Craig rapped his knuckles on the table to get his attention.
“Look, Archer. There’s some things we need to get settled between us. There’s going to be a battle here in a matter of weeks, possibly days. I’m supposed to be able to rely on you. But I can’t. As far as I’m concerned, you only know enough to be dangerous.”
Hearing that, Kyel hung his head. He knew he wasn’t the Sentinel that Darien had intended him to be. But he’d been trying his hardest to make himself more effective. In the past few months, he’d spent every spare moment with a book in his hands. But learning was proving to be all but impossible without a master to guide him. “I can give you my best,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”
“It’s not enough,” Craig snapped. “You’re the only Sentinel we have. And I need you to do your gods-damned duty. What do you know of siege warfare?”
Kyel stared hard at the floor. “Not enough.”
“Then welcome to your first day of training.” Craig planted two fingers squarely on one of the maps laid out on the table. “This is their primary staging area, right here, at the base of Orguleth.” He punctuated each syllable with a tap of his fingers. “They’re well-entrenched and sustained by robust supply lines. More forces arrive by the hour. Soon they’re going to reach a point where they’ll have to either disband or advance. They can’t just sit there forever.
“The way I see it, they’ll deploy an advance force consisting mostly of foot soldiers…”
Kyel stared at the map as the man’s words droned on into meaningless noise. He tried to pay attention. But all he could focus on was the image in his head of the mounded piles of corpses he’d been forced to walk through after his last battle in the pass. Kyel remembered it well, the wails and moans of the fallen, the stiffening limbs, the spreading rivulets of blood. The smell of the aftermath. He’d witnessed the personal hell Darien had gone through trying to heal the injured. That battle had changed him; after that, his eyes had remained forever haunted. Darien had never recovered from that day.
Kyel bowed his head in resignation. He didn’t want that kind of future for himself.
He didn’t think he could handle it.
When he went to bed that night, Kyel’s sleep was fitful. He snapped awake drenched in sweat, consumed by a terrible sense of foreboding. He sat bolt upright, throwing off the covers. Gazing blearily into the darkness of his quarters, he tried to make sense of the shadows. He scanned the corners of the room, his heart and mind racing.
He remembered having a nightmare. Only, this nightmare had felt real.
Kyel rolled out of bed and reached for a ceramic jug set out by his bedside. He brought the jug up to his lips, gulping a mouthful of stale water as sweat trickled down his face. An eerie feeling of apprehension slid down his spine as he set the water jug back down.
A shadow lurched toward him from the corner.
Kyel flinched back, bringing his hands up and gasping, “Who’s there?”
The shadow fell across him. Kyel sagged in relief, breathing an audible sigh. For a moment, he couldn’t move, just stood staring into the familiar face revealed by a streak of light slanting in from the window. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to smile.
“Meiran,” he whispered. “Thank the gods.”
The woman nodded. Then she collapsed into his arms, sobbing wretchedly as she clung to his shoulders.
6
The Whim of the Gods
Darien let the blood-soaked wrap fall from his hips, stepping naked into the gray-tiled bath. The air was warm and heavy with humidity. He moved forward through a thick mist of steam, feeling heat radiating up into his feet through the tiles of the floor.
Blood leaked from his body at every step, pattering in dark droplets that mixed with beads of water already on the ground. It ran in crimson streams toward the drains.
He reached the far wall and groped at a gilt handle protruding from the surface. Immediately, a shower of warm water flowed from a spout set high above, falling in soothing droplets about his shoulders. Darien leaned forward, resting his forehead against the tile, arms pressed against the wall. He closed his eyes and let the warm water course over his skin. He could feel the crusted blood softening, releasing from his body. Gently washing away.
None of the blood was his own.
Sinan son of Semal. Alton son of Orhan. Devrim son of Enver. Serkan son of Arsil…
His lips moved without words, forming names without sound, a droning litany in his head. Darien kept his eyes squeezed closed, head bowed under the steady stream of the water. The blood of innocents ran in streams across the floor, collecting in shallow puddles around the drains.
The walls of the bath wept garish streaks of red.
He stayed there for minutes in the water, shivering despite the warmth of the steam.
At last, he turned around. Darien pressed his back against the tiles and let his body slide down the wall to the floor. He leaned forward, cradling his head against his knees.
He sat there for a long time, grimly contemplating death.
It wouldn’t take much to rend his tattered soul and scatter what was left of him on the winds of Oblivion. Just three simple words:
I deny Xerys.
If he could say it in his mind, then he could say it out loud. It shouldn’t be very difficult.
Sinan son of Semal, Alton son of Orhan…
Darien clutched his head, shoulders trembling. He gripped his fingers into fists.
“I … deny…”
The words collapsed, his intent imploding in his mouth. He lacked the conviction to say the words that would end him. He threw his head back, letting the water from the spout drizzle miserably over his face. It felt almost like rain. But bitter, like hot, salted tears.
Eventually, Darien wandered out of the bath. He bent down and picked up the black wrap he’d discarded earlier, holding the stiffened fabric in his hand. With just one thought it was clean and unsoiled, supple, as if no stain had ever corrupted it. He wound the fabric around his hips, knotting it in place.
With a knock, the chamber door shuddered open.
Sayeed appeared, his face rigid with concern. He held a bottle of wine in one hand, a cup in the other.
“Better bring more,” Darien muttered. He trudged forward, relieving Sayeed of the bottle but not the cup. He unstoppered the wine and took a long pull from the bottle. The Zakai officer bowed and left. Darien settled down onto a cushion, leaning back against the wall. He knocked another mouthful back then upended the bottle, draining its contents down his throat. He set the spent container down on the floor then stared vacantly into the fire dancing in the hearth.
Darien was relieved when Sayeed returned quickly.
He hoped that, with enough wine, he could work up the nerve to cast his soul to the winds.
Darien awoke on the floor in a jumbled collection of bottles, his head throbbing in time to every heartbeat. He lay on his side, staring at a blurry, overturned bottle in front of his face. His fingers twitched. With a scowl, he wrenched himself upright, his vision fading before sharpening.
The door to his bedchamber boomed three times, jolting on its hinges. Someone outside was growing impatient. The insistent knocks had woken him from his stupor.
He shoved himself to his feet, staggering across the floor. Darien opened the chamber door and stood there regarding Byron Connel in silent contempt. He stepped back enough to admit the darkmage into his quarters.
Connel paused, shaking his head at the array of bottles scattered about the room.
“I hope it was worth it.”
Darien ignored him. He walked away, casting his graceless body back down on the mat. He focused his stare on the wall behind Connel, his fingers caressing a soft tassel that hung at his side.
Connel dropped to a crouch in front of him. Hands on his knees, he peered intently into Darien’s face.
“Yesterday, I forged you into a weapon. I neglected to explain how much that wo
uld cost you. You see, weapons don’t feel. They don’t wrestle with indecision or grope for understanding. They have but one purpose: they simply kill. They don’t regret. They never hesitate. And they’re never to blame for what they do.”
Darien’s stare remained fixed on the wall as Connel’s words crawled under his skin, worming their way into his brain. He understood very well what the man was trying to say. He had an acute appreciation of what he’d become. And all that he’d lost.
Connel reached out and clapped Darien on the shoulder. Then he pushed himself erect. “I’m leaving. Rally the Tanisars. I’ll expect you at the staging area in one month’s time.” He stared down at Darien for a moment, awaiting a response. When none was forthcoming, the Battlemage simply shrugged.
“May you know the peace and blessings of the gods.”
With that, he turned toward the door.
“Who’s to blame?”
Connel stopped. He turned back around.
Darien finally looked up at him, resentment seething in his eyes. “You said a weapon is never to blame. If not the weapon, then who?”
The Battlemage reached into a pocket of his robe and withdrew a folded pair of gloves. He worked his hand into one, flexing his fingers to stretch the fabric. “No man has the authority or power to determine another man’s fate. All lives are lived at the mercy and whim of the gods. They alone are to blame.”
He turned away, tugging the other glove on over his wrist.
Darien lowered his stare back to the hearth. “Then damn all the gods. And damn you too.”
Connel nodded. “Take care, Darien,” he said as he left.
Darien waited only long enough to be certain the man was well and truly gone. Then he scooped up his sword and shirt and thrust open the chamber door. He strode across the empty hallway and tugged open the door of the stable. There, the strong scent of horse filled his nostrils.
From the other side of the dim room came a welcoming nicker.
Darien moved forward, his hand reaching up to stroke his stallion’s soft neck. It didn’t take him a minute to slip a bridle on over the horse’s head and laid a blanket over its back. Thrusting open the stable door, he led the animal into the hallway.
He mounted swiftly and rode at a trot through the corridors of the palace, the echoing sounds of hoofbeats ringing off the walls. Tanisars and servants scattered out of his way, dodging back to let him pass. Darien rode out the gate into the night, urging the stallion forward at a gallop.
He found Azár in the lightfields. She looked up at his approach, confusion pinching her face.
“Darien?”
He dropped his horse’s reins, trudging stiffly toward her through the grass of the meadow. Azár held her ground, face frozen in concern as her eyes tracked his motion. Her stare delved into him, searching. Her mouth twisted in compassion.
“Come here,” she whispered.
Darien crushed her against his chest. His lips moved over her, desperate, scouring her face. His shaking hands groped behind her back.
He lifted Azár in his arms then bent to spread her out on the grass. He collapsed on top of her, the strength of his need rendering every motion frantic. His lips found hers, furious, ravaging. He slid his hands under her shirt, forcing back the thick fabric and exposing the soft flesh of her middle. His hips bore down against hers.
He was desperate.
Desperate to feel something beautiful again.
He parted her legs with a knee, fumbling with the drawstring of his trousers.
“Stop.” It was the faintest, saddest sound.
Darien froze.
“Please,” Azár whispered. “Stop touching me.”
Panic infused her voice, so much that it made him sick.
Darien rolled off her, sitting up. He clutched his head in his hands, his body quivering.
“Look at me.”
Azár wrenched Darien’s face toward her. He kept his eyes lowered; he was too ashamed to look at her.
“If you ever touch me like that again, I’ll kill you.”
He forced a nod. Then he lurched to his feet and staggered away.
7
The Semantics of Servitude
Quin hovered over the kettle, bringing the spoon up to his lips for a taste. The fragrance of the stew filled his nostrils with warmth, bringing a whimsical smile to his lips. The sweet blend of seasonings tingled on his tongue, transporting him back in time with a nostalgic flood of aching sentiments. The smell reminded him of home. Not any recent home, but the Bryn Calazar he remembered. The city had been filled which such rich flavors, sweet fragrances and incense.
Now, all lost.
Lost in time. But not in memory.
The smile slipped from Quin’s face. The taste of his cooking was another unsubtle reminder of his damnation.
“What is it?”
“Mujaz.” Quin’s voice was hollow with melancholy. “A stew made from dried fruits and seasonings.” Noticing the dubious expression on her face, he added, “You eat it.”
He dipped the spoon into the kettle then offered it across to her. Naia stared at the spoon for a moment, finally guiding it into her mouth. She closed her eyes as if savoring the taste. Then she crinkled her nose, wincing as if in pain.
“Strong,” she complained. “What do you do, carry spices around in your pockets?”
“In fact, I do.” Quin reached into his pack, extracting a rolled satchel that he opened in front of her. One by one, he began pulling out an assortment of small cloth sacks tied with drawstrings, laying them out on the ground between them. “In Malikar, spices are rare and highly prized. They are used in place of currency.”
Naia reached out and grasped one of the small sacks in her hand. She brought it up to her nose, sniffing. “This is familiar.”
“Cumin,” Quin said. “It aids digestion.”
She looked up at him with interest in her eyes. “How do you know which spice it is?”
He pointed a finger, indicating the color of the braided drawstring. “Each spice is associated with a particular pattern of braid. It’s an ancient system that’s survived since before my time.”
Naia set the small sack down and picked up another, giving it a whiff. “Cinnamon. This is used in the preparation of bodies for funeral. I would never have imagined seasoning food with it.”
“Cinnamon has extraordinary value.” Quin plucked the sack out of her hand. “It's used to prevent food from spoiling, but it also has medicinal properties. It can treat festering wounds.”
Naia frowned. “Don’t your mages tend to the injured?”
“No.” Quin raked the packets toward him and stuffed them back into the woven satchel. “If there’s one thing in Malikar more precious than spice, it’s mage-power. Next to light, that’s the most limited resource.”
Naia nodded, seeming to understand.
Quin served up a bowl of stew for her, thrusting it into her hands. “Enjoy your mujaz. Tonight, we feast like royalty.”
She lifted the bowl with both hands and tasted the mixture, making a face.
Quin plunked the spoon back into the pot. Under his breath, he muttered, “I sometimes forget how much you people eschew anything that stimulates the senses or even reason.”
Naia stared at him over the brim of her bowl. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, really.” Quin shrugged, serving himself a portion. “Just that you Southern folk seem to lead a very drab existence devoid of any substance. Now, eat your stew or go hungry.”
He raised his bowl to his lips, drinking the sweet nostalgia delivered by the taste.
Looking defiant, Naia raised her own bowl and ate without further complaint.
When the meal was finished, Naia sat in silence while Quin went about the business of cleaning up their little camp. He could feel her eyes on him, tracking his every motion as he scrubbed out the cook pot with blackened sand and added coal to the fire. At first, he tried to ignore her looks. When the w
ork was finished, he relaxed back against the cliff wall and tried using the brim of his hat as a shield against her stare. He focused his eyes and thoughts on the flickering of the campfire. It didn’t help; he could still feel her there.
At last, when he could stand the attention no longer, he pushed back the brim of his hat, demanding, “What?”
The infernal woman continued to glare at him. “You lied to me.”
Quin frowned, not understanding at first. It took him a moment to figure out what she was getting at. Even then, he disagreed. “No. I didn’t.”
“You told me you knew how to lift the curse over the Black Lands.” Her eyes lingered on his face, accusing. “That was a lie.”
He wondered what had given him away. Quin scowled, not wanting to be cornered into elaborating. “I told you I’d found a way to lift the curse. I didn’t say that I knew exactly how to go about it.”
Naia raised her eyebrows, scoffing at his explanation. “Semantics. Be more specific.”
Quin grimaced, bringing a hand up to scratch his chin. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He sat upright, pulling his knees up against his chest and sweeping the hat off his head. This was exactly the conversation he’d been hoping to avoid. “All right, if you insist. But first, we must talk about the ground rules I have to live by.” He took a deep breath, sorting through his thoughts. Trying to figure out how much to tell her. And how much to keep hidden.
“First of all, I’m a Servant of Xerys,” he said finally. “That means I’m compelled to act with my Master’s objectives always in mind. The moment my own interests lead me astray, I risk losing my Master’s support. If I stray too far from my path then, why, my soul will be erased”—he snapped his fingers—“like that. Unmade and consigned to Oblivion. Understand? I walk a very treacherous and narrow path.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 86