Kyel had no intention of letting him go through with it. He was afraid of Darien’s wrath, but someone had to save the man from himself.
Reaching into his pocket, Kyel pulled out the Soulstone and gazed deeply into its glimmering facets. It was terrible, and terrifying. The strange red light flickered and throbbed, pulsing like a living heartbeat. Knowing well that he had no idea what he was getting into, Kyel spread open the silver bands of the collar and held the medallion up against his chest. It felt sinisterly cold. His hands trembled as he brought the bands up around his neck, fumbling at the clasp with his fingers. At first he didn’t think it was going to work; the clasp seemed stiff and frozen. But then he heard a faint, metallic snap.
As the stone’s raging torrent gushed through his body and into his mind, Kyel squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best not to scream.
In the end, his best wasn’t anywhere near good enough.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fly True
THE ANCIENT COPSE of cypress trees stood stiff and motionless in the midst of a rolling expanse of white, their evergreen leaves unmoving. The air was dead still, lacking even the suggestion of a breeze. Beneath the tree’s great cracked and gnarled limbs an uneasy tension was brewing. It moved over the snow-fed ground like the probing fingers of an inquisitive hand. The men could sense it. The horses did, as well. The animals worried at their bits, shifting and stomping uneasily. Craig’s own mount stood trembling, eager for the charge. It was bred for the fight; the love of battle ran hot in its blood.
Craig held the destrier with a firm grip on the reins. His other hand was raised over his head, clenched in a black-gloved fist. The tinkling of chain mail rattled under his gray wool cloak as the stallion beneath him danced in place. He waited, the eyes of sixty men behind him riveted on his fist.
He saw it in the distance above the swell of a snow-encrusted hill: a single arrow arced upward into the brilliant blue sky, the red ribbon affixed to its shaft fluttering in its wake. The arrow and ribbon together reached the apex of their flight, curved, then plunged swiftly down toward the earth.
“NOW!” Craig bellowed, dropping his fist.
The horses broke into an all-out charge, emerging from beneath the cover of the trees. Craig’s heels pumped his stallion’s heaving sides, urging it faster. The warhorse swept forward with a great surge of speed, putting all of its heart and muscle into the race. Like the horse beneath him, Craig was eager for the fight. The lust for battle was like a bloodrage, as great as any passion ever inspired by a woman.
Filled with the ecstasy of the fight, Craig raised his hornbow as his mount crested the rise of the hill. He held the shaft of the bow parallel to the ground and nocked an arrow to the string. The men behind him did the same.
Before them, the forces of the Enemy sprawled across the plains like a dark and dangerous sea.
Craig kicked his mount faster, drawing the arrow back to his ear. He sighted down the shaft as the broadhead lurched with each of his horse’s pounding strides. Squinting, he fought to stabilize his aim. Just as the black wall of the Enemy ranks collapsed and broke toward him, he let the bowstring sing.
“Fly true,” he whispered, quoting the verse inscribed on his bow.
Reaching back to his quiver, he withdrew another shaft and launched it after the first, letting three more follow. The air around him hummed with the hiss of arrows and screams of death, the thunder of hooves and sharp rings of steel.
Craig tugged at the reins, wheeling his horse around before a breaking charge of black-mounted cavalry that broke off from the main force. Arrows whispered in his ear as they flew past him, finding purchase in the backs of his own men who fell, slouching sideways from the saddle. Craig leaned forward, pressing his face against his stallion’s neck in an effort to make himself as small a target as possible. Behind him, he could hear the charging hoofbeats gaining.
He turned in the saddle and, raising his bow, sent a steady stream of arrows back in the direction of his pursuers. In front of him, he could see the green limbs of the cypress grove, beckoning. The riders were almost on top of him, swords and maces poised in the air, eager for a taste of his flesh.
Craig’s legs squeezed into his stallion’s sides with an urgent appeal for speed. The stallion responded with its last ounce of stamina, bursting forward as it plunged into the thicket of trees. Branches reached out for him, raking at his helm and swiping at his cloak while behind the Enemy chargers swept after.
Weaving between the trees, Craig fired a last, desperate shaft that dropped the nearest rider even as the man in front of him fell from his horse. His mount leaped over the rolling body as Craig turned back to watch his own man trampled beneath hundreds of iron-shod hooves. Appalled by the grisly scene, Craig turned around just in time to feel the cold prick of an arrow insinuate itself into the flesh of his upper thigh. Biting back a growl of pain, he clung to his horse’s back, clutching his leg as the destrier burst out of the thicket of trees and careened out into the snow-covered field beyond.
Behind, he heard the screams of outrage from hundreds of Enemy throats that were quickly overpowered by the rising warcry issued from five hundred Greystone archers with hornbows raised before them.
Craig barked out a laugh as he watched a blooming cloud of arrows rise upward into the sky, falling back to earth like a black swarm of locusts descending on a field of harvest grain. Behind him, the Enemy fell, the air itself singing with the deadly whisper of raining shafts. Wheeling in unison, the remaining Enemy horsemen tried desperately to retreat as Greystone soldiers charged forward with weapons drawn.
Craig would have liked to join the fray but, resigned, watched instead from the edge of the skirmish as his men finished off the last few nodes of resistance. His leg throbbed fiercely, the arrow buried deep in the muscle, perhaps even to the bone. Swearing, he cursed his luck.
Soon, it was done. The swelling cries of triumph that rose from the battlefield drowned out even the stabbing ache in his thigh. Craig bellowed out a laugh as he gazed out upon the fallen remains of black-armored bodies, hundreds of them. It had worked. Once again, Proctor’s tactics were reaffirmed.
The Force Commander himself approached Craig on his horse, drawing up beside him at a trot. Proctor’s eyes were grimly pleased, until they fell on the black fletching that pricked his leg. A frown of concern tightened the already hard plains of his face.
“Just a nick,” Craig reassured him, grinning against the pain.
But then his expression fell. He recognized that distant look in his commander’s eyes, noticed Proctor’s hand absently stroking the hilt of the dagger at his side. Saw the pained expression that slowly clouded his face.
Grimly, Craig swallowed. Throughout the last week since their retreat from the pass, Proctor had been consistent with his policy that no living man should be left behind for the Enemy, while at the same time refusing to allow the wounded to impede their mobility. The commander’s sinister knife had seen more use in the past week than ever since its forging.
Staring now at that ebony hilt, Craig realized the meaning of the saddened look on Garret Proctor’s face. As any good commander, the Warden of Greystone Keep had ever expected his officers to abide by the same rules as the men under their command, even the harsh ones.
Especially the harsh ones.
Chapter Thirty-Four
What Hurts, Teaches
HIS SCREAMS HAD brought the guards.
They had found him lying on his side, passed out across the floor of his cell. Kyel remembered little of it, or of the frantic apothecary who had been summoned to force a draught of some terrible liquid down his throat. He’d lain in his cot the rest of the night, shivering violently, fading in and out of sleep pierced through with disturbing and sometimes even shocking nightmares. The two times he’d managed to drag himself up enough to pass water into the foul chamber pot, he had barely managed the act. It reminded him of when he’d taken ill with Mountain Fever when he was a b
oy. His body felt the same: wracked and abused, and horribly weak.
He had been utterly unprepared for the agony of Transference. He had never read anywhere or heard mention that it was supposed to be so excruciating. Somehow, he didn’t think it was. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t ready for it, or maybe it was because of the nature of the Soulstone itself, but Kyel could honestly say he had never even imagined so much pain compressed into such a short period of time. Somehow, he’d managed to get the thing off his neck. He didn’t even remember doing it, but he couldn’t stand thinking about what might have happened if he had left it hanging there. He remembered Luther Penthos’s warning about how the stone, when black, had the effect of sucking the gift right out again. The thought was particularly nauseating.
The stone was black, now. The light had passed out of it, into himself, Kyel imagined. As he lay back in his cot staring up at the medallion, it was hard to believe that only last night that same stone had glowed with a dazzling inner radiance. It no longer even looked like a gemstone, just a dull and lifeless clump of rock. It reminded him of some of the obsidian stones he had seen in the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. He didn’t like looking at it anymore; the sight of it filled him with an eerie dread that made him think twice before shoving it back into his pocket. He felt like he wanted the thing as far away from him as possible, but there was nothing else to be done with it. Darien had called it an heirloom of power, and Kyel knew that it was his responsibility to keep it safe. There couldn’t be many such objects left in the world; most had probably been lost in the destruction of Aerysius. For all Kyel knew, the Soulstone was the last of its kind, an obsolete relic of a dead civilization that existed now only in one man’s memory.
No; now there was yet another remnant of Aerysius’s shattered legacy. Himself.
He stared somberly down at the iron chains on his wrists, contemplating them quietly in the dim light of the cell. He was a Master now, though Romana’s chains did nothing to Bind anything about him except for perhaps his dignity. He had given his word to Emmery’s queen that he would swear the Oath of Harmony as soon as he came into his power, but Kyel didn’t even know the words to say. Darien had never told him.
Which really was not a problem; at least, not yet. He had no idea how to use his newfound strength.
He could feel it moving through him, the vibrant power of Emelda Lauchlin’s gift. It felt strange, being the recipient of an inheritance that wasn’t his own. He might be a Master in name, but that was as far as it went. He didn’t even know what Tier he was, or what title he might someday come to use. Was he a Master or a Grand Master? He didn’t even know. He had no order to call his own, and was trained to none. He had the cloak, the chain on his left wrist, the beautiful quiescence of the magic field moving sweetly in the back of his mind. But that was all.
Sighing, Kyel sat up, rubbing his eyes. At least he was starting to feel somewhat normal again. His body was still a little weak, and the muscles in his legs kept cramping. But his head was clear, and the fever-like symptoms seemed to be gone.
The light of a new dawn spilled in through the barred prison windows, comforting in its fragile glow. Kyel stood up, wandering over to a spot of sunlight on the floor and stood there, letting the feel of it slowly seep in through his skin. It felt good, even though through the windows he could see clouds gathering overhead in the sky. He stood in the patch of golden light until one of the dark clouds moved over to block the sun, and then his bright little moment of warmth came to an abrupt and chilly end. Not knowing what else to do, Kyel traipsed back to his cot and threw himself down upon it.
He sat there until a guard finally arrived with his breakfast and a ripe taunt on his lips. Kyel ate the scraps of bread in silence, gulping down the stale water with much more enthusiasm. He wasn’t really hungry; his stomach still felt a bit queasy. But he was thirsty enough to drink a streambed dry. And he was beginning to grow bored.
For something to do, he lifted his hand and tried concentrating on the dark iron chain on his wrist. He had no idea what he was doing. He tried to imagine one of the links bending just enough to slide the thing off, attempting to visualize it in his mind. But nothing happened. He had known it wouldn’t be that easy. Yet, he couldn’t resist the urge to explore his new talent. He had the feeling that he had better learn its use, and quickly. He didn’t have Darien there to show him, but he could almost hear the sound of the man’s voice muttering in his mind. Just like they had in the vortex, the Sentinel’s words kept echoing back at him like a refrain: Try again.
This whole business reminded him of the vortex. Then, all it had taken to feel the current of the magic field was knowledge of the trick. It had taken him awhile to find the right technique, but once he had it down the rest had been almost too easy. Surely, this must be something similar. If he had been a proper acolyte with the right amount of training under his belt, Kyel figured he would have an easy time bending just one small link on that chain. It had to be another trick. If only he could just discover it.
As he had in the vortex, Kyel reached out from within and felt the rhythm of the field, opening himself to it. That had to be the place to start. Otherwise, Darien wouldn’t have bothered teaching him that skill. The mage had known what a short period of acolacy he was likely to have, and would have omitted any part of the normal training he didn’t think was absolutely necessary. But still, it didn’t work. The chain remained rigidly fixed to his wrist, unaffected. Kyel squeezed his eyes shut, sighing in frustration.
Try again.
Biting his lip, he obeyed. Again, he reached out for the magic field, this time pulling at it instead of just groping along the currents. Instantly, a wondrous sensation swelled within him, a feeling of sweet contentment. Startled, Kyel released the field, looking up in amazement. He had done something right. The chain was still there, the link yet unbent, but the feeling of bliss had been like no other he had ever experienced. It was a startling reaffirmation. He tried it again immediately, practicing the technique of filling his mind with the wonder of the field without another thought spared for the chains. That’s all he did the remainder of the morning, until a voice startled him from his exercise.
“Good. You’re not dead.”
Kyel started, flinching back from the magic field as he glanced up to find Nigel Swain glaring at him through the bars of his cage. Sheepishly, he shook his head, suddenly afraid of what the man had seen. Hopefully, the wonder of the field had not been written on his face as surely as it had inscribed itself into his soul. Embarrassed, Kyel drew himself to his feet, taking a few hesitant steps towards the man.
“So, do you mind telling me what all that ruckus was about yesterday?” Swain demanded gruffly, steel gray eyes peering intently through oily strands of hair.
Kyel lifted his hands, shrugging obliviously. “I had a nightmare.”
“A nightmare.” The captain shook his head. “I don’t think so. Try again.”
Try again. Kyel wanted to groan. He was going to have to come up with something much better. He had never been a good liar. It wasn’t difficult to look as uncomfortable as he felt as he told Swain, “I was practicing something Darien taught me. It went wrong.”
Those cold gray eyes just stared at him, making his flesh prickle. Softly, the captain muttered, “Acolytes are forbidden to practice without the guidance of a Master. At least, they were. Darien must have given you that directive.”
“No,” Kyel admitted. “He never told me any such thing. In truth, the last time he had me learn something, he dumped me down in the middle of a vortex and left me there to figure it out on my own.”
“What?” Swain growled, clutching the bars of his cage as Kyel took an involuntary step backward. “He’s breaking you?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that he’s forsaken a lot more than his Oath,” the captain spat, eyes raging. “If Aerysius still existed and Darien was found to be using such methods with you, he’d be the subject
of a Grand Inquiry.”
Kyel shook his head, not knowing what to say.
“What I want to know is why,” Swain demanded. “What’s making him feel so pressured that he’d be compelled to go that far? I want an answer. And this time, it had better be a straight one.”
Kyel felt like he was back in the Temple of Om. Swain’s threatening glare seemed all too much like the discerning gaze of the High Priest, taking the bare facts he admitted to and inferring much more from them than he intended.
“He’s Eighth Tier,” Kyel found himself confessing. “If you don’t know what that means—”
“I know damned well what it means!” Swain bellowed in a rage. With a growl, he wrenched himself away from the bars and swiped out at the air with a fist. “By the whoring mother of the gods, why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“You know why I didn’t!” Kyel shouted at him, appalled and scared by the man’s reaction. “Your queen already has it in for him. Darien’s in enough trouble already without—”
“You stupid, ignorant boy,” Swain cut him off with a contemptuous sneer. “You don’t even know what kind of man you’ve placed your trust in. Think about it! We’re talking about an Eighth Tier Grand Master who has foresworn his Oath, shouldered the weight of the world, and on top of it all, he’s already lost everything! Plus, he’s Sentinel-trained, which means that he has every piece of knowledge he needs to corrupt what he’s learned into something deadly wicked. You’re apprenticed to a madman, Kyel. You’d better open your eyes before it’s too late to do something about it and we have the next Zavier Renquist on our hands!”
Kyel’s mouth dropped open sharply as he just stood there, shaking his head in denial. The New Renquist. That’s what Traver had labeled Darien, back at Greystone Keep. It had been only a comment. Just a comment; there couldn’t be any truth behind it.
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