The prince only shrugged, adjusting the strap of the baldric that crossed his chest. “I have no idea who they are. I didn’t care to ask. I had them escorted across the grounds to the citadel. I didn’t want them under the same roof as the Queen.”
The Prime Warden stopped, lifting a pair of perfectly arched eyebrows. “You had them detained? Under a badge of truce?”
Swain grimaced. “Give me a little credit, Meiran. It wasn’t that kind of escort.”
Kyel frowned, not liking the situation one bit. He stared down at the markings of the chain on his wrist, gazing at it as cold prickles of dread needled his skin. There was little he could do against two darkmages. Strong as he was, there was only so much he could manage within the confines of his Oath of Harmony.
Never to harm.
The words he had spoken to Darien beneath Orien’s Finger echoed in his memory, chilling him just as thoroughly as they had the moment he’d uttered them. He had never doubted his decision to take that Oath, had never questioned it, not even once.
Never, until now.
Meiran was already moving toward the door. “Very well. Kyel, you’re with me.”
Kyel had to move quickly to catch up. Swain swept ahead of them with a glare, two guards bringing up the rear. He moved with the casual grace of a blademaster, a stride that reminded Kyel of the way a cat stalks a bird. There was no attempt at conversation as they continued down the long, paneled corridors of the palace. It became apparent that every door was warded, guards stationed at intervals all up and down the length of the hallways. There were many more than he remembered.
They followed their escort out of the palace and across the grounds. Kyel kept pace at Meiran’s side, his black cloak rippling behind him as he moved, the Silver Star of Aerysius glistening at his back. They moved through a maze of garden walkways bordered by boxwood hedges. At the far side of the inner ward was the citadel, a sprawling building surrounded with what looked like an entire company of Bluecloaks. Kyel had been inside the citadel once before. It had been there, in that prison, that Kyel had received the Transference through the Soulstone.
They paused at the entrance to a circular chamber ringed by guards. There, Swain bid them halt as he strode toward an officer, pausing to confer quietly with the man. Kyel gazed around, taking in the martial look of the place, the combined scents of oiled metal and aged leather.
Swain nodded and took a step back. The officer barked an order. The guards that ringed the chamber turned and strode together toward the door, clearing the room. The door was shut, the bar thrown.
The three of them were alone.
Meiran turned to Swain, expectantly cocking an eyebrow. The prince motioned with his head in the direction of a door, at the same time reaching up to remove the sword from his back, leaning both sword and scabbard up against the wall. Meiran nodded, eyes narrowing as she considered the doorway. Then she started toward it.
Kyel fell in behind her, drawing in more of the magic field until the song of it swelled inside his head and the energy bled from his body in a visible, golden nimbus that surrounded him. Whatever happened, he wanted to be ready.
At the door, Meiran hesitated. She reached out and clenched the handle and, closing her eyes as if uttering a prayer, pulled the door open.
As they moved through the doorway, Kyel’s eyes immediately widened in dismay. He pulled harder on the magic field, sending a spill of magelight forward into the shadowy corridor ahead.
He hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly, not this.
He halted in mid-stride, confronted by the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She stood waiting in the center of the dark hallway, poised, a congenial smile on her face, chestnut hair spilling down her back. She wore an indigo robe with the image of the Silver Star embroidered on the breast. Kyel frowned at the sight of it, his eyes roving over the woman with blatant curiosity. She didn’t look evil; there was no amount of malevolence in her eyes. In her upraised hand, she held a white drape of torn fabric: the badge of truce Swain had spoken of.
Beside the woman stood a man with dark, unkempt hair that curled about his collar. He appeared very thin, even gaunt. He was wearing a long black coat that covered a knee-length tunic. He held a black felt hat in front of his chest. There was a quiet sadness about his eyes that Kyel found intriguing. He couldn’t help but wonder the reason for it.
Meiran raised her hand, stopping a short distance away from their visitors. She stood there, considering the man and woman before her. She merely regarded them, her eyes narrowed and pensive. Kyel realized that Meiran had produced a glowing shield around her own body, a blue nimbus barely visible against the shadows.
She demanded in a firm voice, “What are your names?”
The woman brought a hand up to her chest. “I am Sareen Qadir.” She spoke in a voice thick with a rich and melodic accent. “This is my partner, Quinlan Reis. You must be Prime Warden Meiran Withersby.”
Meiran nodded, her face devoid of all emotion. “I am,” she responded flatly. “But help me clarify something. You both claim to be Servants of Xerys. So why is it that history has no record of your names?”
A good question, Kyel thought. He gazed expectantly at the two darkmages before him, realizing for the first time that he was staring at two people one thousand years dead.
The chestnut-haired woman offered Meiran an indulgent smile. “Trust me when I say that many things have become lost since our time in this world came to an end. Our names, unfortunately, were not the greatest casualties of Bryn Calazar’s fall.”
At her side, the man replaced his hat back on his head, adjusting the brim low over his eyes. Gazing at Meiran, he told her, “I once heard that Prime Warden Sephana Clemley had my name expunged from the record books. It’s my guess she didn’t want my reputation to tarnish my brother’s good name.”
Meiran frowned at his words, gazing at the man with kindled interest in her eyes. “And who was your brother?”
“Braden Reis,” the darkmage responded without hesitation.
Kyel’s mouth dropped open.
“Your brother was the First Sentinel?” Meiran gasped, obviously just as shocked as Kyel. She made a searching gesture with her hands. “And yet … you’re a Servant of Xerys. Explain.”
The darkmage sucked in a cheek, issuing a slight shrug. “It seemed like the right decision at the time I made it. Of course, in retrospect, I often find myself wondering why I didn’t do things rather differently.”
Kyel couldn’t help but stare at the man. He was fascinated by the two of them. He found himself far more intrigued than afraid, even though he knew that defied common sense.
“Why are you here?” Meiran asked.
The woman spread her hands. “We are here to deliver a message to you from Prime Warden Zavier Renquist.”
Kyel shivered at the very mention of that terrible name. He needed no further reminders that these two mages were very dangerous, indeed. He had been wrong to lower his guard. Kyel chanced a glance over his shoulder at Swain, finding the prince looking none too pleased and very much on edge. His sword arm twitched at his side, seeming to hunger for the hilt of his blade.
Meiran bowed her head for a moment. When she brought her eyes up again, her gaze was rigid. “Very well. Deliver your message and then be gone from this place.”
The woman named Sareen nodded formally, giving no indication that she had taken any offense to Meiran’s terse command. She said, “Prime Warden Renquist has no desire for a war between our two nations at this time. Instead, what he proposes is an alliance. I have been sent to guide you north with me to Bryn Calazar, where Zavier Renquist desires to meet with you to negotiate the terms of a treaty that will be forged between our two peoples. I am to accompany you, Prime Warden, as your protector and guardian through the Black Lands. I have been instructed to leave Quin behind as assurance for your safe return.”
Kyel realized that he had stopped breathing long before the woman had stopped ta
lking. Meiran couldn’t accept such an offer. It was much too dangerous.
“And what if I refuse to come with you?” Meiran wondered. Kyel stared at Sareen, very interested in hearing what her response would be.
“I would advise against it,” the chestnut-haired beauty shrugged, casting her eyes downward and to the side. “That would leave our Prime Warden with little recourse but to act.”
Meiran stared at her unblinking. At last she said, “I will think on it. Is there anything else?”
“Yes.”
It was Quinlan Reis who stepped forward, offering out a scroll of parchment toward Meiran in his hand. “I bear another message for you. This one is from Darien Lauchlin.”
Kyel stiffened at the mention of that name.
He took a step back away from the offered scroll. Meiran remained where she was. She stared down at the parchment as if it were a venomous snake, the color draining slowly from her face. Her blue eyes were wide with revulsion. Long moments ticked by. She stood staring at the scroll in the darkmage’s hand, refusing to accept it.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered at last. “Darien Lauchlin is dead.”
“As am I,” Quinlan Reis reminded her, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Like myself, Darien is now a Servant of Xerys.”
Kyel gaped at the darkmage, paralyzed by revulsion and dismay. His eyes darted to Meiran. He wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He remained rooted where he was, heart frozen in dread.
“Darien is one of the Eight?” Meiran gasped in a voice full of despair. She shook her head, gazing down at the scroll as her face collapsed into grief. But then she clenched her jaw, brittle strength returning to her eyes. She shook her head firmly. “No. I don’t believe you. Darien would never do such a thing. You are lying.”
Quinlan Reis just shrugged, hand still extended toward her in the air. “He wasn’t left with much of a choice, I’m afraid. It was the only way he could secure the release of your own soul from the Netherworld.”
Kyel closed his eyes, bowing his head. There was little doubt left in his mind; he knew the demon before him was telling the truth. He had to be.
Meiran’s whisper was barely audible. “My soul…? That was the price?”
Quinlan Reis nodded. “I’m sorry if these tidings bring you grief. I know how much you meant to him. Here. Take it.”
He pressed the scroll into Meiran’s hand, squeezing her fingers closed around it. Then he stepped back. His eyes seemed even more saddened than they had before.
“Excuse me,” Meiran gasped.
She turned and fled the room, leaving Kyel and Swain alone with the two unlikely emissaries. Kyel turned back to regard the darkmages who stood before him, waiting.
He felt completely at a loss.
He had no idea what to do.
3
Demon
Darien awoke to the lambent orange glow of flickering torchlight distorting the shadows on the stone walls. The fact that he was even awake and alert in this world at all was strange enough, a sensation that was half-remembered, like a dream. The ruddy hue of the crackling flames seemed surreal, saturated with a bright intensity of color. A vibrant contrast to the monochromatic palette of the Netherworld. The flames of the torches seemed animated, intense, alive. They writhed in a vivacious dance, fueled by a breeze that stirred from the depths of the warrens.
He was awake and alert in this world, the same world that, somewhere, Meiran also occupied. Darien’s first thought was that he wanted to go to her. He wanted that very badly. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was that she had been there with him at the end.
Meiran’s presence at his side had kept the fear of death at bay. Her soothing touch had been the last thing Darien felt as death rose to claim him, catching him up and bearing him away, downward into darkness.
But the darkness had not been eternal.
On the other side, there had been light. An unholy light. A sickening pallor, the color of pestilence, of corruption, of decay. Within that cold and brittle light, Darien’s soul had been received with delight by his new Master.
He’d had much to atone for.
Darien sat up, shivering, filled with a terrible sense of dread. He drew his knees up against his chest and leaned back against the rough stone wall. He sat there for a long time, letting the chill horror of the memories slowly recede. All across the underground chamber, the other members of their party were beginning to stir. It would be morning soon. Almost time to depart.
He glanced down at the clothes he was wearing, the same tattered outfit he had worn to his death. He was dressed all in black: black breeches, a frayed linen shirt, the same black cloak he’d taken from an abandoned tent in the Chamsbrey encampment below Orien’s Finger. There was no Silver Star embroidered on the back; as far as Darien was concerned, he’d lost the right to wear that emblem. He wore only a simple, plain wool cloak, something an officer might sport. Not a mage’s cloak. He was a Sentinel of Aerysius no longer.
On the ground beside him lay the sword that Meiran had given him. It rested in its worn leather scabbard, the rubies set into the hilt glimmering like crystalline droplets of blood. His hand went to the sword, sliding it possessively nearer. It was the only thing he had left of her, the only thing he was likely to ever have.
Darien figured the letter he’d written should be enough to destroy any lingering feelings Meiran might still have for him.
He turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps. His hand closed reflexively around the hilt of his sword. But when Darien saw the face of the man who approached, he released his grip. Common steel could not defend him against such a monster.
Nashir Arman dropped into a crouch at Darien’s side. His face was angular and chiseled, his stare intense and penetrating. Darien froze under the severe inspection of those eyes, dropping his own stare to the ground. In the Netherworld, Nashir had been assigned the role of Darien’s tormentor. The demon took great pleasure in delivering pain. And he was very good at it.
Nashir stared at Darien with an ice-dead gaze. “You took the life of my woman,” he said in a low and threatening tone, soft enough so that the others couldn’t hear. “I promise you this: before you leave this world again, I’ll see to it that you pay.”
Darien kept his eyes lowered, focusing his own gaze on the floor. He knew by now not to try to look Nashir in the eye. The pain simply wasn’t worth it.
The darkmage leaned forward, staring him in the face. “Perhaps I’ll take the life of your woman. Flesh for flesh. Blood for blood. Pain for pain.”
Darien glared his hatred at Nashir. It was the only thing he could do, the only defense he had against the sinister demon. He couldn’t even sense the magic field, thanks to Cyrus Krane. The man had severed his connection with the field, and that damper was still in place.
“Stop provoking him, Nashir.”
Byron Connel drew up behind Nashir, Myria Anassis at his side. Connel wore the indigo robes of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar, the talisman Thar’gon swaying from a leather strap affixed to his belt. Darien was relieved the two of them had come to his defense, but not surprised. Connel seemed a man of character, patient and even-tempered. Myria was a stalwart intellectual, kind and sincere.
Nashir acknowledged Connel with a stiff nod of his chin. He rose to his feet, his eyes still intently focused on Darien. He turned and stalked away, but not without casting a significant glare back over his shoulder. Darien kept his eyes trained on Nashir, not trusting him at all.
Byron Connel knelt at Darien’s side. “Never lower your guard around Nashir Arman,” the Battlemage cautioned. “He can be … unprincipled. And unpredictable.”
“I know.” Darien’s attention was still focused on Nashir’s retreating back.
“Do you?” inquired Myria, hovering over them with arms crossed in front of her. “I don’t know if you appreciate how dangerous he can be.”
Darien allowed his gaze to wander upward. Gazing into M
yria’s face, he assured her, “I can be dangerous too.”
Myria Anassis shook her head, her long, dark hair swaying like a curtain to her waist. “No. Not like him. You have a conscience. A creature like Nashir does not.”
Byron Connel adjusted his posture, draping an arm over one knee. “Compared to Nashir, you’re like a child, Darien. He was trained as a weapon from birth. He’s well-schooled in both offensive magic and tactics, and he’s had a thousand years to hone those skills. Your training as a Sentinel was grossly deficient. You wouldn’t last a minute against him.”
“Then teach me,” Darien challenged.
Connel grinned, shaking his head. He cast an amused glance up at Myria. “Sorry, but I can’t do that. My duties lie elsewhere, unfortunately. Just remember to watch your back.” He reached out, clapping Darien on the shoulder as he rose to take his leave.
Myria regarded Darien with a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help to you.”
Darien found himself intrigued. “Why?”
She paused in the action of turning away. She gave a slight shrug. “Because you remind me of someone I once knew.”
“Who?”
The look on Myria’s face made it obvious she had not expected either question. “Just a man,” she responded after a moment’s hesitation. “A man who’s been dead for a thousand years.”
Darien considered her answer carefully. “Did you love him?”
Myria blinked. Then she frowned. “No. But I did admire him.” Still frowning, she turned and strolled away.
Darien allowed his gaze to follow the pale texture of her gown that seemed to flare like fire in the torchlight. Like Byron Connel, Myria defied the concept of darkmage he had nurtured so carefully for so very long. He had thought they would prove to be all just like Nashir Arman and Arden Hannah. Sadistic and power-hungry. Potently cruel, like Cyrus Krane. But there seemed to be more than one type of demon. Apparently, there were many shades and gradations of evil. He wondered where on that continuum his own soul would rank.
Darklands Page 3