“I’m so sorry, Meiran,” was all he could bring himself to say.
She collapsed against him, her whole body quaking. Kyel wrapped his arms around her as she hugged him back, clinging to him fiercely. He felt the warm moisture of her tears against his neck. Her back shook as she cried against his shoulder, shedding her sorrow into the black wool of his cloak.
Eventually, the tears subsided. Meiran withdrew, pulling away and swiping angrily at her eyes with a sleeve. She wandered back into the depths of the dimly lit quarters. Kyel lingered behind a moment before following, pushing the door closed behind him. He glanced around, taking in the dark features of the guest room.
Meiran stood beside a painted writing desk, composing herself. Her hand was on her necklace again, fingering the interlaced pendant on its silver chain, her eyes gazing off into nothing. She was wearing a white wide-sleeved gown, her dark hair falling in loose waves down her back. She looked vulnerable, like a lost and frightened child.
“Are you all right?” Kyel asked softly.
She shook her head, eyes haunted by misery. “No, Kyel. I’m not all right.”
She gestured helplessly at a curled page on the writing desk: Darien’s letter, given to her by the darkmage Quinlan Reis. Kyel recognized the bold, flowing script from across the room. Meiran scooped the parchment up into her hand, rolling it back up before offering it out toward him.
“Go ahead. Read it.”
Kyel swallowed as he accepted the letter. He stared down at the scroll in trepidation, loath to unfurl it and view the message it contained. As if denial could make the whole situation somehow evaporate. Kyel had many reasons for not wanting to read that letter, but they all really boiled down to one simple thing: Darien Lauchlin had been his friend. That was the way Kyel wished to remember him.
As he unrolled the scroll, Kyel’s fingers were already shaking.
My Dearest Meiran,
I have no idea how to tell you this, so I suppose I’ll just come right out and say it: before I died, I committed my soul to Chaos. I have taken Arden Hannah’s place at Zavier Renquist’s side. I am a Servant of Xerys.
Kyel had to stop, squeezing his eyes shut against a pang of horror. He glanced up at Meiran with sorrow in his eyes, a look that mirrored her own. He forced himself to continue reading, a terrible feeling of dread gnawing at his heart.
I know how atrocious this must sound to you, the most grievous of all betrayals. I understand. I don’t expect your forgiveness. But, I beg you, please hear me out. I am still myself; nothing inside me has changed except for my perspective. I have gained a depth of understanding that was unavailable to me before.
Please believe me, Meiran, when I say there is another side to this story. There are many facts we were ignorant of, things omitted from the histories. Maybe our ancestors didn’t know the whole story. Or perhaps they suppressed the knowledge on purpose. I don’t wish to speculate; I’m not here to judge. I am only here to bear witness.
By now, you must have heard that Zavier Renquist desires to negotiate the terms of a treaty. I urge you to consider his offer carefully. You can trust Quin. Please accept whatever proposal he brings you.
I do love you, Meiran. I know that you will probably no longer bear any love for me, especially after reading these words. I am sorry for that. I want you to know that what I did—the decisions I made—none of that was your fault. I did what I felt I had to do. If I made one mistake, it was not realizing that the Well of Tears could be reopened again so quickly. I never imagined that we would end up in the same war but on two different sides. Had I known that, I still don’t think it would have changed anything. I can honestly say that I have no regrets.
All My Love,
Darien
Kyel lowered the letter, letting the scroll roll itself back up in his hand. He stood there silent for a minute, frozen in place, unable to do anything but gaze woodenly down at the floor in front of his feet. The tiles were cold and polished, reflecting the wavering light of the tapers ensconced around the room. Kyel gazed at their shimmering gold reflection as his mind scrambled for clarity in a roiling cauldron of conflicting emotions.
“I was afraid of something like this,” he whispered at last. He moved forward, setting the scroll back down on the writing desk.
Meiran made no comment. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, dark waves of hair falling about her shoulders. She looked very young, completely bereft of her characteristic fortitude.
“Do you believe him?” Kyel asked, his eyes searching her face.
Meiran blinked, bringing her arms up to hug herself.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” she muttered. “This letter can bear no weight on my decision.”
Kyel nodded. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Have you decided?”
Meiran flashed him a look of resentment. “I’m certainly not going to give Renquist what he wants.” Color bloomed on her cheeks as Meiran quickly recovered herself. Kyel understood why Darien had so loved this woman. Though no older than himself, Meiran had more grit and tenacity than anyone Kyel had ever met.
“What does Renquist want?”
“It’s obvious what he wants,” Meiran snapped, pacing away. “He wants me. What I don’t understand is why.”
“He wanted Darien, too,” Kyel reminded her ominously. He ran his hand along the surface of the writing desk, eyes lingering on the scroll.
“And he got Darien, didn’t he?”
Kyel swallowed. “Aye. Apparently, he did.”
That settled it, then. Kyel rounded on her, eyes full of galvanized resolve. “You can’t treat with him, Meiran. It’s too dangerous. I saw Darien after his parley with Renquist. It destroyed him. He couldn’t live with himself after that.”
“Because that’s how Zavier Renquist operates,” declared a voice from behind them.
Kyel whirled, reaching immediately for the magic field. He had a shield thrown up in front of them before he could think.
Hands clasped behind his back, Quinlan Reis strolled forward into the sitting room, nodding his approval toward Kyel. He paused, shutting the door quietly behind him. Then he continued talking as if nothing at all was out of sorts:
“He discovers what matters to you most. That’s what he uses as leverage against you. He takes something you love and twists it into a knife to slide between your ribs.”
He reached up and scooped his black felt hat off his head. Holding it against his chest, the darkmage remarked to Kyel, “You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
Eyes ablaze with ire, Meiran advanced on him, waving a finger. “You don’t have permission to be here! Get out now.”
Eyes only for Kyel, Quinlan Reis smiled and assured her with calm disregard, “I’m not here in an official capacity.”
Meiran pointed at the door. “You have three seconds to get out.”
“Or what? You’ll frown at me? I’m sorry, but those chains on your wrists aren’t very intimidating.”
Meiran drew herself up, hands going to her sides. Very formally, she addressed him, “You disregard a badge of truce. Have you abandoned all honor?”
The hat-wielding darkmage scowled. “I never had any honor when I was alive, so why would I suddenly come into it after death? I don’t think inheritance works in that direction.” He turned back to Kyel with a derisive glare. “You can drop that shield now. If I came here to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
Kyel ignored him, maintaining the glowing shield that was their only protection from the demon. Quinlan Reis waited, scrutinizing him derisively. When it became obvious that Kyel had no intention of doing as he bid, the man simply shrugged, replacing his hat back on his head.
“I came to make you an offer.” He glanced at Meiran out of the corner of his eye.
“I don’t make deals with demons,” she promised, indignant.
Quinlan Reis glowered at her. “Wait until you’ve heard my offer, Prime Warden. You may
rethink your policy.”
Meiran stared at him for a long, searching moment. A soft and fleeting expression passed across her face, unreadable. She appeared to be groping with her feelings. At last, she calmly turned to Kyel. “Leave us, please.”
Kyel’s throat went dry. He glanced up at Meiran in alarm. “Prime Warden?”
Meiran nodded, her face full of conviction. She raised her hand, pointing toward the door.
“Go.”
Kyel blinked, staring back and forth between Meiran and the darkmage. She was serious, he realized. With a pang of dread, he released his hold on his golden shield, letting its pale glow dissipate into the surrounding air. Kyel glared hard and long at Quinlan Reis. Then, against his better judgement, Kyel did the only thing he could do.
He followed his Prime Warden’s command, exiting the guest room and leaving Meiran alone with a Servant of Xerys.
Kyel’s head was spinning in a daze of confusion by the time he reached the ground floor of the palace. His body had broken out into a cold sweat, his emotions on the cusp of panic. He had no idea why Meiran had dismissed him from the room. In the face of grave danger, she had sent him away. Just as Darien had done before Black Solstice.
Kyel ran down the long corridor, shouting at the first stationed guardsman he could find. “The Prime Warden’s in danger! Summon the captain! Summon the prince! Now!” He bellowed the last word, prompting the man into action.
The guard dashed off with a look of mortified panic on his face. Kyel remained behind, battling the urgent compulsion to run back up the stairs. He settled on pacing back and forth across the long hall, addled by fear and nervous energy. He kept glancing back up the stairs, resisting the impulse to storm up there and invite the demon to a duel.
But he knew better. He was no match for Quinlan Reis. Or Meiran’s ire.
More than that; his Oath of Harmony wouldn’t allow it.
It was long minutes before Nigel Swain finally arrived, flanked by a small contingent of guardsmen. The prince consort was carrying a longsword in his hand, his face tense with focused aggression.
“What the hell’s all the ruckus?” Swain demanded, drawing up in front of Kyel. The guards behind him had their weapons drawn, shields at ready.
“The Prime Warden’s in danger!” Kyel said. “One of the darkmages slipped in past the guards! He has her cornered up there!” He pointed up the stairs in the direction of the guest rooms.
Swain’s gaze followed Kyel’s motion. “So, there’s only one up there? Where’s the other one?”
“I don’t know!”
Swain turned to his men. “Fall back to the Residence and protect the Queen! You,” he growled at the man nearest him, “gather reinforcements and meet me upstairs!”
Kyel turned and started toward the steps.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
He stopped and turned back around. “I’m coming with you.”
Swain shook his head, strands of chin-length hair swinging forward into his face. “You’re going to stay the hell away from there. You’re not trained for this.”
Kyel glared at him. “Neither are you.”
The two men stared at each other across the empty hallway. Kyel waited, eyebrows raised, hands spread wide in question. Nigel Swain at last issued a stiff nod. He strode forward, passing up Kyel in three large strides.
Kyel reached within for the magic field, holding it at ready in the back of his mind. When they arrived at the second-floor hallway, he was surprised to see the door to Meiran’s room already ajar. He remembered closing it when he’d left. Swain brought a hand up. He pointed at the door and made a quick series of gestures. Kyel just stared at him, unable to fathom what the man was trying to communicate.
“You call yourself a Sentinel?” Swain growled under his breath.
“What?” Kyel mouthed silently.
“Just get behind me. And try not to hurt yourself.”
A group of guardsmen spilled past them over the top of the stairs in a rush of armored bodies. They fanned out across the hallway, weapons drawn.
Swain held up his fist. He extended a finger, pointing forward. The guards swept past him on both sides, storming into the guest room. Kyel moved behind them, cloaking them all in a glowing shield of light.
“Meiran!” Kyel shouted, gaze darting frantically around the room. Except for the milling clot of blue-cloaked guards, the sitting room was empty.
Heart thundering, Kyel charged toward the bedchamber. That room, too, was unoccupied. He swung back around, dropping the magic field like a hot brick.
“They’re not here,” he gasped in confusion. He wandered forward, eyes fumbling over the room as he groped through a barrage of desperate feelings he simply didn’t understand. He glanced at the painted writing desk. Darien’s letter was gone.
“Which one was it?” Swain demanded.
“Which one what?”
“The man or the woman—which one was in here?”
Kyel wrenched his gaze up off the surface of the writing desk. “The man.”
Swain was already moving toward the door. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Kyel called after him.
“To find the woman!”
Kyel’s eyes widened in alarm. He followed Swain and his men back down the stairs and out into the night. The palace grounds were abuzz with frantic guards and liveried servants running every which direction. They crossed the inner ward to the citadel, where they joined a throng of men already gathered at the tower’s entrance.
A shout from the guard captain opened up a path before them. Sheathing his sword, Nigel Swain strode between his men into the tower’s base. There, under the vaulted roof, he drew up sharply with a whispered oath. Kyel stopped behind him, staring down in shock at the body sprawled across the stone floor in front of them.
Sareen Qadir lay face-down, chestnut hair fanned out like a gilded halo around her head. Blood was leaking from a wound somewhere underneath her, running along the crevices between the floor tiles like irrigation through a field.
“It’s her,” Kyel gasped, kneeling down at her side. He placed his hand on the woman’s back, closing his eyes in concentration. The image that came to him was definitive: there was nothing left to heal.
“She’s dead,” Kyel pronounced, staring down at a woman who, by his reckoning, had cheated death at least twice already. He didn’t trust it.
The look on Swain’s face could have curdled milk. The prince leaned forward and ran his hands over the corpse, searching through the garments. He combed through the pockets, pried open Sareen’s clenched fingers. He dug beneath her fingernails. He rolled her over, expertly probing even the lining of her robes.
“Nothing,” Swain grumbled, standing up. He swiped a hand back through his hair, eyes roving upward toward the ceiling.
“Handle that,” he ordered the guard captain, pointing down at the corpse.
The man gazed down at the carcass, face skewed with uncertainty. “How … do you want it handled, Your Grace?”
Swain worked his lips against clenched teeth. “Burn it.”
Hearing that, Kyel anxiously shook his head. “No. We need Naia.”
Swain nodded thoughtfully, running his tongue over his lips. “Then go get her.”
5
City of the Damned
Darien swung around, glaring back over his shoulder at Azár. At his side, the demon-dog yipped at him, cocking its head. He ran his hand through its coarse fur as he stared back at Azár in annoyance. She was still standing in the same place, arms crossed over her chest, the orange sun rising at her back.
She chortled a derisive laugh in his direction. “You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”
Darien closed his eyes, groping within to find the peace and patience he would need to weather this woman’s scorn. He drew in a deep breath, letting it back out again slowly. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Azár was strutting toward him across the blackened ground
. She brought a hand up to fend off wisps of dark hair that had escaped her braid.
He waited, stroking the thanacryst as she approached. Azár drew up in front of him, dark eyes mocking him in silence as she stared up into his face. She was a tiny thing; the top of her head reached no more than the center of his chest. She narrowed her eyes. Then she turned her head and spat upon the ground.
Darien glanced down to consider the wet stain of her spittle upon the blackened rocks. He wondered if Azár was even aware that her action had just desecrated what amounted to the mass gravesite of her countrymen. He doubted that she had even considered it.
“Would you show me where the transfer portal is, please?” Darien asked in as kindly a tone as he could muster.
He waited as she continued to glare up at him, hands on her hips. His gaze fell to the dagger she wore at her belt. The ebony hilt reminded him of the knife once carried by Garret Proctor, yet another man whose grave Azár’s action had just defiled.
For the first time, Darien took notice of the garments she was wearing. Azár’s clothing was of ash-dark cotton, thickly layered for warmth. There was absolutely no leather or hide anywhere on her body; even her sandals and belt were woven from what looked like coarse fibers of reed. She wore a thick shawl tied around her shoulders. There were many holes and tears in the fabric. Darien took note of these subtle inconsistencies. She was of the mage class of her society. Yet, Azár dressed as an indigent.
She was still staring up at him, unblinking.
“I know I’m not what you expected,” Darien said. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to leave?”
“I want you to die.” She was gazing steadily upwards into his face.
“I did that already,” he said flatly.
“A thousand deaths are not enough for you. The transfer portal is this way.”
She moved away from him, feet crunching over the rocks and molten glass scattered everywhere across the ground. Darien tracked her motion with his eyes, watching her as she approached the charred rock wall of Orien’s Finger. There, she muttered something under her breath. A Word of Command, he surmised. The fractured basalt rock of the pedestal seemed to shimmer, wavering for a moment. Then it disappeared altogether, revealing a gaping entrance cut into the side of the cliff itself.
Darklands Page 5