War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga

by Gail Z. Martin

  Blaine clawed his way to the top of the embankment and stared at the fire-red spirit, but it was too bright to see clearly, save for the indelible impression of grasping tendrils and an open, hungry maw.

  The Knights of Esthrane joined forces with Tormod’s magic. So did Gav, the last of the regular mages still standing. Together, they sent a single, massive lance of power that struck the divi in its core. Silvery light suffused the divi’s form, driving out the crimson fire, and behind the trapped spirit, Blaine swore he saw a rift in the darkness that was blacker than the night.

  Pain lanced through Blaine’s head, threatening to black him out as the massive outpouring of magic overwhelmed the protections of his deflecting amulet. Even the support of the kruvgaldur and Kestel’s null amulet seemed tenuous, strained by the maelstrom of power. Blaine clung to consciousness, watching through slitted eyes as blinding silver light pushed the divi back into the unnatural darkness.

  Perhaps because he was so near to death himself, Blaine saw the ghost mist rise from Quintrel’s corpse, struggling to uncoil itself from his body, twisting free only to be pulled into the divi’s grasp. Blaine heard a scream of utter terror, an earsplitting shriek from the divi that rent the night, and then both the divi and the rift were gone.

  Blaine dragged himself over the edge of the embankment and crawled to where the two renegade mages lay. One was a man he did not recognize. Carensa’s body lay next to the dead mage. Blaine turned her over gently, calling her name. Deep, bloody slashes savaged her chest and belly. Her skin was gray and she looked as drawn and gaunt as if she had been fasting, drained of her life by the divi. Carensa’s head lolled and her eyes were wide and staring.

  “Thank you,” Blaine murmured to Carensa and the other mage as Kestel moved up beside him. The world reeled around Blaine. Blaine’s heart pounded erratically and his head felt ready to explode. Even his kruvgaldur bond could not sustain him any longer. Exhausted, grief-stricken, and utterly spent, Blaine fell face forward onto the ground, giving himself up to the darkness.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  SIX DAYS AFTER THE VICTORY AGAINST QUINTREL and the warlords, thanks to the healers and Penhallow, Blaine was ready to fight another kind of battle. The new Lords of the Blood gathered at Mirdalur for one more attempt to anchor the magic securely. Now, after all the preparation, it was finally time.

  “Before you enter, the working demands blood.” Blaine looked up to see Dagur holding a silver chalice and a boline knife. Rikard stood beside him, the sigil-carved wood held in his grip.

  Blaine slid back the sleeve of his shirt, baring his left forearm. “Take it,” he said.

  Dagur drew the ritual knife across Blaine’s skin, scoring deep enough to raise a thin stream of blood. He harvested it carefully into the chalice, and one by one the others offered an arm for the bloodletting.

  When each of the thirteen had been bled, Dagur and Rikard moved to the opening of the labyrinth. Dagur murmured something, and runes appeared in the stone walkway, marking the first step of the maze.

  Rikard held the sigil-carved wood over the marked stone. Dagur raised the chalice to each of the four quarters in turn, and then poured out the blood over the sigils. His chant grew louder as the blood spilled over the carved wood, and there was a rush of power, spreading from the first stepping-stone all along the pathway of the labyrinth as power called to power.

  When the cup was dry, Rikard fit the carved wooden piece into a depression beside the opening to the labyrinth. He was bloody to the wrists, and the floor was stained crimson.

  “Enter,” Rikard said to the thirteen. “Carry the mingled blood on the soles of your feet. The chamber is ready for the ritual.”

  As Blaine and his companions wound their way into the labyrinth, Nidhud, Dagur, and the other mages began to chant. The chant was mellifluous, with a second and then a third group of chanters joining in the repetitive phrases like a round until the chamber seemed to swell with plainchant.

  Blaine felt the magic rising with the chant, winding around them as they coiled their way into the heart of the labyrinth. The crystals, which had pulsed lazily before, now glowed brightly with amber light. Perhaps it was a trick of the torchlight, but to Blaine’s eyes, the crystals seemed to be pulsing along with the chant.

  The obsidian disk hung on a strap around Blaine’s neck, over his heart. It had been cold to the touch when Blaine entered the labyrinth, but it grew warmer the farther along the path he went. Now the disk felt fevered, warmer than Blaine’s skin, and the runes and markings etched into its glossy surface were pulsing with a golden glow from deep inside.

  The last time Blaine had worked the ritual at Mirdalur, he had been alone inside the maze. Then, it felt as if the labyrinth was fighting him at every step, turning its magic against him. Perhaps it had been, trying to protect him from what was to come, from nearly being killed by magic too wild to be completely bound.

  This time, among twelve compatriots, the magic of the labyrinth felt completely different. Instead of fighting him, the magic drew him forward, quickening his step so that if he had not been mindful of it, he might have ended up running. From the looks on the faces of his companions, Blaine was certain that at least a few of them could feel the pull of the magic themselves.

  Of those he had chosen to become the new Lords of the Blood, most had some level of magic. Blaine’s own magic, before the Great Fire, gave him an edge in battle, augmenting his natural agility and training, and since the ritual at Valshoa, he had felt the battle magic enhance his speed and strength. Since he had made the first anchoring, he had also gained a few seconds of precognition, knowing where the enemy would move and making it easier for Blaine to anticipate and block the strike. His kruvgaldur with Penhallow strengthened his endurance and made him harder to kill. And as Kestel had pointed out, awareness of where magic was being worked was a valuable early warning signal.

  Blaine had no idea whether this night’s working would allow him to keep those skills, strip him of his limited magic entirely, or change him in some new and unexpected way. The last time the magic was successfully bound, the Lords of the Blood gained new abilities, though it did not make mages of those who had not been mages before, nor had it turned the mages into gods. Blaine thought that he would be content to just live through the working and have it succeed.

  Connor was a medium, and the Wraith Lord who possessed him qualified, to Blaine’s thinking, as a magical creature in his wraith state, certainly supernatural. Borya’s magic added to his acrobatic ability, while Dolan, a Knight of Esthrane, was a mage as well as a warrior and talishte.

  Niklas had no magic. Neither did Piran, who made it clear that he thought that lack was a good thing. Verran’s magic enabled him to pick locks and gain people’s trust. Dawe’s ability enhanced his talent for metalworking.

  Penhallow was talishte, supernatural in his essence, and to Blaine’s thinking, the kruvgaldur counted as magic, though Penhallow was vague on the matter. Blaine had no idea what magic, if any, Folville, Voss, and Verner possessed, though Tormod Solveig had clearly demonstrated just how powerful his necromancy was.

  “Look at the walls,” Niklas murmured.

  The paintings of the constellations on the walls had begun to glow. Instead of the flat paintings that had been there a few moments before, the murals now seemed to be windows into the heavens, as if Blaine could reach his arm though the rock and into the cosmos.

  The air itself was astir with magic. Perhaps it was a trick of the torchlight, but to Blaine’s eyes, the air shimmered, as if someone had loosed gold dust on the wind.

  “Overhead,” Piran said in a low, warning voice. Blaine glanced up, and the dark ceiling of the underground chamber had been replaced by the coruscating colors and brilliance of the Spirit Lights of Edgeland.

  One of the mages had begun a steady rhythm on a hand drum. The beat reverberated in the chamber. Censers set around the exterior of the labyrinth burned sage in smoky bundles,
adding the candle smoke. Candles glimmered at intervals along the labyrinth, one at each circle reserved for a Lord of the Blood.

  Blaine felt disoriented, as if, with the chanting and the drumming, the glimmering light and the glittering air, power rose and fell with every breath. His head was swimming, his knees felt weak, and it was difficult for him to keep his focus, though he clung to the urgency of his mission.

  Blaine inhaled the sweet sage smoke that hung in the air, breathing deeply, letting it fill his head and lungs, clearing his thoughts. His body felt light, as if he were not completely grounded in the world. He dared not turn to see if the others felt the same. Though the chamber was bounded by stone walls and the labyrinth was clearly marked in the rock floor, Blaine knew that if he took his eyes off the place where he must stand, he might lose his way. Time within the labyrinth seemed to move at a different pace.

  After what seemed like forever, Blaine reached the spot where he had stood the last time, when the magic nearly killed him. In the paintings of the constellations, he could see the stars moving in their courses, like looking up into the night sky. A rain of falling stars glimmered across one of the portals. Perhaps the boundaries between land and sky have been weakened by the magic, Blaine thought. Or maybe to magic, the boundaries are only in our imagination.

  Blaine glanced toward the others outside the labyrinth. Though the labyrinth was only a few strides across, from where he stood, it seemed as if Kestel, Zaryae, and the mages stood on the far side of a great chasm, farther away than the rock-bound room made possible.

  Or else magic alters the space, once the power is invoked, and we are in a place that’s not quite where we set out to go, he thought.

  “Step into your circle,” Dolan said.

  Glancing at the others, assuring himself that they were all moving into place, Blaine drew a breath to steady himself, and stepped into the circle appointed for him.

  At once, all of their presence-crystals flared with a deep-orange light. The golden runes on his onyx disk glowed brilliantly. From the ceiling of the chamber, the coruscating lights spread, dropping around them like a curtain to separate those within the labyrinth from those on the outside of the circle. Blaine caught a glimpse of Kestel’s face, and saw the fear in her eyes, but there was no turning back.

  Dolan had divined a word of power for each of the participants, an ancient word to speak aloud and activate the magic. Once spoken together, the words of power would bind the magic, tethering its wildness with stronger bonds than one man alone could forge. Through the ritual, the magic would be grounded and bound, to each of them and through each of them, altering them and placing a sacred bond and duty upon their eldest sons for all the future. For the talishte, the working bound them personally as guardians of the magic.

  For a moment, the silence was unbearable. It was as if the cosmos, and not just those within and outside the circle, waited for the words to be spoken. The constellations bore witness, and the shimmering light, the runes, and the crystals all connected in the massing power that Blaine could feel crackling in the air, waiting.

  “Ahanthi!” Blaine said in a loud, clear voice.

  The others spoke their words just a breath after Blaine, each a different word, echoing through the chamber. Together, the syllables rolled like thunder, as if they were not meant to be spoken by mortals.

  The many-colored lights curtaining off the circle flared so brightly that Blaine shielded his eyes with his arm. In addition to the sound of the mages’ plainchant and drumming, Blaine swore he could hear the shimmer of bells and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of voices, an unseen choir of all those who had come before them.

  The constellations whirled and spun, dancing in the cosmos, their colors brilliant and fantastic. The air smelled like the tang after a lightning storm. Beautiful, hypnotic, and utterly terrifying, the sounds, smells, and images were intoxicating. Blaine stood transfixed, waiting for what would happen next.

  Blue-white bolts of energy rained from the top of the light-dome. Some of the bolts struck along the pathway, but thirteen of the bolts found their targets, striking each of the new Lords of the Blood in the crown of their heads and racing down and through their bodies into the rock beneath their feet.

  Blaine’s body was frozen in the arc of light. He expected to smell burning hair and searing flesh, to feel the energy burn him alive, and he readied himself to die.

  In that instant, Blaine saw the others transfixed by the brilliant light, held immobile in its glare, eyes wide. Some looked frightened, others angry, some ready to flee if they could. Blaine wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

  If the Wraith Lord expected this and didn’t tell me, we’re going to have a chat about this if we all survive, Blaine thought.

  Blaine felt a wordless reassurance deep in his mind, something he had come to recognize as his kruvgaldur bond with Penhallow. He had a sense of Penhallow’s presence, an infusion of resilience, and an unspoken certainty that he would be strong enough to endure.

  Is that why Connor seems so at ease with all of this? Blaine wondered. His bond must be many times stronger than mine, and he’s channeling the Wraith Lord’s spirit. It’s nice to be able to draw on Penhallow’s strength, but will it be enough? What if it isn’t?

  The chamber faded from Blaine’s sight, replaced by a vision of Glenreith. This was the manor as he knew it before his exile, before the Great Fire, when the lands had been prosperous and the great house in good repair. Ian McFadden was beneath one of the trees in the orchard, and though his back was turned, from the way his fist rose and fell, it was clear even at a distance that something had drawn his wrath.

  Blaine saw himself, a half-grown youth, come running down the manor stairs, shouting at his father. Ian did not pause or turn, and Blaine caught a glimpse of the victim of his father’s wrath. Ian held Carr by one arm in an unbreakable grip, while the other large fist landed blow after blow. There was no sound in Blaine’s vision, though the figures were speaking. Blaine did not need to hear them. He remembered.

  In the vision, Blaine came running at Ian’s back, roaring like a bull, and caught his father between the shoulder blades with his own shoulder, shoving him hard enough that Ian stumbled and let go of Carr’s arm. Carr scrambled to his feet and ran off as Ian rounded on Blaine. Blaine had grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, a long, forked branch from a nearby tree, and he used it to keep Ian at a distance. Both exchanged shouts, red in the face with anger, as Ian attempted to dodge around Blaine’s guard and Blaine kept his father far enough away to postpone the beating that was certain to follow.

  Time in the vision slowed, freezing like the inlaid images in a mosaic. And in that moment, Blaine saw something in Ian’s face he did not remember from the encounter long ago. Rage twisted Ian’s facial expression, but in his eyes was naked fear.

  He knew, Blaine thought. Somehow, even then, he knew I would kill him. Before I knew, before it had even crossed my mind, he saw his fate.

  The vision shifted, as if someone had stirred the placid surface of still water. Blaine saw an unbroken expanse of white that stretched into the gray horizon, and more snow falling from slate-colored skies. He shivered as the snow fell on bare skin where his ragged prison uniform had been shredded by Prokief’s beating.

  A soldier on either side dragged him, one on each arm, with Blaine between them as deadweight, too injured to stand. It was Velant, one of many times Blaine had gotten on the wrong side of the prison colony’s violent commander.

  Blood dripped from Blaine’s mouth into the snow, leaving a crimson path of droplets. Red stains trailed behind him from his injuries as the guards dragged him across the snow. The gritty ice burned against his raw wounds until his skin grew numb from cold. Blaine knew where the figures in the vision were going. To the ‘Hole,’ Prokief’s oubliettes cut into the ice.

  One guard removed the lid from the Hole, then the two guards heaved Blaine into the darkness. Blaine tumbled down, deep into the i
ce, as they replaced the lid and left him in blackness. He landed hard.

  Prokief might have the soldiers haul Blaine out after a day or two, but he might leave him to die of cold. Blaine expected nothing. Then, as now, when he was dying, the visions had come to him, voices and bells and coruscating power, visions he did not remember until now, when he saw them anew.

  I barely realized I had any magic at all, Blaine thought. Not then. But the magic knew me. Meridians ran beneath Edgeland, perhaps beneath Velant. Perhaps that’s why I survived. Could the power have recognized the bond in my blood, even then, and sustained me?

  As abruptly as the visions came, they vanished, and with them went the blinding light. Blaine fell to the ground, as if even breathing required more energy than remained. He was bleeding afresh from the cut on his arm and from his battle wounds, and every muscle and sinew ached. From what he could glimpse, the other twelve, even the talishte, had collapsed. Their bodies twitched, reassuring Blaine that they were alive.

  The candles had guttered out. Gone also was the coruscating light curtain separating the labyrinth from the chamber. Blaine’s presence-crystal lay where he had dropped it, but now it was nothing more than a carved piece of charred stone. The obsidian disk hung on its lanyard, flipped faceup against his shirt, dark.

  As the shock of being alive receded, Blaine realized that the chant and drumming continued. Magic flowed around and through the chamber, through him and through the others, a silent, roaring river, and for the first time since the Cataclysm, that torrent felt clean and unimpeded.

  We did it, Blaine thought wearily. I don’t know if it will work the same as it used to, but the magic is back. We did it.

  He made it to his knees before the chamber swam in his vision and he fell onto all fours, retching violently. Every muscle in his body tightened painfully, sending tremors that cramped his arms and legs and clenched his gut. His heartbeat stuttered and he labored for breath. Blaine fell forward onto the cold stone of the labyrinth, and fought to remain conscious.