He ducked his head as he passed the strap of his baldric across his shoulder. The leather scabbard hung empty at his back. Resolved, Darien opened the door to the guestroom and strode out into the hallway, determined to return to the shrine and claim his sword back from the goddess’s hand. He knew that the price for the blade’s return would be the chains on his wrists, but he was very willing to pay it. The conviction that had held him to his Oath had been the first thing rotted away by the poison feel of Arden’s touch.
He descended the stairs from the guest wing, working his way through the warren of halls and corridors that was now becoming an almost familiar route down to the shrine. White-robed priests and veiled priestesses glanced up to stare at him with startled expressions before ducking their heads in deference to the cloak. Darien did nothing to acknowledge the looks, barely even noticing the men and women that moved around him in the halls. His mind was intent on his purpose, to the point that everything else around him seemed irrelevant and remote. The people he passed may as well have been pieces of furniture or trappings on the walls.
Lost in thought, he almost didn’t notice the High Priest who was standing in shadow, blocking the entrance to the shrine. Darien stopped in the middle of the stairs, one hand poised on the wooden handrail. He gazed down at the old man, attempting to gauge his intentions. Luther Penthos was regarding him with a careworn look, eyes narrowing as they pondered the significance of the cloak.
“You must know that I’m opposed to this,” the old man pronounced severely. “The goddess has made her choice, so there is nothing I can do to stop you. But nothing prevents me from stating my opinion. I believe that you are making a disastrous mistake that will have far-reaching consequences. If you go through with this, know that you do so not only against my better judgment, but also against my will. From this moment forward, I will hold you in the utmost contempt.”
Darien glared down at him. “Stand aside.” Though spoken softly, his tone conveyed a dangerous insinuation of threat.
The High Priest dipped his head, but he kept his eyes locked on Darien’s as he withdrew to the edge of the doorway. Darien swept forward down the stairs, brushing past him as he thrust open the door to the shrine with both hands. He stepped down the last tiled step into the brilliant spill of light within, slamming the large oaken door behind him.
Moving toward the center of the room, he let his eyes wander over the statue of the goddess as he fought to collect himself. His encounter with the old man had infuriated him to the point that he was almost shaking. He was tired of being the object of criticism, his every action met with questions and disapproval. No matter what he did or how hard he tried, his best was never good enough. There was always someone who wanted more from him than he could give.
A streak of white from the corner of his eye was the only warning he had as the gleam of a blade streaked down in front of his face. Darien winced away from it, but a hand caught him by the hair at the base of his neck, wrenching his head back sharply as the edge of the sword kissed the flesh of his throat. A strong jerk on his hair forced him to his knees as the blade followed his movement, its honed cutting edge biting wickedly into his neck.
Darien stared up into the veiled face that hovered over him, sickeningly appalled. The ruthless intent written in Naia’s eyes was without compassion, her face terrifying in its authority. The woman he knew was gone, replaced by a sinister angel that threatened him with his own sword.
“There are three faces of the goddess,” the priestess intoned, ire flashing in her dark eyes. “The face of Mercy, the face of Sacrifice, and the face of Vengeance. They are three, as they also are one, each inseparable from the other. To gaze upon one is to gaze upon them all; to commit to one is to commit to all three. You have come here to pledge your life to the service of the goddess, to become her leveling hand of Vengeance. She has determined your cause just and worthy. Do you foreswear all prior oaths and dedicate your life to seek the blood of another?”
The press of the blade at his neck wavered dangerously as Darien swallowed, his throat moving against it. “Aye, I do,” he whispered hoarsely, staring up into Naia’s menacing visage.
Her hand coiled around in his hair, tightening its hold at the base of his neck as she commanded him, “Hold out your hands.”
He did as she asked, gasping as the sword swept down from his neck and parted the flesh of both wrists at the same time, laying open the skin across the twin markings of the chains. Darien stared in shock as blood welled from the deep gashes, beading to the floor in fat crimson droplets. The priestess knelt beside him, setting his sword down on the floor and lifting a bronze chalice in its stead.
“You are now pledged to the service of the goddess, your duty consummated only when Aidan Lauchlin is destroyed, bereft of body and heart, mind and spirit.” As she spoke, Naia took his right wrist in her hand, wringing it mercilessly as she caught the flow of blood in the chalice, which she lifted to his lips. “Come. You must now drink from hatred’s bitter cup and sample the taste of the blood you swear to mete.”
She tilted the chalice, spilling the warm liquid into his mouth. Darien gagged, reviled by the hideous taste of it, unable to bring himself to swallow.
“Drink!” the priestess hissed.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he forced himself to gulp down the mouthful of blood. A spasm of nausea clenched his stomach, but the priestess had him by the hair again. She lifted the chalice again to his lips and forced the remainder of its contents down his throat.
Then she withdrew her hand, letting him go. Darien collapsed forward, clutching his arms against his chest. Pain flared from the gashes in his wrists, almost as if a white-hot iron had been pressed into his flesh to cauterize the wounds. He moaned, writhing with his head pressed against the floor, trembling in agony. Rolling onto his side, he brought his arms up in front of his face and gasped at the sight that confronted him.
The wounds were healed, though the pain was still there, still wretchedly intense. But where the markings of the chains had been was now only a set of fresh, angry scars that encircled both of his wrists. Darien sat up, panting for breath and holding his hands up in front of him as he was consumed by a sudden, terrible feeling of loss. He stared down at the scars with a sharp pang of regret, sensing that he had just made an appalling mistake.
“What have I done?” he whispered, feeling Naia’s soft hand on his arm.
He couldn’t stop trembling as she wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close. He collapsed into her embrace, clutching her against him desperately. Naia laid her head on his shoulder and silently shared his grief.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Glen Farquist
KYEL SET THE BREAKFAST tray down on the edge of the bed, staring at it wistfully. The scattered crumbs left on the plates were all that remained of the second real meal he could remember eating in months. Had it only been that long? It somehow seemed much longer. He tried picturing the face of his wife, but for some reason her image in his mind was vague and indistinct. Kyel finally gave up, feeling unsettled. He hadn’t even thought of Amelia in days. And baby Gil; his son was two years old, now. Kyel had missed his birthday.
He looked out the window musingly. Coventry was not very far from here. Little more than a fortnight’s travel. He was closer to home now than he had ever been since the start of his journey. It seemed as if he had come almost full circle, though it felt as if he were no closer to going home than he’d been at the front. Kyel lifted his left arm, pushing back the fabric of his sleeve and staring down at the marking of the chain Darien had made there. He wished he could get rid of it, tear it right off his skin and simply go back to his family. He wished he never would have allowed the Sentinel to talk him into any of this.
But then, where would he be? Certainly no closer to going home; he would still be back in the pass with an army coming down at him. His eyes swept to the corner of the room where he had laid his longbow up against the wall. The weapon see
med useless now, just another object he had to carry around with him, and a cumbersome one, at that. He wondered why he had even bothered bringing it with him at all. He thought about leaving it behind. But he really didn’t want to; the golden yew had grown on him so much, in so many subtle ways. There was such elegant beauty in that single hewn stave. In some ways, the feel of it in his hand was more comfortable and comforting than even the chair he had fashioned for himself back home on his porch.
Kyel rose and walked across the room, taking the bow into his hand and running his eyes over it. He had unstrung it last night before he’d gone to sleep to preserve the wood’s flexibility. But now he fumbled in his pocket for the bowstring and drew the worn, twisted loops back into the notches at the ends of the shaft. He had no idea why he was doing it. He wasn’t going to need to use the bow anytime soon, not against Om’s clerics and certainly not against Queen Romana. But he just couldn’t shake the feeling that, in his own way, he was going forth to wage a battle. It was not going to be the sort of skirmish that could be fought or won with a weapon; his action was more symbolic in nature. But, somehow, it just felt right.
Satisfied, he set the longbow down across the bed and left the room. He knew from his short conversation with Darien earlier that he really didn’t have time to waste, not if he was to accomplish the tasks the man had set out for him. He walked down the hall, finding the door to Darien’s room open. But when he let himself in, Kyel discovered that the mage was already gone. It was as if he had never even been there at all; the bed looked unslept in, and there was an untouched tray of food sitting on it. Kyel frowned down at the tray, thinking of the two meals he’d eaten since arriving at the temple. Obviously, Darien hadn’t been in his room all night. And there was only one other place he would have gone.
He felt saddened, even sickened by the thought of Darien giving up his Oath. Kyel remembered back to a conversation he’d had with him, not too long ago. He had asked Darien why his Oath was so important to him. The mage had answered by giving him some vague story about falling off a cliff. Kyel had not understood a word of it at the time.
I can choose to let go, he remembered Darien saying. But this time, I know that if I decide to fall, there will be no one around to stop me.
The meaning of those words now seemed to be patently apparent, as clear as a pane of glass looking out on a tossed and stormy sea. That Darien had gone ahead with his plan to relinquish his Oath was obvious; he had admitted as much that morning. He had made the choice to let go of the cliff’s edge and take that fall.
Kyel knew there was a good reason why every Master of Aerysius was required to swear the Oath of Harmony. The tradition had been instituted after the betrayal of the mages of Caladorn, to prevent such a thing from ever happening again. The Oath was a kind of safeguard, set in place so that the use of power to destroy would not become an overriding, corrupting influence. And if Darien had thrown aside his Oath and gone ahead with his intent to vow a Bloodquest, then his guard would be well and truly down. He would be wide open to the type of corruption that had consumed Zavier Renquist, Arden Hannah, Byron Connel, and all of the others. Aidan Lauchlin was one more name that sprang to mind, yet another mage who had cast aside the Oath of Harmony. In his desire to seek revenge upon his brother, Darien was putting himself at great risk of becoming just like him. Kyel knew he had already seen it in him, the bitter poison of that hatred.
“Kyel Archer?”
He turned to find a young man in the doorway wearing a robe of spotless white. Kyel found that he could not help but stare at the priest; it was the same young man who had taken their horses the day before. The priest was holding something in his arms, what looked like a parcel wrapped in folds of white silk. He held it out toward Kyel, offering it with a peculiar look on his face. Kyel received it uncertainly. As he did, he realized that the priest was even younger than he’d previously thought, barely older than a boy.
“The First Daughter requested that this be made for you,” the young man told him, eyeing the parcel warily.
Kyel stared down at the wrappings with a sinking feeling. His fingers felt numb as he fumbled at the knotted strip of white ribbon that held the fabric together. When he had it undone, he let the ribbon fall back and spread open the white silk underneath. What was revealed by the parting silk made him wince.
Kyel lifted the black cloak, holding it up before him with a strange feeling of revulsion mixed with an unexpected stir of reverence. The Silver Star seemed to glitter imposingly in the warm light coming in through the window at his back, a delicate work of embroidery. Every stitch was perfectly even, perfectly tapered toward the eight points of the rays. He had never noticed before that the Star was made of two subtly different shades of silver, was in fact two stars, one superimposed atop the other. The background star was a slightly darker hue, rotated so that its rays burst out between the blades of the star in the foreground. Kyel stared down at the emblem, wondering how that delicate embroidery could have ever been accomplished in just one night.
He couldn’t help thinking of Traver’s remark about the Star looking like a target. Traver had meant the comment as a joke, but now Kyel found the statement troubling. What was most disturbing about it was how right his friend had actually been. The Star was indeed a target, mostly in a figurative sense. If he put that cloak on his back, Kyel felt certain he would find himself in well over his head. He simply didn’t feel that he was ready for the weight of that responsibility.
“My thanks,” Kyel mumbled, though he felt little gratitude. He had the urge to wad the fabric up in his hands, take it to his room, and stuff it down as far as it would go into the bottom of his pack. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Such an act would hardly be fit repayment for the gift. These people had been considerate hosts, and he owed it to them to show appreciation for their hard work. So it was that Kyel found himself removing the tattered gray wool he had worn ever since his arrival at Greystone Keep, donning in its place the ill-omened badge of dead Aerysius.
Turning to the looking glass mounted on the wall above the washstand, Kyel gazed suspiciously at his image. He didn’t know what he had been expecting to find in the mirror, but what he did see took him by surprise. In the silvery reflection of the glass, Kyel simply saw himself. It was the same image that the mirror in his own guestroom had shown him when he’d shaved in front of it the previous night. There was no difference at all, other than the color of the cloak. He looked just as he always had, the same as before he’d even started out on his journey from Coventry. Perhaps a bit thinner, a bit scruffier, but there were certainly no shadows lingering in the depths of his eyes, no portentous sense of mystery clinging to his face. The young man that stared back at him in the mirror’s reflection was the same familiar face he had always known. Kyel breathed a sigh, feeling slightly reassured.
From the doorway, the priest informed him, “His Eminence requires a word with you.”
Kyel turned toward him to find the young man staring at him with admiration in his eyes. “Just let me get my things,” he told him, and walked past the priest out of the room. The new black cloak fluttered behind him in his wake as he strode back down the hall to his own room, where he collected his longbow and shouldered his pack and quiver. With an abrupt sense of panic, he suddenly remembered the Soulstone. He had almost forgotten it. The medallion was still lying on the stand beside the bed, exactly where Darien had placed it. Kyel grasped it up, clutching it in his hand for a moment before sliding it into the pocket of his cloak. Silently, he berated himself for almost leaving it behind in his carelessness. Darien would have killed him. But it was more than that, Kyel knew. It was his own future that he had almost left sitting behind on that stand, and the future of the generations of mages who would come after him.
If he didn’t lose the damn thing, first.
Glumly, Kyel stepped back out into the hallway and followed the young priest down the stairs and through a maze of hallways to the windowed corridor by
the garden. At first, he thought the man was leading him back to the sanctuary, but right before they came to the glass door the priest made a quick turn and led him instead down a narrow and dark hall to a modest oaken door. Kyel waited as the young man opened it then moved forward into a dimly lit study.
Luther Penthos was already there, seated behind a small desk that held three tidy stacks of parchment. Behind him was a thin shelf containing a branching candelabra glowing with the light of six tapers. Kyel walked toward the desk as Penthos extended a hand, inviting him to take the seat opposite him. He had to remove his quiver and pack, setting them down awkwardly on the floor beside the chair and laying his bow at an angle atop them. Taking a seat, he noticed the old man staring at his new cloak, a shadowy expression on his face.
“Your Eminence,” Kyel said by way of greeting. He was still unsure of the proper way to address the High Priest, but that was the title he had heard Naia use the previous day. The man was yet gazing at the cloak, hands folded primly on the surface of his desk. At last, he raised his eyes and confronted Kyel with a coldly fuming stare.
“I want to know where your master is going, and why he took my daughter without my permission.”
Kyel felt as if someone had just poured a goblet of cold water over his head. “Naia is your daughter? Your...child...?”
The old man nodded, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously. “And someday she may even be High Priestess, unless your master corrupts her first.”
Kyel’s mouth fell open. If the old man had just reached over his desk and slapped him across the face, he couldn’t possibly have felt more stunned.
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