his yori-robe.

  He shook his head. He wasn’t hungry, even though he knew he should be; all he’d eaten the previous day was the raw-egg broth. But he blamed her for Kodiro’s death just as much as he blamed himself. He wanted nothing to do with either Xiana or her soup pots.

  She tugged again on his sleeve. “You need to eat, and you need to learn,” she stated firmly.

  He didn’t want to do either. He wanted to lay there staring at the wall until the images infesting his head went away. But he knew she wasn’t going to let him do that. Irritated, he sat up and glowered at her through a tangled mat of dark hair.

  They ate in silence. The soup was actually more palatable today, for some reason. Perhaps the seasoning was stronger, or maybe the broth was warmer; it was hard to say. Setting the empty soup-pot down on the tray, he leaned back against the wall and gazed down at a knot in one of the cracked floorboards. The knot had a split in it in the shape of a cross. He caught his thumbnail in the crack and worried at it absently.

  “It’s not your fault,” Xiana said, sitting back and resting her hands on her thighs. “You had no way of knowing.”

  Rylan looked up at her, his anger swelling. “You’re right. It’s not my fault. It’s yours.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

  “You knew damn well I’m not aware of your customs. You put me in that position. That man’s death is on you.” He pointed at her. “Not me.”

  Xiana pulled in a deep breath and then nodded. “You’re right. Kodiro’s death was my fault. I’m sorry, Rylan. I didn’t think.”

  His chest still felt tight with anger. He’d killed men in battle before. Many men. But this was different. Kodiro’s death had been unnecessary. He searched Xiana’s face deeply. It took him a minute, but at last he saw the remorse in her eyes. He’d been afraid he’d find none, but it was there, just hidden deep. That was something, at least.

  “I need you to understand me,” he said. “I’m here for my daughter; nothing else. No more weddings. No more baths. Hone me into a weapon as quickly as you can. And then set me loose upon my enemies.”

  She stared at him hard, a startled look in her eyes. Slowly, she nodded. Leaning forward, she said, “My people have a belief I’d like to share with you. We believe that everything that happens, happens for a reason. Every person you meet is someone you need to know. And you are who you are because that’s who you need to be. Do you understand, Rylan? All that’s happened to you, all of the trials you’ve faced, all of the grief you’ve suffered—it all means something. Everything serves a purpose. You serve a purpose. There are greater forces at work here than just you and me. This is all a part of it. It’s what has to happen to make something far greater happen. You’ve been chosen for a reason. That is my belief.”

  She gazed piercingly into his eyes. “Are you ready to learn?”

  “How am I going to learn anything, dampened?” he asked in frustration. He couldn’t sense the magic field at all. Without even that meager sense, he didn’t know what he could do.

  Xiana responded, “I know people who can lift the damper from you, but they are far away from here. Once you know enough, we will search them out.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And wha
t about the Word of Command?”

  “When I can trust you, I’ll take you to those who can remove it,” she answered, then added, “I don’t trust you yet.”

  Of course she didn’t—and with good reason. Which made him wonder how long it would take him to earn her trust. Every second he spent not searching for his daughter was a second wasted. A second Amina could be suffering. A second she could be dying.

  “All right,” he decided. “I’ll work hard. I’ll do anything you want, whatever it takes. Just teach me.” He sat up and clasped his hands, ready to apply all of his concentration to the effort of learning.

  “I’m not going to teach you,” she said.

  “What?” he asked.

  Xiana trained her cold smile on him like a weapon. “The proper education of deizu takes years. I don’t have years to teach you all that you need to learn—and neither do you.”

  Rylan frowned. “So, what are we going to do?”

  Xiana looked down at her hands, her face fixed in tight lines, as though she were struggling hard with something—probably something about him. He hoped he wasn’t on the losing side.

  She looked up. “You need to become deizu-kan, a battlemage. And you only have days to do it. As soon as Karikesh falls, the Khar will absorb its people and move on to another city in the Rhen. I don’t think you want that. We need to resort to desperate methods.”

  Rylan felt a cold chill creep over him, beginning at his neck. He asked warily, “What desperate methods?”

  She reached up and fingered her necklace, the fiery opal that hung on its gold chain. Its colors swirled hypnotically. “I can take you to a place where you can learn all that you need to know, all at once, in a single second. But such learning comes at a heavy price.”

  Her words were like a crushing weight, bearing down on his shoulders. He didn’t want that kind of knowledge, at any price. But he was growing desperate. Every step he took toward finding his daughter always seemed to be met with two steps back. And each step he took was progressively more impossible than the last. Exasperated, he asked, “So what’s the price?”

  “All that you are. And all that you have to give.”

  Xiana gazed at him steadily, as though scouring his eyes in search of fear. She would find none. Rylan was far too frustrated to dredge up the proper amount of anxiety he knew he should be feeling. So he shrugged.

  “I have nothing to give. I don’t even know who I am anymore, so I don’t have anything to lose. All I want is my daughter back. Whatever that takes.”

  Xiana gave him a surprised look before finally muttering, “You’re so naïve, Rylan.” She lifted the tray and rose, turning toward the door. “I’m going to go fetch mounts and supplies.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked, rising after her.

  “Down the mountain.”

  “Down into the valley?”

  “Down into hell.”

  Xiana returned an hour later with a pair of stout mules, one a dusty brown, the other almost black. Both looked better suited to carrying baggage rather than riders on their backs. She had abandoned her yori for a raw silk tunic accompanied by wide-legged pants. She tossed Rylan a similar outfit and pointed toward the door of the hut.

  “Go change.”

  He did as she bid, folding the robes he’d been wearing and replacing them in the cabinet. He then donned the new tunic and the pair of thick trousers that came with it. The earthy smell of the raw silk was overpowering, and not in a good way. Disgruntled, he cinched his belt tight, then went to rejoin Xiana in the garden outside the hut.

  She looked him over sharply before issuing an approving nod. Leading one of the mules forward by the reins, she stopped in front of him. From among the gear strapped to the saddle, she withdrew a slender, curving sword and handed it to him. Rylan was surprised to find he was holding the scimitar given to him by the Sultan, taken from him when he was captured. Drawing it from its scabbard, he held it up and admired the blade, wondering why Xiana would present him with a weapon after making him a prisoner. Then he thought about it. With or without a sword, he posed no threat to her. The Word of Command was still firmly in place.

  “My thanks,” he said, sheathing the blade.

  “Let’s get moving,” Xiana said.

  22

  The Folly of Wisdom

  “Grand Master Archer?”

  Gil moaned and lifted his head off the desk. At first, he had no idea where he was. It took him a moment of blinking through blurriness to realize he had fallen asleep in Quin’s workroom. Wiping the saliva off his chin, he sat back in the chair and looked up at the acolyte who stood in a streak of light coming in through the doorway.

  “What is it?” he asked groggily. He had no idea what time it was, although it felt like he hadn’t gotten much sleep. The room was without windows, and the wood-paneled walls lent a feeling of eternal evening.

  “The Prime Warden Requests a word with you,” the acolyte informed him.

  “All right.”

  As the young man left, Gil pushed back his chair, which squealed as it scraped across the floor. The sound did little for his nerves. He sat there a moment, propping his head with his hand, his elbow planted firmly on the desk. With his other hand, he groped inside his coin purse until he found the one treasure he always kept there: a white quartz rock. Absently, he fingered the rock, feeling its rough surface chafe his skin. It felt good. Cool. Just a little bit scratchy. The feel of it brought a sharp pang of nostalgia. The rock had once belonged to his father, passed to him by the priests who had raised him. It was the only thing he had left of him.

  Gil let go of the rock and let it settle back into the pouch. He rose to his feet on legs that felt weaker than they should. Yawning, he raised his arms and stretched out his back. He paused for a moment to gather his wits, then left the room and walked down the stairs and through the courtyard in the direction of Naia’s office.

  The Lyceum was still standing, he was grateful to note. There was less confusion in the hallways than there had been. Men and women in black cloaks were still about, though fewer than before, and most seemed to be moving with some sense of purpose and direction. Naia’s cold-eyed secretary greeted him with a scowl, but nevertheless let him pass without trying to stop him. Gil knocked once, then pushed open the door.

  The Prime Warden looked up at him from behind her desk. She wasn’t alone. Her attending acolyte sat in the corner on her stool, and along the walls stood six men and women ranging in age from middle years to the thoroughly decrepit. All were Wardens of their respective Orders. Gil noted the conspicuous absence of the Warden of Battlemages. And the Warden of Arcanists. He felt a lump form in his throat. Quin’s death still rubbed his emotions raw.

  “You sent for me?” he asked Naia.

  She nodded and stood from her desk.

  “I summoned you here to formally elevate you to the office of Warden of Battlemages.” She lifted her hand, indicating the other men and women who had joined them. “I have asked the other Wardens here to serve as witnesses.”

  Gil looked around the ring of Wardens, feeling his skin break out in a sweat. Each one was staring at him with critical eyes. He could see the doubt on their faces, and he knew it was deserved. There were many people, older and more experienced, that the Prime Warden could have picked over him.

  There were seven Orders of mages. There had been eight at one time but, of the Order of Harbingers, Naia was the last. She claimed the purpose of the Harbingers had been served with the destruction of the Well of Tears and had always refused to train an acolyte to their ways. The woman cowering in the corner holding quill and parchment served another Order, as had her predecessor.

  Gil looked around the walls, from face to face, and felt unworthy to be included in such a circle. Iris Edelvar, a fiery-haired woman who led the Order of Chancellors, stared back at him from across the room, looking skeptical. To her left stood Alden Gage, Warden of Empiricists, the Order that concerned themselves with the
theoretical intricacies of the magic field. Gage was a balding fellow who wore glasses and a bewildered look that was unfortunately permanent. Warden Cartwright, an ancient man with a stooped back and a skeletal face, led the Order of Naturalists, the Order chartered with the study of Natural Law. Next to him stood blonde-haired and willowy Elda Avenor, the Warden of Querers. Gil tended to think of Querers as your run-of-the-mill mages, though he knew that was doing them a disservice. The Querers went out into the world and roamed village-to-village, offering magical assistance where needed, especially healing.

  He realized all the people in the room were staring at him, and he blinked. He’d forgotten the last thing Naia said. He wasn’t sure what they were waiting for him to do.

  “Ah… thank you,” he said, hoping that was the right response. It got him some looks.

  Nevertheless, Naia raised her voice and addressed those gathered, “Know that, by my will, Gilroy Archer has been elevated to the office of Warden of Battlemages. Grand Master Archer, you are now the commander of the Lyceum’s defenses. Feel free to disseminate orders as you see fit; you do not require my approval. If you need anything from me, you have but to ask. I will always be available to you, but I will not interfere with your authority unless you leave me no recourse. You are our general now. You have my blessing… and also my trust.”

  Gil dipped his head, feeling flustered and embarrassed. “Thank you, Prime Warden.”

  And then the brief ceremony was over. To Gil, it seemed rather anticlimactic.

  “Congratulations, Warden Archer,” said Warden Cartwright, grasping Gil’s hand as he ambled toward the door. His skin felt cold and clammy, stretched thin over the bones of his hand.

  “Warden Archer.” Elda Avenor inclined her head as she left.

  “Warden,” said Alden Gage, looking just as puzzled as ever.

  One by one, his new peers filed out of the office. The entire situation seemed surreal, like if he blinked his eyes, he’d find out it never happened. Soon he found himself alone with only Naia and her attending acolyte. The Prime Warden offered him a lifeless smile then regained her seat, folding her hands on her desk. Gil took the chair across from her and sat back with his hands on the armrests, gazing blankly at an oil painting mounted to the wall behind her. The light of the lanterns made the painting seem to come alive, the oil flowing across the canvas. It was some type of landscape, though one that looked foreign and utterly unfamiliar. It captured and held his attention.