“Don’t.”
The frantic plea in her voice stopped him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Instead, he stood in the middle of the room as if frozen, fighting back a host of conflicting feelings that seemed to barrage him from all directions at once. He could feel her eyes on his back, beseeching. Darien stared at the statue in front of him, praying for the goddess to give him the strength he needed to do what had to be done.
“Please don’t go through with this.”
Her words made it seem almost possible that he had any choice about it. It would be so easy just to turn and leave the shrine, abandon his sword and simply walk away. The temptation was sweet. With one decisive act he could preserve his integrity, his dignity, even the tattered remnants of his humanity. But at what price? And who could he ask to pay it?
“I must,” Darien pronounced, although he didn’t know if the response was intended more for her, or rather for himself. Whichever, there was scant conviction in his tone.
He heard the stir of her silken gown against the tile of the step, the whisper of her slippered feet as they crossed the floor toward him. He felt the insistent touch of her hand on his cheek, directing his face toward her with gentle pressure. He stared through her veil into Naia’s deep brown eyes, desiring nothing more than to drown himself in them and forget everything else in the world.
Her touch lingered softly on his face as she pleaded with him, “No one’s making you do this. No one has the right to expect this of you.”
It took every shred of courage he possessed to turn away from her touch. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Have you even paused to consider the repercussions that might arise from this?” she pressed. “Or the ethical considerations?”
“Of course I have,” Darien glowered, backing away from her toward the statue. “This is war, Naia. I’ll leave the question of ethics to the clerics of Om. Let them stew over it for the next hundred years; I don’t have the time.”
But she was persistent, stalking toward him until she had him cornered against the statue’s cool marble base, demanding heatedly, “And what of you, Darien? Are you prepared to accept the personal costs?”
“What do mean?” he frowned at her.
“Simply put, you don’t seem like the sort of man capable of genocide. Yet, if you use your strength to turn back these armies, you will have the blood of thousands on your hands. And not all of those deaths will be Enemy casualties, unless you intend to strike down each soldier individually, one by one. Are you certain you could live with that guilt?”
He bowed his head, knowing she was right. But he also knew it made no difference. This was the plate the gods had served him. It was his, and no one else’s. Without meeting her eyes, he told her, “I’m not certain of anything at the moment. In plain truth, I’ve done my best to avoid thinking about the sort of questions you’re asking because the answers terrify me.”
“Then perhaps that means something, Darien,” she persisted. “Perhaps you should give yourself more time to come to terms with this decision before rushing into a commitment that could potentially destroy you.”
“No.” What she was asking was impossible. If he paused even a day, there was a chance that he might lose his resolve. “I don’t have time to delay here. Everything else that Arden Hannah told me has so far proven true. If she’s right, then both armies are already on the move. As we speak, men under Proctor’s command are likely engaging the Enemy. Greystone Keep might have already fallen. I have but a fortnight to travel all the way to Orien’s Finger or Rothscard will be next. And then Auberdale. Don’t you understand? I do not have the right to stand here debating ethics with you while the North falls around me. Once I thought I had that luxury, but I don’t anymore. There are no simple answers to your questions; I could still be standing here struggling with them as the South falls, as well.”
As he spoke, a change crept over Naia’s face. The feverish intensity dissolved, replaced by an expression of uncertainty. And there was something else there, reflected back at him from the depths of her beautiful eyes. He wanted to deny it, but there was no mistaking the tender compassion in her gaze.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
Her words startled him so much that he gaped at her. “What? Naia, you’re a priestess. Your place is here, not on a field of battle. I don’t understand what purpose you think you could even serve.”
She shrugged slightly as a sad smile formed on her lips. “Someone is going to need to keep you human.”
She was serious. Darien just stared at her. What did she think, that he was going to turn himself into the next Zavier Renquist? His gaze wandered to the floor as his mind reeled, suddenly plagued by doubts. That was exactly what he had been afraid of, all of the times he had argued so passionately about keeping his Oath. But that had been before Royce’s betrayal, before the fire. Before Arden Hannah had touched him, caressing his face the same way Naia just had. But Arden’s touch had been poison, a slow-acting venom that was rotting his soul.
Naia held his gaze firmly as she pressed, “Take me with you. That is my one requirement for helping you if you insist on going through with this rite.”
Darien sighed, shaking his head. “You’ll do nothing but slow me down.”
“And Kyel won’t? I’m a far better rider than your acolyte.”
“Kyel is not coming with me.”
“You’re turning him loose?” she gasped. “By the gods, Darien, the boy’s not nearly ready!”
“I need him to accomplish a few tasks for me. And he’ll be much safer in Rothscard.”
At that Naia choked out an incredulous laugh. “You’re sending the boy to the Queen of Emmery? Oh, I pity poor Kyel.”
Darien couldn’t help but smile. It had been one of the better notions he had conceived of late in the night. He had no doubt that Kyel would find himself in deeply over his head, but that was exactly the position he wanted him in. “It will be a good learning experience for him. A true lesson in diplomacy.”
“You are a harsh master, Darien Lauchlin.” Naia smiled and shook her head.
“I try,” he assured her. Her smile was so infectious that he found himself grinning back as his stare was drawn once more to her eyes. “So, what do you think His Eminence will say about me stealing you away from him?”
Naia’s gaze took on a positively devious glint. “I’m quite certain he won’t stop me. Especially if I neglect to tell him that I’m leaving.”
Darien’s smile deepened as he stared at her in amazement. “I hope Kyel isn’t taking lessons in obedience from you.” He let his smile slowly fade, his thoughts returning to the issue at hand. Behind him, the goddess still stood with his sword held aloft in a warding stance. “So, how do we do this?”
The priestess sighed, looking upward to the statue. “I need to make a few arrangements. Why don’t you go clean up a bit, or the goddess might still find it within her heart to reject you.”
Her words brought a vivid image to mind of the night of his Raising, reminding him of how he’d stood over the washstand in his room in the Spire of the Hall, frantically trying to scrub off the stains of his journey before the ceremony. Scant hours later, he had witnessed the spire collapse under that terrible pillar of light.
“What?” Naia’s voice sounded concerned.
Darien blinked, retreating back out of his thoughts. “Oh, it’s nothing. This just reminds me a bit too much of the last rite I participated in. I only hope this one has a far better outcome.”
She stared at him with a look of incomprehension, uttering, “I hope so, too.”
Frowning up at his sword firmly wielded in the goddess’s hand, he found himself wondering, “If the gods abhor even the notion of fratricide, then why was my petition accepted?”
Naia’s gaze was trained pensively on the statue as she uttered in a thoughtful voice, “It would seem, in this case, that an exception has been made.”
Then she left him, depar
ting in a shimmering sway of silk. Darien sighed as he watched her go, following her movements longingly with his eyes. When she was gone, he turned and glanced back up at his sword, seeking there for solace. But it was the wrong thing to do; the blade reminded him too much of Meiran.
As did Naia.
He found Kyel still asleep, wool blankets piled up over him, his head resting on a mound of goosedown pillows. Darien sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand going to the pocket on the inside of his cloak to withdraw the silver medallion, running his fingers over the facets of the pulsating gem. Kyel stirred, snaking a hand up from under the covers to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He squinted upward, blue eyes fixing on the Soulstone in Darien’s hand. His brow creased as he pushed himself up, sitting up with his back against the cherry headboard.
“This is for you,” Darien told him, offering the medallion to Kyel. The young man reached up hesitantly, lifting it out of his hand by the silver band of the collar. He held it, swaying, before his face.
“I want you to keep this on you at all times, and never let it out of your sight. But don’t put it around your neck just yet; you’ll have to wait till I say the time is right. Do you understand?”
“Aye. I do.” Kyel let his hand drop to the covers, still staring down at the stone as if uncertain of what to do with it.
Darien studied the young man’s face, trying to read his expression. Kyel seemed tense, perhaps even angry. Darien wondered if he still blamed him for the trial of the vortex. But Kyel’s real test was still yet ahead of him, and if he balked now, it would drastically complicate matters. So many of the plans Darien had made in the quiet darkness of the shrine depended on his young acolyte pulling through for him. He decided not to dilute his expectations; Kyel could only refuse him. And if he did, then it would be better to find out now, when he still had a chance to reformulate his strategy.
“I’ll be leaving you for a time,” Darien informed him, studying Kyel’s face intently. “While I’m gone, I have two favors to ask of you.”
“You’re sending me away.”
The boy was perceptive. He was also not very happy about the notion. Darien decided to admit the truth. Or, rather, a version of it. He said, “In part. I can’t risk us both; if something happens to me, I’ll need you to carry on in my stead.”
“I’m not certain I could do that.” Kyel stared up at him earnestly, fingering the medallion with his hands. That was one of Kyel’s greatest assets: his honesty was impeccable. Darien trusted him implicitly, more so than anyone else in the world. While Kyel might not necessarily live up to his every expectation, Darien knew that he could always count on him to do what he felt was right. He couldn’t ask for anything more.
“Then let us both hope you’re not put in that position,” Darien said carefully. “But if you are, I trust you’ll make whichever decisions are best.”
Kyel merely nodded, looking sullen as he turned the medallion over in his fingers. “So, where is it you’re sending me?”
Darien stood up from the edge of the bed, reaching down to pluck the Soulstone out of Kyel’s hands. He wanted the young man’s full attention. He thought he had it anyway, but he set the silver medallion down on a stand beside the bed to make a statement. Kyel finally looked up at him, silently fuming.
“First, I need you to ride to the Temple of Om, which is just across the valley. Present yourself to the clerics there and tell them you represent the Prime Warden.”
“I thought you didn’t care for that title,” Kyel reminded him acerbically.
Darien shrugged. “It does seem to have its uses. In war, we must find what weapons we can, and use them however we can manage.”
“So now you’re intending to wage war against the clerics of Om?” Kyel wondered.
There was a sarcastic undercurrent in his tone that Darien didn’t like. He shook his head, saying, “No. You are.”
Kyel’s look of shock was mildly satisfying.
Darien went on to explain, “I must find a way to seal the Well of Tears. I’ve no idea how to accomplish that. If anyone does know, it will be Om’s clerics. Have them take you down to their vaults, but insist that they provide you with someone to help you with the research. If you don’t, then they’ll just let you muck about down there by yourself till you die of old age having never found a single thing of any use. It’s one of their common ploys.”
Kyel frowned up at him. “Why would they not wish to help me?”
“Because the clerics of Om are intensely jealous of their pearls of wisdom. Information is power, Kyel, and no one gives away power easily, or freely.”
Comprehension dawned in Kyel’s eyes, yet doubt lingered there, as well. “You said you have two favors to ask of me. What is the second?”
“You’ll have only three days to search for information in the vaults. Then I’ll need you to journey to Rothscard and meet with the Queen of Emmery. Again, tell her that you are my representative, and that I have given you full authority to treat with her.”
“I suppose I can do that,” Kyel responded skeptically. “But what exactly am I supposed to say to her?”
Darien allowed himself a smug grin. “You’re to tell her that by order of the Prime Warden, she is to yield over command of her army to me. If she refuses, inform her politely that she’s out of a throne.”
Kyel’s face drained to an ashen color as he gasped, “You’re not serious! You want me to threaten a queen?!”
“Believe me, Romana Norengail can use a good threat,” Darien assured him, pacing away across the room. “If she attempts to argue—which she will—tell her politely that the new Prime Warden has forsworn his Oath of Harmony. That ought to convince her nicely. By the way, if she offers you wine, it would behoove you to refuse her. Politely.”
“Sometimes you scare me,” Kyel murmured.
Darien glanced back at him over his shoulder, amused by the comment. “Good. Perhaps if you emulate me you can scare Romana out of her army. The queen’s general is a man named Blandford. Inform him that he’ll need to arrive at Orien’s Finger by dawn on the morning of the Solstice, not an hour later. If he’s late, then he needn’t bother showing up at all. I’ll meet him there if everything goes right.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’d better learn how to command that army.”
Darien let the door swing closed on Kyel’s eye-wide stare, smiling to himself as he strode down the hallway. The boy would do well. What he had said to Naia earlier was true; this was going to be an invaluable learning experience for him. Kyel was unsure of himself, never having been pressed to discover his full potential. Darien had no doubt in his mind that Kyel would be put through his paces by Queen Romana. The woman was an arrogant, conniving manipulator, but she was also terrified of anything that had to do with mages and magic. It was a trait he was counting on. He thought he knew exactly how the queen would react to Kyel’s entreaty. He almost wished he could be there to see it.
He found the door to his own room, where he had stuffed his pack on the floor the day before and then left again without sparing the place a second glance. His pack was still there, the covers undisturbed on the bed. A fresh pitcher of water had been left by the washstand, along with a tray of food that had been sitting there all night. Darien bypassed the tray, going instead to his pack and sliding out what was left of the sack of jerky he had brought down with him from the pass.
He unfastened the silver brooch that held his cloak, drawing the dark fabric off his shoulders with one hand as he stuffed a strip of dried meat into his mouth. Darien went through the motions of eating, not even tasting the food as he swallowed it, undressing at the same time. He pulled a fresh shirt and breeches out of his pack and pulled them on, dismayed by the fit. He was losing weight.
He walked to the looking glass that hung on the wall over the washstand, stunned by the image that gazed back at him. He scarcely recognized himself. He stared into the mirror, transfixed by his reflection as
he reached up and drew his fingers over the dark stubble that covered his face, a face that looked ten years older than the last time he’d seen it. There were fresh wrinkles on his brow he had never noticed before, and he looked more haggard and careworn than he would have believed. But what amazed him most about the image that regarded him were the eyes. They were his father’s eyes, exactingly recreated in his own face, complete in every detail, every haunting shadow. Darien shuddered, turning away from the mirror.
As he did, a wave of energy swept over him with violent, raking fingers. The reflection of his back in the mirror wavered for a moment in a flare of indigo light that rose up from the floor to surround him. Tendrils of power crawled over him, groping at the fabric of his clothes, ripping through his hair, clawing at the skin of his face. The energy receded only slowly, drawing downward to the floor and then flickering out altogether.
Darien gazed somberly down at the garments he wore that suddenly fit his lean body perfectly. It was remarkable, what he could do with his power, without sparing scarcely a thought to the act. He didn’t have to look back at the mirror behind him; the reflection would only just confirm what he already knew. His face was clean-shaven, the grime and dust erased from his skin. Even his hair smelled clean as he raised his hands to draw it back behind his shoulders, catching it up and tying it back.
He went over to sit on the bed, finding his cloak where he had tossed it down on top of the covers. Staring wistfully at the embroidered Silver Star on it, Darien realized that he couldn’t put that cloak back on, at least not as it was. Not if he was going to truly embrace the title Naia kept insisting he use. She had been right about that, as well, just as she had been right about everything else. He would need the kind of authority that only the office of the Prime Warden could lend him if he was to accomplish any of the tasks he had set for himself.
As he looked down at the blue-black fabric of the cloak in his hand, Darien willed it to change. And it did. He stood up, drawing a cloak of gleaming white over his shoulders and fixing it in place with the silver brooch. By all appearances, it could have been his mother’s cloak, the defining emblem of the Prime Warden of Aerysius. The fabric felt strange; heavier in a way, though he knew his act had done nothing to the material but alter the color.
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