Hearing that, Cadmus winced. He closed his eyes for a time. “That is a very reckless endeavor,” he said at last. “His Eminence would strongly advise you against such action. The corpse of Sareen Qadir must be speedily put to the torch.” There was a pause. “I hope you understand … the same holds true for your former master, should the opportunity arise.”
Kyel blinked. “Darien … he was more than just my master. He was also my friend. I don’t think I could do that.”
A delighted squeal from outside in the corridor assured Kyel that his son was still enjoying his new toy. He turned toward the doorway, suddenly very grateful he had found such a distracting gift.
“Some time spent in our vaults would do you great benefit, Grand Master Kyel,” Cadmus offered stiffly.
Kyel shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ve got to be going.”
“You really ought to consider making the time, if you deem it reasonable to try negotiating with a darkmage. Even a dead one.”
“Then what would you suggest?” Kyel demanded. “How do we go about finding the Prime Warden?”
“You are advised to abandon that effort,” Cadmus said, reaching out and patting him on the shoulder. “Let Meiran find you. Or count her name among the lost. If she is truly in thrall to Quinlan Reis, then there are only two possible outcomes. Neither one is very hopeful.”
Kyel sighed wearily. Casting a beleaguered glance around the small room, he discovered an empty chair and wandered over to it, plopping his weight down dismally.
“Does His Eminence think Renquist will invade again?”
It took only a moment for the man to answer. “His Eminence would rather not venture to guess. Of course, if Zavier Renquist does have your master as an ally, that puts us at a distinct disadvantage.”
“Why?”
“Because, in life, Darien Lauchlin had intimate knowledge of the Rhen’s defenses. As a Sentinel, he was very well-versed in all of our military assets as well as the limitations of those assets. He fought alongside many of our greatest commanders. He knows how they think.”
“That’s true,” Kyel agreed reluctantly. “Do we even stand a chance?”
Cadmus’ eyes drifted to the side. “His Eminence says we must focus our efforts on neutralizing their darkmages.”
“How do we go about doing that?”
“That will take a great deal of planning and careful coordination.” Cadmus walked forward, pulling up a chair of his own. He sat down on it next to Kyel. “But it’s possible. It can be done. His Eminence thinks we should begin with your former master. He will be the easiest to target, as he still has ties that bind his heart.”
Kyel frowned, not liking the sound of that. From the corridor, he could hear Gil clapping in delight.
He was suddenly reminded of Darien’s own son, who had died before his father had ever had a chance to come to know him. The thought made his heart sink.
Naia gazed over the desk at her father, whose face looked no better to her than stretched leather mounted over a thin scaffold of bone.
“We will need the help of the temples, Father,” she said. “It’s the only way we’ll have the strength to make a stand.”
Her father shook his head. “The temples are forbidden from interfering in this conflict.”
But she dismissed his argument with a wave of her hand. “This isn’t a border dispute between two rival nations. This is something far more insidious. The temples themselves are directly threatened by Xerys’ legions.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Luther Penthos insisted. “Still, we must respect and honor our covenants.”
“Those covenants were made with two Assemblies that no longer exist. The Lyceum was destroyed a thousand years ago. And now Aerysius itself has fallen.”
“And yet the temples still remain.”
“That will not be the case if the Enemy is allowed to run roughshod over us. The temples will not be spared. Just as they weren’t spared when Caladorn fell.”
“No.” Her father shook his head. “We cannot actively participate in this dispute.”
Naia was beginning to feel exasperated. “Father, without the might of the temples behind us, all is lost. There aren’t enough mages to bolster our military. Kyel is our only Sentinel. I’m strong, Father. But I’m untrained. I’m begging you. Kyel and I can’t do it alone.”
Her father sat back in his chair. For a long while, he didn’t speak. He appeared to be ruminating on her words. At length, he said, “I will convene a Conclave so that you may present your case before the Great Temples of Glen Farquist. That is the best I can do.”
Hearing his words, Naia surged out of her seat with a sudden rush of joy. She rounded his desk, throwing her arms around him. “Thank you, Father!”
He brought his hand up to pat her back. She pressed her cheek against his head, holding him tight before releasing him.
“Thank you,” Naia said again as she returned to settle back into her seat. “You know I wouldn’t be asking this if it wasn’t absolutely imperative.”
“What you ask has never been considered since the Great Schism,” her father reminded her sternly. He leaned forward, folding his hands atop his desk. “I need to warn you: you are a Master, now. But before that, you were a priestess. And not just any priestess; you were the First Daughter, my own chosen successor. You have much more knowledge of temple secrets than any mage has any right to know. The amalgamation of those two knowledge bases can be a very dangerous combination. You would do well to forget everything you ever learned during your time here.”
Naia knew exactly what he was saying and why he was saying it. She understood completely. Nevertheless, she knew it would be impossible to follow his advice. “I can’t, Father. The Temple of Death is just as much a part of me as the gift I inherited from Darien. I can’t simply forget everything I learned.”
Her father closed his eyes, bowing his head.
“So, the gift that moves within you did, in fact, come from him.”
“Yes,” Naia admitted.
Her father sighed, shaking his head. “It yet astounds me that one man could have possibly wrought so much damage in such a short period of time. It pains me that you had to inherit such a corrupted legacy.”
His words, though well-intentioned, provoked Naia’s ire. She responded defensively, “Darien was a very courageous and passionate man, unmatched in his commitment to duty. The Rhen has never known a greater champion.”
Luther Penthos sat back in his chair, gazing at his daughter with sadness in his eyes. Ominously, he uttered, “And now the Rhen has never faced a fiercer adversary.”
Naia threw back her head, knowing he was right. Fresh tears filled her eyes. In a small voice, she whispered, “That’s why we need the help of the temples, Father.”
The High Priest of Death nodded his understanding.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
10
The Caravansary
Darien gazed out across the writhing horde of citizens gathered at the base of the ziggurat, the sight making his stomach sour. The throng was tumultuous, surging against the efforts of guardsmen in full battle plate who labored to hold back the churning masses. He’d hoped the crowd would have dispersed since that morning, when the rabid hatred of the entire populace had been directed against him.
But there was an entirely different tenor in the air this evening, as if the atmosphere of the city had inverted with the change of tide. The crowd seemed impelled by a fanatical zeal. At the sight of Darien and Azár emerging from the temple at the top of the ziggurat, there was a loud outcry from the roiling masses below. Bodies surged wildly, clamoring toward the long ramp of steps. The armed guards managed to contain the multitudes, but only just barely. The mob seemed fomented to a rage.
A harsh gust of wind kicked up, bitingly cold and scented with the salt of the ocean. It rippled Darien’s blue robes and whipped his hair into his face. He started down the long ramp of steps, Azár stalking silentl
y at his side. The demon-hound followed behind them both, unholy eyes gleaming like twin green embers in the shadows. Braziers lined the stairway, defying the darkness with wavering orange glows. The din of the crowd swelled as the two of them neared the level of the street. People surged against the line of guards, shouting and brandishing torches, even weapons, in the air.
Guards spilled forward, forming a shield wall around them while pressing the crowd back away from their path. Darien and Azár moved forward in the midst of the ring of guards out into the crowded street. The throng opened up to receive them, reluctantly giving way before their passage. Darien tried to see past the wall of armored bodies that surrounded him, but it was impossible to glimpse much of anything. His efforts frustrated, he instead focused his attention on Azár. He was still more than a little numbed by the confession she had made about her sister.
At least he understood, now, why she hated him. He knew very well how it felt to lose someone you loved.
Their party finally managed to break out of the throng. The guards fanned out, sweeping back to flank them on either side. The streets ahead were dark and sparsely populated. Only shadows moved against the walls that lined the roadside.
Thick smoke billowed across the avenue, drifting like noxious plumes of miasma. Darien inhaled a burning chestful of harsh fumes that made his eyes water. “How do you breathe this air?” he complained to Azár. “It’s thick enough to scald the lungs!”
Azár’s eyes ticked toward him. “The smoke is from hearth fires. There is nothing to be done about it.”
Darien scowled at the taste of the oily film that coated the inside of his throat. He had never breathed anything so noxious in his life. “What sort of fuel are you using?”
“Coal cakes are used for cooking and heating,” Azár said with a shrug. “The coal does not burn cleanly.”
Darien gaped at her, incredulous. “Coal? Why not use wood?”
“Wood is very precious in Malikar,” Azár explained. Her words were terse; there was very little patience left in her voice. “Wood cannot be wasted or used for burning.”
Darien’s eyes widened in understanding as he followed her line of reasoning to its logical end. “I take it there aren’t many forests in the Black Lands.”
Azár nodded, squinting her contempt at him. “It takes much light and time to grow a tree. Look up at the sky. What do you see?”
Darien glanced up at the swirling mass of cloudcover that choked the heavens above. He realized that he really had no idea if it was even day or night; there was absolutely no distinction between the two in this hellish land. It was just like the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, just like the skies above Greystone Keep. The glowing luminescence in the clouds was the only source of light in a vast wasteland of shadow. Beneath those dark skies, no plant could ever grow.
Azar cast a smug grin. “I think, perhaps, you begin to understand.”
Darien nodded, still gazing upward at the clouds in mute consternation. He was beginning to understand. His mind was just starting to grapple with the logistics of providing for an entire population clutched in the grip of yearlong darkness. Softly, he asked, “How do you feed your people, Azár?”
She looked at him with an arrogant sneer on her face. “Wait until we are outside of the vortex that surrounds Bryn Calazar. There, I will show you.”
At last, they reached their destination: a wide portal cut out of a mud-brick wall on the side of the boulevard. The opening was broad and encased by a tall horseshoe arch set in stone. Azár walked through the entrance, her dark braid writhing like a snake in the wind. Darien followed, shooting one last glance up at the hostile cloudscape. The demon-dog came along behind, stalking with its nose to the ground.
On the other side of the portal, Darien paused. They were in some type of dim courtyard bordered on all sides by a honeycomb of niche-like openings. The courtyard was not empty; it teemed with people and flickering torches. Darien followed in Azár’s wake as she wound through the press of bodies. The buzz of conversation was an incessant drone. A few people shot curious glances their way, eyes widening when they took in the sight of the thanacryst. A few stepped away to let them pass. One man, noticing the emblem of the Silver Star on Darien’s chest, bowed and backed quickly out of their path.
Azár led him toward a circle of men gathered before a fountain in the center of the yard. The men were laughing and carrying on; no one paid them any mind as they drew up in their midst. Darien stood patiently beside Azár, watching in curiosity as the men bantered playfully back and forth in their native tongue. He couldn’t make out much of what was being said. It was Venthic, but of a dialect that he was utterly unfamiliar with.
Azár strutted forward, angling toward a tall, bearded man who stood slouching against a wall. The man had a subtle air of authority about him. It was something intangible, but immediately apparent. Maybe it was in the way the other men deferred to him, giving him extra space and grinning at his every comment. Or perhaps it was the careless grace of his posture.
Azár walked right up to the slouching man and launched into what appeared to be a fluid bout of negotiation. Darien hung back, watching as her body language conveyed her intentions just as much as her words, which were beyond his level of comprehension. He waited, one hand clutching the leather strap of the baldric that crossed his chest. His gaze roamed from face to face around the group of surrounding men.
Azár at last turned away, glancing back at Darien with concern in her eyes. “This man—his name is Haleem—he is the caravan master. He asks that you remove his wife’s consumption. In exchange, he is willing to offer us a place in his caravan and on his barge, as well as food and water for the journey. You do have knowledge of healing?”
Darien glanced at the man, considering the offer. Haleem was grinning broadly in his own direction as the other men around him continued their bantering. Darien wasn’t sure he liked the look of him. The man’s smile did not come close to touching his eyes.
Grudgingly, he nodded. “Tell him I’d be honored to look in on his wife.”
Azár translated his words to the grinning Haleem, whose thin smile only broadened. He took Azár’s hand in his own and, bending forward at the waist, pressed a kiss against her fingers. He then pushed his weight off the wall and strode forward until he was standing before Darien, offering his hand. Haleem’s handshake was firm, and he did not release it immediately. Instead, he stood holding Darien’s hand as the smile crept back to his face.
“Ranu kadreesh, nach’tier,” he uttered in a deep and melodic voice.
The salutation was one that Darien understood. May you know peace, darkmage. The man’s use of his Venthic title made Darien’s skin crawl.
“Akadreesh iranu,” he responded stiffly, gazing stone-faced at the caravan master.
The man finally released his hand, taking him instead by the arm. Darien allowed himself to be guided back through the throng of men. Haleem led him through the opening of a dark niche built into the opposite wall. There, on the floor all around, were stacked man-high piles of provisions. Haleem led him toward the back of the niche, to a narrow doorway at the far end. At the opening, Haleem paused, shaking the shoes from his feet.
“You will need to remove your shoes,” Azár’s voice commanded from behind.
Darien obeyed, bending over to slide the worn leather boots from his feet. Haleem took him once again by the arm, urging him forward through the narrow entrance into the interior of the building.
Darien ducked through a woven curtain, finding himself in a narrow room with walls that squeezed oppressively close. He could scarcely see; the dim glow of a single oil lamp did a poor job of dispelling the shadows. He could make out the forms of bodies huddled together on the floor against the opposite wall. There was a rustle of fabric. Someone coughed, the sound wet and rasping.
Darien conjured a mist of blue magelight at his feet. One of the women gave a piercing shriek, the whole cluster of bodies writhing back away fro
m him toward the wall.
Haleem raised his hands, a rapid string of words spilling from his mouth. Darien waited, cautiously assessing the faces of the women huddled before him. He thought he could tell which one was Haleem’s wife. She was young but sickly, her skin moist with perspiration.
Raising his hands, Darien took a step toward her. “Tell her I’ll have to touch her,” he cautioned Azár. He waited for his words to be translated. The sick woman before him gave a slight nod.
Darien lowered himself to the ground before her, crouching as he took the woman’s hand into his own. He brought her fingers up to his mouth, kissing them the same way he had seen Haleem kiss Azár’s hand. The woman seemed shocked by his gesture, her eyes shooting up to find her husband.
“It is not appropriate to kiss the hand of a woman,” Azár corrected him sternly. “It is she who must kiss your hand.”
Darien frowned. “But Haleem—”
“I am a Lightweaver,” Azár snapped. “My status is much greater than that of a caravan master.”
Darien understood. He turned back to Haleem’s wife. “What is your name?” he asked, seeking to put her more at ease. “Ismir’och?”
“Esvir.”
“Esvir,” Darien repeated, testing the feel of the name on his tongue. He looked deeply into the young woman’s eyes, surprised by what he found there. “I’ll need to see inside you, Esvir.” He glanced up at Azár, pausing for her to translate. “You’ll sense something … a stirring. It won’t hurt.”
He took Esvir’s hand and rubbed her soft skin in reassurance as he waited for Azár to finish communicating his intentions. The young woman nodded, inviting him to proceed. Darien leaned forward, cupping her pale face in his hands and closing his eyes. It didn’t take a moment to probe her condition, to sense the extent of the corruption in her damaged tissues.
Dairen inhaled a deep breath. Then he sent a gush of healing energies flooding through Esvir’s body, repairing the injury that had been done to her airways and burning the corruption from her blood. The woman stiffened, her eyes rolling back in their sockets. She swooned, falling forward against his chest.
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