As the stone’s raging torrent gushed through his body and into his mind, Kyel squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best not to scream.
In the end, his best wasn’t anywhere near good enough.
32
Fly True
The ancient copse of cypress trees stood stiff in the midst of a rolling expanse of white, their evergreen branches unmoving. The air was still, lacking even the suggestion of a breeze. Beneath the trees’ gnarled limbs, an uneasy tension was brewing. It moved over the snow-fed ground like the probing fingers of an inquisitive hand.
The men could sense it. The horses did, as well. The animals worried at their bits, shifting and stomping uneasily. Craig’s own mount stood trembling, eager for the charge. It was bred for the fight; the love of battle ran hot in its blood.
Craig kept a firm grip on the reins. He raised his other hand over his head, clenched in a tight fist. The tinkling of chain mail rattled under his cloak as the stallion beneath him danced in place. He waited, the eyes of twenty men behind him riveted on his fist.
In the distance, a single arrow arced upward into the sky, a red ribbon affixed to its shaft, fluttering in its wake. The arrow and ribbon reached the apex of their flight, curved, then plunged swiftly down toward the earth.
“NOW!” Craig bellowed, dropping his fist.
The horses broke into an all-out charge, emerging from beneath the cover of the trees. Craig’s heels pumped his stallion’s heaving sides, urging it faster. The warhorse swept forward with a great surge of speed, putting all of its heart and muscle into the race. Like the horse beneath him, Craig was eager for the fight.
Filled with the thrill of battle, he raised his horn bow as his mount crested the rise of a hill. He held the curve of the bow parallel to the ground and nocked an arrow to the string. The men behind him did the same.
Before them, the forces of the Enemy sprawled across the plains like a dark and dangerous sea. Craig kicked his mount faster, drawing the arrow back. Just as the black wall of Enemy ranks collapsed and broke toward him, he let the bowstring sing.
“Fly true,” he whispered, quoting the verse inscribed on his bow.
Reaching to the quiver fixed to his saddle, he withdrew another shaft and launched it after the first, three more following. The air around him hummed with the hiss of arrows and screams of death.
Craig tugged at the reins, wheeling his horse around before a charging group of infantry that broke away from the main force. Enemy arrows whispered in his ear as they flew past him, finding purchase in the backs of his own men who fell, slouching sideways from the saddle. Craig leaned forward, pressing his face against his stallion’s neck in an effort to make himself as small a target as possible.
He turned in the saddle and, raising his bow, sent a steady stream of arrows back in the direction of his pursuers. In front of him, he could see the green limbs of the cypress grove beckoning. Branches reached out for him, clawing at his helm and swiping at his cloak.
Behind, he heard the screams of outrage from hundreds of Enemy throats. They were quickly overpowered by the war cries issued from five hundred Greystone archers that ran out from under the cover of the trees.
Craig barked a laugh as he watched the Enemy fall, the air itself singing with the deadly whisper of shafts. The remaining Enemy soldiers struggled to retreat as Greystone soldiers charged forward with weapons drawn.
Craig watched from the edge of the skirmish as his men finished off the last few nodes of resistance. His leg throbbed fiercely. Looking down, he saw that an arrow had buried itself deep in the muscle, perhaps even to the bone. Swearing, he cursed his luck.
Soon, it was done. The swelling cries of triumph that rose from the battlefield drowned out even the stabbing ache in his thigh. Craig barked out a laugh as he gazed upon the fallen remains of black-armored bodies, hundreds of them. Once again, Proctor’s tactics had worked.
The force commander himself came up beside him on his mount. Proctor’s eyes were grimly pleased, until they fell on the black fletching that pierced Craig’s leg. A frown of concern stiffened the hard planes of his face.
“Just a nick,” Craig reassured him, grinning against the pain.
But then his expression fell. He recognized that distant look in his commander’s eyes, noticed Proctor’s hand absently stroking the hilt of the dagger at his side.
Grimly, Craig swallowed. Since their retreat from the pass, Proctor had been consistent with his policy that no living man should be left behind for the Enemy, while at the same time refusing to allow the wounded to impede their mobility. The commander’s sinister knife had seen more use in the past week than ever since its forging.
Staring now at that ebony hilt, Craig realized the meaning of the stony look on Garret Proctor’s face.
33
What Hurts, Teaches
His screams had brought the guards.
They had found him lying on his side, unconscious on the floor of his cell. Kyel remembered little of it, or of the frantic apothecary who’d been summoned to force a draught of some terrible liquid down his throat. He’d lain in his cot the rest of the night, shivering violently, fading in and out of sleep pierced through with disturbing and sometimes even shocking nightmares. The two times he’d managed to drag himself up enough to pass water into the foul bucket, he had barely managed the act. It reminded him of when he’d taken ill with Mountain Fever when he was a boy. His body felt the same: wracked and abused, and horribly weak.
Kyel had been utterly unprepared for the agony of Transference. He had never read anywhere or heard mention that it was supposed to be so excruciating. Somehow, he didn’t think it was. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t ready for it, or maybe it was because of the nature of the Soulstone itself. Kyel had never imagined so much pain could be compressed into such a short period of time.
Somehow, he’d managed to get the damn thing off his neck. He didn’t even remember doing it, but he couldn’t stand thinking about what might have happened if he’d left it hanging there. He remembered Luther Penthos’ warning about how the stone, when black, had the effect of sucking the gift right back out again. The thought was particularly nauseating.
The stone was black now. The light had passed out of it, into himself, Kyel imagined. As he lay back in his cot staring up at the medallion, it was hard to believe that, only last night, the same stone had glowed with a dazzling inner radiance. It no longer even looked like a gemstone. Just a dull and lifeless clump of rock. It reminded him of some of the obsidian stones he had seen in the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.
He didn’t like looking at it anymore. The sight of it filled him with a dread that made him think twice before shoving it back into his pocket. He wanted the thing as far away from him as possible, but there was nothing else to be done with it. Darien had called it an heirloom of power, and Kyel knew it was his responsibility to keep it safe. There couldn’t be many such objects left in the world. Most had probably been lost in the destruction of Aerysius. For all Kyel knew, the Soulstone was the last of its kind, an obsolete relic of a dead civilization that existed now only in one man’s memory.
No. Now there was yet another remnant of Aerysius’ shattered legacy: himself.
Kyel stared somberly down at the iron chains on his wrists, contemplating them quietly in the dim light of the cell. He was a Master now, though Romana’s chains did nothing to bind anything except his dignity. He had given his word to Emmery’s Queen that he would swear the Oath of Harmony as soon as he came into his power, but Kyel didn’t even know the words to say. Darien had never told him.
Which really was not a problem. At least, not yet. He had no idea how to use his newfound strength.
He could feel it moving within him, the vibrant power of Emelda Lauchlin’s gift. It felt strange, being the recipient of an inheritance that wasn’t his own. He might be a Master in name, but that was as far as it went. He didn’t even know what tier he was, or what title he might someday come to use. Was he a
Master or a Grand Master? He didn’t know. He had no order to call his own and was trained to none. He had the cloak, the chain on his left wrist, and the beautiful quiescence of the magic field moving sweetly in the back of his mind. But that was all.
Sighing, Kyel sat up and rubbed his eyes. At least he was starting to feel somewhat normal again. His body was still a little weak, and the muscles in his legs kept cramping. But his head was clear, the fever-like symptoms gone.
He sat on his cot until a guard finally arrived with his breakfast and a ripe taunt on his lips. Kyel ate the scraps of bread in silence, gulping down the stale water with much more enthusiasm. He wasn’t hungry. But he was beginning to grow bored.
For something to do, he lifted his hand and tried concentrating on the chain on his wrist. He had no idea what he was doing. He tried to imagine one of the links bending just enough to slide the thing off, attempting to visualize it in his mind. Nothing happened. He had known it wouldn’t be that easy.
Yet, he couldn’t resist the urge to explore his new talent. He had the feeling that he’d better learn its use, and quickly. He didn’t have Darien there to show him, but he could almost hear the sound of the man’s voice muttering in his mind. Just like they had in the vortex, the Sentinel’s words kept echoing back at him like a refrain: Try again.
This whole business reminded him of the vortex. Then, all he’d needed to feel the current of the magic field was knowledge of the trick. It had taken him awhile to find the right technique, but once he had it down, the rest had been almost too easy. This had to be another trick. If only he could just discover it.
As he had in the vortex, Kyel reached out from within and felt the rhythm of the field, opening himself to it. That had to be the place to start. Otherwise, Darien wouldn’t have bothered teaching him that skill. The mage had known what a short period of training he was likely to have and would have omitted any part of the normal lessons he didn’t deem necessary.
Still, it didn’t work. The chain remained fixed to his wrist, unaffected. Kyel squeezed his eyes shut, sighing in frustration.
Try again.
Biting his lip, he obeyed. Again, he reached out for the magic field, this time pulling at it instead of just groping along the currents. Instantly, a wondrous sensation swelled within him, a feeling of sweet contentment. Startled, Kyel released the field, looking up in amazement. He had done something right.
The chain was still there, the link yet unbent, but the feeling of bliss had been like no other he had ever experienced. It was a startling reaffirmation. He tried it again immediately, practicing the technique of filling his mind with the wonder of the field without another thought spared for the chains. That was all he did the remainder of the morning, until a voice startled him from his exercise.
“Good. You’re not dead.”
Kyel started, flinching back from the magic field as he turned to find Nigel Swain glaring at him through the bars of his cage. He sat up straight, suddenly afraid of what the man had seen. Hopefully, the wonder of the magic field had not been written on his face. Kyel rose to his feet, taking a few hesitant steps toward the man.
“So, do you mind telling me what all that ruckus was about yesterday?” Swain demanded, steel gray eyes peering through the oily strands of his hair.
Kyel lifted his hands, shrugging. “I had a nightmare.”
“A nightmare.” The captain shook his head. “I don’t think so. Try again.”
Try again. Kyel wanted to groan. He would have to come up with something much better. He had never been a good liar. It wasn’t difficult to look as uncomfortable as he felt as he told Swain, “I was practicing something Darien taught me. It went wrong.”
Those cold eyes just stared at him, making his flesh prickle. Softly, the captain said, “Acolytes are forbidden to practice without the guidance of a Master. At least, they were. Darien must have given you that directive.”
“No,” Kyel said. “He never told me any such thing. In truth, the last time he had me learn something, he dumped me down in the middle of a vortex and left me there to figure it out on my own.”
“What?” Swain clutched the bars of his cage as Kyel took an involuntary step backward. “He’s breaking you?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means he’s forsaken a lot more than his Oath,” the captain snarled, eyes raging. “If Aerysius still existed and Darien was found to be using such methods, he’d be the subject of a Grand Inquiry.”
Kyel shook his head, not knowing what to say.
“What I want to know is why,” Swain demanded. “What’s making him feel so pressured that he’d be compelled to go that far? I want an answer. And this time, it had better be a straight one.”
Kyel felt like he was back in the Temple of Wisdom. Swain’s threatening glare seemed all too much like the perceptive gaze of the high priest, taking the bare facts he admitted to and inferring much more than he ever intended.
“He’s eighth-tier,” Kyel found himself confessing. “If you don’t know what that means—”
“I know damned well what it means!” With a growl, Swain wrenched himself away from the bars and swiped out at the air with a fist. “By the whoring mother of the gods, why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“You know why I didn’t!” Kyel shouted at him, appalled and scared by the man’s reaction. “Your Queen already has it in for him. Darien’s in enough trouble already without—”
“You stupid, ignorant boy. You don’t even know what kind of man you’ve placed your trust in. Think about it! We’re talking about an eighth-tier Grand Master who’s foresworn his Oath, shouldered the weight of the world, and on top of it all, he’s already lost everything! Plus, he’s Sentinel-trained, which means he has every piece of knowledge he needs to corrupt what he’s learned into something deadly wicked. You’re apprenticed to a madman, Kyel. You’d better open your eyes before it’s too late to do something about it and we have the next Zavier Renquist on our hands!”
Kyel’s mouth dropped open. He stood there, shaking his head in denial. Swain unlocked the door to his cell, leading him out. Kyel went along complacently, staring at his boots as he walked, filled with a desperate sense of unease. Swain couldn’t be right. Darien was a good, decent man. Sure, he had his moments and, sure, they seemed to be growing more frequent, but…
Kyel stepped out of the building into the glistening white sheen of fresh snow. Blinking, he forgot his train of thought as his eyes gazed upon the sight of what looked like every Rothscard Bluecloak that existed all assembled in front of the palace steps in neat, orderly files. And, before them all, the Queen of Emmery was seated in a sedan chair born on the shoulders of four enormous men, her golden scepter in hand, the Sapphire Crown on her lovely head.
Kyel couldn’t believe his eyes. The scene looked like something out of legend. He waited with Swain as the ranks formed up behind the Queen’s chair. A guard walked toward them leading two horses. One he recognized as his own. With a sigh of relief, he saw that his longbow was attached to his saddle. He had been worried that he’d never see it again.
The guard offered him the reins of his horse, but as Kyel stepped forward to take them, Swain jerked them out of his hand. The captain traipsed back to the saddle and snatched the bow from it, wielding it up before Kyel’s face. With a look of contempt, he took it in both hands and brought the shaft down viciously over his knee, snapping the bow clean in half.
“No!” Kyel screamed. But it was already too late.
Mortified, he stared at the broken shards of his longbow in Swain’s merciless hands. That single stave of wood had been his only friend, his constant companion, all through the long, dark months at Greystone Keep. It had been such a beautiful piece of wood, so elegantly simple, at the same time so comfortingly effective. Practicing with it had been the only thing he had taken pleasure in at the Front, and his developing skill had filled him with confidence and a blooming sense of pride. As he watched Sw
ain throw the shards of the bow down like scraps of filth at his feet, Kyel felt like bending over to pick them up, wanting to run his fingers over the golden yew just one last time.
But he made himself stop. Deep down inside, he knew the captain was right. Mages were forbidden weapons, and there was a reason for it. Kyel couldn’t help but tremble as he thought of Darien’s sword. He wondered if things would have turned out differently if the Sentinel had cast the blade away as he should have or, better yet, never picked it up in the first place. He wondered if Darien would still have yielded his commitment to the Oath, or if he would have found the strength to rise above the temptation.
Kyel turned away from the sad remains of his bow. He was a mage now. Even if he hadn’t sworn the Oath of Harmony, he would live it in his heart. In a way, he was glad Swain had done what he had. It made accepting the constraints of the Oath that much easier. Even if he didn’t know them, not really.
When the captain approached with his horse, Swain lay a hand on Kyel’s shoulder. His hard face held no sympathy. But there was another expression there, one that Kyel was thankful to find. When Swain placed the reins in his hand, he did so with a faint trace of understanding in his eyes.
“The hardest thing to learn about a weapon is knowing when it’s time to give it up,” the blademaster said.
“‘What hurts, teaches,’” Kyel quoted, staring down at the reins in his hand.
Swain’s brow creased. “That’s the motto of the Arms Guild. Did you learn it from Darien?”
“Aye. He said it applies to most lessons in life.”
Swain nodded, patting him on the shoulder. “Well, at least he remembers something I tried to teach him. Come on. We don’t want to keep the entire army waiting.”
Kyel glanced back over his shoulder at the ranks of men formed up behind their Queen. “That’s not the army?”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 37