Gil angled toward the pavilion, every step increasing his anxiety. He walked with his shoulders slumped and head bowed, unable to meet the eyes of the soldiers who labored around him. Shame weighed on him like a burden of lead, making every stride more difficult than the last. By the time he reached the command tent, he’d broken out in a nervous sweat, his flesh tingling with goose prickles. He avoided the stares of the guards as they stepped aside and let him pass.
It was brighter within the tent than it had been in the darkening twilight. The pavilion was spacious, lit by many lanterns scattered across the floor and hanging from cloth-wrapped posts. There was a general bustle of men and women going in and coming out, clustering at the far end around a table.
Gil immediately caught sight of the Sultan’s profile, and he froze, his heart stumbling to a standstill. Sayeed stood bent over a large vellum map that hung off the edges of the table, tracing a finger across it as he gave orders to his officers. Completely engrossed in his task, he didn’t notice Gil standing across from him.
Gil swallowed hard, trying to work the dryness from his throat enough to trust his voice. The attempt only served to make him choke, a sound that captured the Sultan’s attention. Sayeed’s gaze darted up from the map and locked on him, hardening in anger. He stood motionless for long seconds, doing nothing but staring daggers. Then he made a sharp gesture with his hands, sending every man and woman heading toward the exit. As the tent emptied, Gil withered beneath that iron-stern gaze, strangled by shame.
He stood looking at the Sultan, the tension between them stretched to its thin limit.
“You ignored my command,” Sayeed said softly.
Seeing the fire that burned in the depths of his eyes, Gil couldn’t help feeling afraid. He stood still, trying not to think of all the ways he had failed this man. He lowered his gaze to the ground, finding it impossible to look the Sultan in the face.
“I did,” he said, his voice cracking.
There was a moment’s pause.
Then, “Why?”
Despair gushed through him, emptying him entirely. “I thought I was right.”
He chanced a glance up and saw that Sayeed’s expression hadn’t changed. There were many layers of contempt in that ice-cold gaze.
“Do you still? Think you’re right?” Sayeed asked.
Gil shook his head. “No.”
The Sultan looked down, ignoring Gil and focusing his attention once more on his maps. The span of silence that followed informed him that he’d been dismissed.
But he couldn’t leave just yet. He wasn’t done admitting the depths of his failure.
“Your Majesty, I…”
The Sultan looked up at him, his gaze piercing.
“Ashra… Your daughter…” Gil swallowed heavily, summoning the very last scraps of courage left within him. “…was taken by the Turan Khar.”
Sayeed closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath that lingered for eternity in his chest before shuddering back out again. He stood still, hands planted on the map table, every muscle of his body tensed enough to snap.
“Go.”
There was more menace in that one, soft syllable than Gil had ever heard in his life. He took an uneasy step backward, stumbling over his feet.
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” he said. Then he turned and fled the tent.
He hastened across the square, dodging bodies and fallen weapons, slipping and nearly falling on cobbles slick with gore. He passed the flaming barricades and headed west down the street, winding through crowds of soldiers and clusters of weeping citizens.
Everywhere he looked was chaos. Men and women jogged through the streets, carrying broken children in their arms. Wives and mothers knelt beside the bodies of their husbands and sons. The sounds of weeping and keening pursued him, relentlessly dogging his steps.
Gil’s eyes burned with tears that blurred his vision, distorting his perception of the confusion that surrounded him. As he approached the Lyceum, thick black smoke saturated the air, and the twilight was sucked right out of the sky, replaced by midnight. The moans of the injured and dying pursued him as he fled up the steps, putting as much distance between himself and the reality of his failure as he could. When he burst through the door of the Lyceum, some of his men, sighting him, rushed forward, shouting his name. He didn’t slow his steps as he stormed down the hallway toward Naia’s office.
“Warden! What are your orders?”
He had none. Anyone with eyes could see the ruin his orders had brought them to.
He thought of Ashra, and a searing pain stabbed him in the gut, then cut upward into his heart. Out of all the people he’d failed that day, it was Ashra’s loss that hurt the most. He should have been the one taken away in chains. Not her.
Gil stumbled to a halt. He stood there for moments in the middle of the hallway, blinking dumbly. Then, blowing out a bitter sigh, he changed his course, making instead for the stairs and descending the steps downward to the subbasement. He crossed the cistern in haste, dodging fallen blocks and tumbled pillars, until he came to the long hallway with the circular chamber at its end. Entering the room, he slowed to a stop and just stood there, collecting the frayed bits of his faculties.
He unlocked the door to Payden’s cell. Opening it just a crack, he crouched down, pressing his forehead up against the rough wood of the doorframe. He was trembling. He hadn’t noticed, not until he saw he was rattling the entire door on its hinges.
“Payden,” he whispered. “Payden, are you awake?”
The interior the cell was dark. He couldn’t make out anything beyond the doorway. He couldn’t tell if Payden was asleep or awake, alive or dead. Or if he was even there at all.
“Payden. Talk to me.”
He heard a soft sound, like the rustle of blankets. A low whimper.
He opened the door a bit wider. “Please. Talk to me. They’ve taken Ashra.”
There was a creaking noise, the sound of Payden sitting up on the cot. A shadow moved, barely visible against other shadows. But then a face emerged into the narrow strip of torchlight spilling in through the doorway: Payden. Or at least the man who used to be Payden. He crept forward until he was crouching on the other side of the door. He leaned forward, his face only inches away from Gil’s.
He could smell the reek of Payden’s breath and the stench of his body. The odor of the waste bucket that had never been dumped. Gil knelt in the doorway and didn’t pull back. Looking at the devastation written on Payden’s face was like looking into the depths of his own soul. Only, Payden had done nothing to merit his anguish.
Gil had.
“Ashra?” Payden whispered, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. He nodded fervently. “That’s good, that’s good.” He licked his lips, his tongue worming over his mouth. “She’ll be happy. She won’t be needing us anymore.”
Gil blew out a sigh, wondering why he was there. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Perhaps some understanding of Ashra’s plight, the fate he had condemned her to. He wanted to hear that there was at least some small chance that she could be happy, even if that happiness was imagined—as if that would make some bit of difference.
But he knew it wouldn’t.
He drew in a deep, troubled breath, struggling to collect himself. He asked Payden, “Do you still miss them?”
The man nodded avidly, tears collecting in his eyes. “I miss my family. I want to go back to them.” He licked his lips again, making a wet noise. Gil struggled to ignore the sound, even though it made him want to shudder. It was a terrible noise, a noise that the real Payden would have never made. He looked at the man’s feverish eyes and sunken cheeks, feeling pity for him.
He whispered, “They weren’t your family, Payden. That’s all in your mind.”
The man’s face crumpled into a grimace of sorrow. “People keep telling me that.” He shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “No matter what, it’s real to me. Understand? Somewhere out there, there’s p
eople who love me. They’re missing me. And I miss them. I don’t care if it’s only a dream—I want it back. I want them back. Gil… can you take me back? To live with Ashra and my real family?”
He collapsed into sobs, his shoulders heaving. Gil reached through the doorway and patted his back. He felt helpless. Not just for Payden, but also for Ashra. This was what she would be like, if he could ever get her back. A crumbled, hollow thing too brittle to stand on its own. He would never want that for her. He knew what she’d want. She’d asked him to kill her. He should have done it when he had the chance; it would have been a kindness. As he stared at Payden, Gil felt new depths of guilt settling into him. He couldn’t let Ashra live like this.
A startling thought occurred to him, making him flinch. Perhaps he could save her from that fate… and at the same time strike a blow to the heart of their enemy. Perhaps, with one act, he could undo all the damage he had done.
“Payden,” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly. “If I were to take you back… where would I take you?”
The man’s breath caught. He glanced through the doorway at Gil with red and feverish eyes. In a quaking voice, he rasped, “You’ll take me back?”
“I don’t know,” Gil said. “I guess I could try. But if I did, I’d have to know where it is we’re going. Can you tell me?”
He swallowed, hating himself for making false promises. But he also didn’t see another way. There was a chance Payden could help him find the place where Ashra was being held, and that mattered more than anything else in the world.
Payden nodded furiously, rocking back and forth and quivering. “The citadel. Can you take me there? Please? I’ll do anything—”
“Which citadel?” Gil asked. There were at least four of them in the city that he could think of.
“It’s the old citadel by the Lion’s Gate,” Payden said quickly, his voice cracking with excitement. “Please, you have to—”
Gil nodded. He knew the one. It was called the Alqazar. “I know the place,” he whispered. A nervous excitement broke out all over his body, making his skin tingle.
Payden gripped the door, trying to open it. “Please, take me. Let’s go now!”
Gil pushed the door closed, ignoring Payden’s shrieks. He climbed to his feet, thinking of the logistics of sneaking into the North City and finding his way into a fortress where dozens of chained mages would be waiting for him. It would be a suicide venture, with very little chance of success.
He’d have to find a way to increase his odds.
“I’ll go check it out,” he said, rising to his feet. “Wait here, Payden. I’ll come back for you.” He locked the door and hung the key on its hook.
“No!” Payden screamed from the other side of the door, the panic in his voice ricocheting off the brick walls. “Please! Don’t go! Take me with you!”
Gil forced himself to turn away. He hadn’t wanted to get Payden’s hopes up. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back.”
Payden rattled the door, shaking it with all his might, making desperate moaning noises. “Don’t leave me! Please! I want to go home! Please!”
The sound of his sobs was piteous. They tore Gil’s heart. He turned and looked at the jolting door. He tried to imagine that it was himself in that cell, tried to imagine the pain. He went back and pressed his palm against the door. Taking the key, he unlocked it and let the door swing open. On the floor of the cell, Payden sat rocking himself, tears and snot draining down his cheeks, his red lips contorted and quivering.
“Payden,” Gil said quietly. “Is there anything else you want? Anything else in the whole world that will ever make you happy?”
The man shook his head, his body shaking with sobs.
“No.” The word crackled in Payden’s throat. He grimaced, a look of unbearable anguish. “I just want to go home.”
Gil closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to leave him. Not like that.
“Then I’ll take you home,” he whispered. Closing his eyes, he reached deep inside Payden and snapped something there, something delicate but significant.
Payden collapsed in a heap on the floor, where his body lay twitching.
Gil felt warm tears on his face as he walked away. The tears weren’t for Payden, who was beyond the need for grief. His tears were for Ashra. They were derived from his own shame, and the pain of knowing that he would have to do the same for her.
Lost in a bleak and murky emptiness, he let his feet take him back through the darkness of the cistern and up the stairs, carrying him to the door of the Prime Warden’s office. Ignoring her secretary, he entered without knocking.
Naia glanced up at him with a look of shock. “Gil—”
He strode forward and stopped in front of her desk.
“Consider this my resignation,” he said, already turning back toward the door. “Find someone more competent.”
He left the office and walked quickly back out into the hallway, striding down the corridor toward the Lyceum’s main doors. He heard footsteps rushing to catch up with him, but he didn’t slow.
“Gil!” Naia called after him.
He ignored her and kept walking, his black cloak billowing in his wake.
“Warden Archer!”
The authority in her voice stopped him short. Defeated, he turned back to her.
Naia strode up and stopped in front of him, a look of fury in her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I already told you,” he answered. “I’m quitting.”
She shook her head. “I don’t accept your resignation.”
Gil shrugged. “Accept it or not, I don’t care. But you’ll have to find someone else to do the job.”
Naia rubbed her brow wearily. Her face looked more haggard than he’d ever seen it. Looking up at him, she asked softly, “What do you need from me?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing you can do—I’m done. Look, I’m not my father. No matter how much everyone wants me to be, I’ll never be like him. I’m no hero.”
The Prime Warden drew in a heavy breath. “Neither was he.”
Gil’s thoughts halted. Suddenly confused, he asked, “What do you mean?”
Naia raised her chin, crossing her arms. She said, “Kyel Archer was a man who always tried to do the right thing—even if it wasn’t the right thing. He made mistakes too, Gil.”
Of course she was right; no man could be right all the time. But never in his life had Gil heard even one thing his father had ever gotten wrong. He disagreed softly, “Not the kind of mistakes I’ve been making.”
“Yes.” Naia said, inching closer. “Even those kinds of mistakes. That’s what happens when someone becomes a leader. Greater responsibility means the mistakes are bigger. That’s just the way it is. All you can do is your best.”
Her words only served to fan his self-resentment. “Well, my best wasn’t good enough,” he growled angrily and started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
He stopped and looked back. “To the North City. The Sultan’s in a bind; unless we can do something about their mages, it’s all over. I know where they’re kept now. They won’t be expecting me. I’m going to kill as many as I can. If I can reduce their numbers even a fraction, it might give us a chance.”
Naia shook her head slowly, her eyes thoughtful. Breathing a long sigh, she said, “Then you’re going to need help.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” he assured her.
She crossed her arms, clenching her jaw. “I know of a weapon that could make all the difference,” she said quietly. “Against an entire army, it wouldn’t do much good. But for your purpose, it would be ideal.”
Gil stared at her blankly, until it occurred to him what she was talking about. “You’re speaking of Thar’gon,” he gasped.
“Yes,” Naia responded. “At one time, it was carried by your father. It only makes sense it should fall to you.”
Gil’s mind was reeling. His f
ather had used the weapon to destroy the Well of Tears. But no one knew what had become of it. He said softly, “I thought it was lost.”
“No,” Naia said softly. “It was never lost. I know where it is. And I can help you retrieve it.”
31
The Custodian
Rylan stared beyond Xiana at Keio Matu’s stone effigy, cold tendrils of fear slithering down his back. He moved past her, then paced slowly in a wide circle around the figure. He tried to get a good look at the statue’s face, but it was difficult. The man’s head was thrown back, staring straight upward as if gazing into the face of apocalypse. His hair was unbound, hanging halfway down his back, every strand preserved in fine detail as if etched into the stone. Rylan wondered at the strange position Keio Matu had been frozen in for eight thousand years. He looked like he had been gathering himself for a feat of great courage. Or of great cowardice.
Somehow, he was supposed to form a link with this ancient man and absorb his knowledge. The very idea seemed incomprehensible, but Rylan knew better than to doubt. Such a union would make him the recipient of Keio Matu’s legacy, another inheritance he hadn’t asked for and didn’t want. But the man before him didn’t look like a demon. If anything, he looked defiant, captured in the instant he had condemned an entire civilization to death.
But was such an act not evil?
Could such a sacrifice ever be justified?
Rylan couldn’t answer those questions. He shivered, feeling suddenly uncertain whether he wanted this man’s knowledge. He already had one tainted legacy within him. Wasn’t that enough?
“Go on,” Xiana urged, taking a step back. “Touch him.”
Rylan frowned, staring at Keio Matu’s stone visage. “Is that it? Is there more I have to do?”
“That’s it.” Xiana waved him forward. “Do it, Rylan. Don’t think about it. Just close your eyes and touch him.”
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