“Why?” she screamed, backing away from the demon who used to be her son.
The malevolent sneer on his face was terrifying. He advanced slowly toward her, shaking his head as if in disgust. He paused and considered her a silent moment. Then, in a voice she barely recognized, he rasped, “You’re so pathetic, Mother.”
The shock of the insult nearly drove her to her knees. His words came as a hammer blow, wrenching the last bit of strength from her body. She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned, covering her face with her hands and sobbing into them. That was all she could do. He advanced the last few steps toward her, reaching a hand up to caress her face, as if in comfort.
She recoiled from the touch, backing away from him screaming, “How could you? He was your brother!”
Aidan only chuckled, shaking his head. “You would be surprised at what I’m capable of.”
Emelda whirled away from him, tears raining from her cheeks as she sprinted in the direction of the ruined street. She didn’t get far. Her body hit a solid wall of air and rebounded to the ground. She lay there, panting in the dust and dirt, staring up at the green infected sky. Chest heaving, she saw him moving toward her again. Only, now, she knew there was nowhere to run. She was helpless. Her Oath prevented her from doing anything to protect herself. The dark presence of the necrators insured that she kept it.
She rolled onto her stomach, forcing herself to her knees, then to her feet. Fists balled at her sides, she shrieked, “You destroyed the Hall! You killed all of them!”
Aidan merely shrugged offhandedly, turning his gaze in the direction of the pillar of light and the ruins of the Hall of the Watchers. Ever so softly, he said, “They were weak. So was Darien...so are you.” His eyes locked on hers as he took a confident step toward her. “You’ve played at power nearly your entire life. Only, you have never truly understood its nature. I do.” Aidan smiled grimly, running an immaculately clean hand through his hair. “Always, you’ve taken me lightly. When it was time for my Raising, you chose a pitiful First Tier Master to initiate my Transference. You crippled me for life. But when it came time for my dear brother, you arranged it so he would receive the Transference from a strong Grand Master. Darien was a coward, and he was also a fool. He didn’t even lift a hand to save his own life; just see how he squandered that gift! I might have made use of that strength to create something truly meaningful. Instead, you chose to waste it on him. And just look what he accomplished with it.”
“Darien kept his Oath!” Emelda shouted, filled with a sudden gush of pride tempered only by the grief she felt inside.
“Father kept his Oath, as well,” Aidan reminded her coldly, “and see what came of it. My father burned because of your pathetic sentiments! He died screaming, tied to a stake. He begged you to Unbind the Sentinels before Meridan, but you denied him. Father’s death was another meaningless waste. You’ve made a career out of sacrificing our family’s blood in the name of righteousness.”
Emelda’s mouth dropped open in stark disbelief and horror at what she was hearing. He was lecturing her about sacrificing the blood of their family? On the other hand, his words gave her a glimpse of stunning insight. Aidan blamed her for Gerald’s death, but even that explanation did not suffice. Nothing could come close to justifying the atrocities he had committed in that single, terrible night. Yet, Darien’s words yesterday came back to torment her: Unbind the Sentinels. Gerald’s words. Uttered just before he had left her for Meridan by the Sea. Her husband had martyred himself to uphold a vow he did not believe in, only because she had told him that it was the right thing to do. Now, their son had chosen to do the same. Could Aidan possibly be right? Was it really all her fault?
She knew that couldn’t be true. She had not been wrong. And even if she had been, that still was not enough to explain why Aidan had committed such heinous acts. He was deranged; there was no other reasonable explanation. And he was advancing toward her once again.
Emelda glanced toward the cliff, knowing there was nowhere else to run. Darien had chosen to make an end on the rocks so far below; perhaps she could do the same. It seemed fitting. The fall would be terrible, but at least death would come instantly. She imagined stepping off the edge, giving herself over to the mercy of the mountainside. The image brought on an instant surge of vertigo that made her shudder. In the end, Emelda fully appreciated the courage her son must have summoned to make that desperate choice. But she knew she did not have that kind of strength. Aidan was right; she was weak. The cliff was not an option.
Aidan was regarding her suspiciously. Obviously, he could tell what she was thinking and was not about to make the same mistake twice. Predator-like, he stalked the short distance toward her, fixating her with the malevolent intensity of his gaze. She allowed his approach. There was nothing left for her to do. But as he reached up again toward her, Emelda realized that she was not yet ready to end her life. Tears of panic welled in her eyes as a shiver ran through her body. Aidan’s hand froze in the air, an inch away from the flesh of her cheek, a slight smile forming on his lips.
She had wanted a cleaner death, something she could face with the calm dignity befitting a Prime Warden of Aerysius. But she was Warden of nothing, and there was no dignity in this end. Emelda could not stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks, could not hide the despair and terror in her heart. The touch of Aidan’s hand on her face was not comforting; it felt soiled, like a clod of dirt torn up from a grave. Emelda closed her eyes, knowing exactly what was coming.
A stabbing slap of air exploded between them.
Aidan was thrown backwards as she felt herself hurdled in the opposite direction. Strong arms wrapped themselves around her waist, twisting her around and hauling her bodily forward toward the street. She willed her legs into motion, stumbling after the black-cloaked man who had saved her life.
They ran through the crumbled streets of shattered Aerysius, up a flight of gnarled stairs. The light of the Gateway was not enough to repel the shadows and, through the tears that stained her vision, Emelda had no idea who it was she followed in that wild flight. It wasn’t until he pulled her into the dim light of a gaping archway that he turned around enough for her to catch a glimpse of the man’s face.
At first she had imagined that it was Darien, miraculously alive and hale enough to save her. But the features she encountered in the wan recess of light were completely familiar, and yet utterly forgotten. Tyrius Flynn grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she regained her senses enough to realize that she was still under the appalling influence of the necrators.
Emelda Lauchlin screamed. And as she did, Tyrius clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. She kept screaming into his hand, over and over again, sucking breath in through her nostrils and wailing until there was only emptiness left inside. She collapsed into his arms then, weeping helplessly.
“Emelda.” The sound of her name brought her back from the edge of the precipice her mind had almost allowed her to cross. It was not the same kind of terrible fall her son had chosen, but it would have been death, all the same. Insanity, like the cliff’s harrowing edge, was not an option. She gazed up into the comforting brown depths of the Grand Master’s eyes, knowing that her old friend had now saved her twice.
“It—it was Aidan,” she stammered, the flow of words gushing out of her like blood from a rent in the heart. “He opened the Well of Tears. He killed Darien.”
Tyrius regarded her with a gaze filled with profound sympathy. “I saw,” he sighed heavily. Tyrius lifted a hand slowly to her face, much the same way Aidan had. But instead of stealing her life along with her gift, he simply wiped away the tears of spilt grief. Emelda collapsed completely into his arms, pouring out her anguish into the soft black folds of his cloak. Her body shook as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her head against the warm closeness of his chest, offering her the comfort of a lover’s embrace. Emelda had not realized he cared for her until then. Had she known, she probably would have rejected him. But at that
moment, Tyrius offered her exactly what she needed. She clung to him and cried until there were no more tears left within her.
His voice came almost as a soothing shock. “We cannot stay here, Emelda.”
She didn’t want to run anymore. Emelda threw her head back, lips constricting against her teeth. But the scream she felt in her heart was stillborn; she knew he was right. Collecting herself, Emelda pulled back from his embrace.
Suddenly, she frowned. “Where are Lynnea and Finneus?”
Tyrius shook his head grimly. “They’re dead, the both of them. We came across a darkmage down by the Citadel. Emelda, Aidan is not alone. The Eight walk abroad again. There are vile beasts ranging all over the city and more necrators than I ever knew existed in the world.”
Emelda found herself shivering. “More must have come through the Gateway. Tyrius, we were trying to reach the Temple of Isap. The Catacombs—”
“Yes,” the Grand Master breathed, eyes widening. But then his brow furrowed and he paused, considering. “The temple is only a short distance from here. But the journey will be perilous.”
“Surely not more perilous than staying here,” Emelda insisted. “And you’re stronger now, besides. Lynnea and Finneus were both only Masters, but their combined talents must have almost doubled your strength.”
Tyrius shook his head sadly, a pained look filling his eyes. “I was afraid to do more than receive the Transference from Lynnea. I’d be Fifth Tier, now, if such rankings mattered anymore. I deeply fear, however, that the only mage left alive who I might compare myself to is you.”
“Don’t forget Aidan,” she reminded him, shuddering. Emelda had no idea how much her son had managed to amplify his strength in the Hall of the Watchers. Judging by the bridge of power she had witnessed him create, Aidan was easily as strong as any two or three Grand Masters combined. Melding light into such a solid state, even in miniscule amounts, was one of the most difficult acts any mage could perform. It strained the boundaries of Natural Law too far. A solid span the size Aidan had created should have been impossible.
“Oh, I’m not forgetting him,” Tyrius growled. “If it weren’t for my Oath, I’d have thrown a lot more than a ripple of air his way.” The look on her face made him moderate his tone. “I’m sorry, Emelda. I know he’s your child.”
“He is not the child I bore,” Emelda whispered, voice trembling. “The son I birthed is dead. Both of my sons are dead.” She could feel the tears trying to come back again. Mercifully, they didn’t.
Below her in the street she saw a fleeting glimmer of light. Startled, Emelda glanced back to Tyrius. The gray-haired Sentinel narrowed his eyes, staring down at the ruined and empty street.
“You saw it.” Emelda’s gaze turned back to scour the rubble below them, finding nothing. “What was it?”
Tyrius didn’t answer. Another flicker rippled across the ground below them, disappearing almost instantly. Immediately, Tyrius was in motion. Thrusting out his hand, he caught Emelda’s arm and pulled her after him as he moved into the partially-collapsed building. Emelda followed as quickly as she could around shattered blocks and chunks of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. It was dark within. Without a thought, she produced a soft glow of magelight that clung to the walls and pushed away the shadows.
“Don’t!” Tyrius shouted.
She let the magelight collapse back into darkness. “Why? What is it?”
“Something that is there but not there,” Tyrius expressed profoundly. “A bittern.”
Emelda gasped. She knew the name, of course, but only from dark tales and whispers of legend. If a bittern were truly down there in the street, it had probably sensed even her small glow of magelight. Any use of the field sent ripples out into the surrounding pattern that could be detectable even at a distance. She had given them away by her own stupidity; the necrators would be coming.
“We must go!” Tyrius barked as he took her by the arm.
He led her down a dark, littered hallway and around a corner. There they were forced to pull up short. Before them, the walls and ceiling had collapsed entirely, blocking any chance of escape in that direction. Half a wooden staircase hung overhead, swaying slightly, the bottom of it ripped entirely away. Part of the ceiling was still dangling precariously overhead, looking as if it could break off and fall at any time. Growling like a caged bear, Tyrius swung her around with a steel grip on her arm, forcing her back into the hallway and deep into the bowels of the broken building. Emelda had to run to keep up with him. At last he halted, wrenching open a jammed door and ushering her out into the merciful light of daybreak.
She glanced around anxiously. They were in a courtyard that was bordered on both sides by solid rock walls. The rear of the courtyard was contained by the cliff that climbed upward to the next terrace high above. They were trapped. Beside her, the old Sentinel closed his eyes and uttered a protracted sigh. Then he turned away from her, fixing his narrow gaze on the wall to their left.
“Get down,” he grunted, grasping her by the shoulders and pushing her to the ground. Emelda covered her head as the rock wall erupted in an explosion of stone that rained down on their backs, littering the courtyard. When Emelda looked up again, she saw that Tyrius had razed half the wall, the rock black and smoldering at the edges of the rupture. Emelda could only gape at the destruction. In all her years, she had never seen the gift used to destroy, only to create. Always to heal and never to harm. But she knew such usage was within the allowance of the Oath of Harmony, so long as it was never focused against a living thing.
“Well, if that doesn’t point out right where we are, then I might as well send up a signal beacon,” Tyrius grumbled. As his eyes turned back toward the building behind them, he added softly, “I don’t think a beacon will be necessary.”
Behind them, a shadow fell across the threshold of the doorway. Only, Emelda knew by the now-familiar sense of icy dread that it was no true shadow.
This time, she ran first. Toward the ruins of the wall, up and over the rubble, stumbling as her foot lodged between two large blocks. Frantically, she tried to wrench her ankle free, but it held fast. She fumbled through the terror in her mind, straining to hear the sweet song of the magic field. But the necrator was too close, its dark influence too great. And it was gliding closer. Emelda whimpered, tugging at her leg with both hands.
Then Tyrius was beside her, stooping down to pry at the stones with all of his strength. One of the rocks shifted just a fraction. It was enough. Emelda jerked her foot clear and lurched to her feet as a lancing pain stabbed up her leg. She screamed, throwing her head back.
Hands encircled her, and suddenly she felt herself being heaved upwards into Tyrius’s strong arms. He carried her, stumbling forward across another courtyard and into the building beyond as the necrators relentlessly pursued. A flicker of light flowed behind them, writhing across the ground like a mass of glistening snakes.
Tyrius staggered, almost falling across the threshold of the next structure. He carried her up a winding staircase to the third level, only then pausing to set her down on the landing and catch his breath. From below them came a strange scraping noise, like chains dragging across stone.
Emelda looked down at her ankle and choked back a groan. It was bleeding, her foot twisted at an unnatural angle. She couldn’t heal it; she had never learned and, besides, she didn’t have the strength. But Tyrius pressed his hand against her foot, sending a wave of healing energy through her. Emelda felt a tingling sensation like a rush of cold water running up her leg. She watched her ankle straighten, the bone mending before her eyes. The pain vanished completely, as if it had never existed at all.
The scraping noises were louder now, coming toward them up the stairs. Emelda pushed herself to her feet, Tyrius reaching a hand down to help her. He kept his fingers entwined with hers as he led her forward once more, up another two flights to a level high above the street. There was a short hallway there that led to an outside balcony. They m
ade toward it, Tyrius shoving open the door and leading her by the hand back out into the open air.
The balcony looked out over the courtyard they had crossed five stories below. It jutted out from the building, extending to meet the mountain’s stone face. An opening in the rail against the cliff led to a narrow stair carved into the rock face itself. Steps rose upward, switchbacking up to the terrace above. Hand in hand, they made for the stairs, struggling up the narrow, treacherous steps.
Emelda’s head spun with vertigo as they rounded the first switchback. There was no handrail to grasp, nothing to prevent a fall if she slipped. She glanced down at the courtyard so far below, which was a mistake; the palms of her hands began sweating, the soles of her feet tingling. Tyrius steadied her, squeezing her hand reassuringly as he led her up the sharp granite face.
Emelda turned just in time to see a bolt of fire lancing toward them from the ground. She winced, nearly overbalancing as it impacted with the cliff directly overhead, sending chips of stone raining down on her head. She felt Tyrius’ hand like an iron vice as another flaming spear sped toward them. Her eyes had only time to widen before it exploded in her face.
There was no heat, no impact. Emelda reached up and touched the skin of her cheek, amazed that she was even still alive.
Tyrius lowered his hand, and as he did the brilliant shield he had summoned in front of them disappeared. Emelda could only stare at him in open wonder; she was a Chancellor, and had never been trained for anything like this. She kept forgetting that Tyrius was Sentinel and had seen the face of war many times before in his life.
Below in the courtyard, a lone figure emerged from under the balcony. Emelda gasped; it was a woman. She was staring up at them, platinum hair stirred about her by a breeze, silver-blue gown rippling. She was flanked by an enormous wolf-like creature with eyes that gleamed an unearthly green light. The woman raised her arm, palm upward, and a small flicker of white flame appeared to dance in her hand. She smiled as she gazed at it, maintaining the expression as her eyes rose to fix on them.
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