The day grew suddenly, impossibly, darker.
A tidal wave of sand was hurling toward them, a churning wall that reached high into the sky and loomed ominously, threatening to consume everything in its path. Ahead of the storm, forked tongues of lightning stabbed downward at the ground, strobing across the desert.
Darien gripped the straps of his pack, fighting against the wind to keep up with Azár as she dragged him forward off the road toward a crumbling, eroded embankment. He had to fight at every step against the brutality of the wind.
The wall of sand was right behind them, spanning the desert’s broad length, reaching the way station and the river. The wind scooped the steam barge right up out of the water and tossed it high into the air like a child’s toy. It landed bow-first, speared like a skewer into the desert.
Darien yanked his arm out of Azár’s hold, turning back to face the violent assault of the storm.
“What are you doing?” Azár screamed at him, jerking frantically at his arm. “This is sakeem! A man-killer! We must find shelter!”
Darien gazed at the scattered provisions left haphazardly where they lay. Far down the trail, two women struggled toward them, one tugging with both hands on an iron cart handle while the other pushed from behind. One wheel of the cart had become mired in a rut.
Darien took a step forward, closing his eyes, and sampled the currents of the magic field. He sent his mind out across tides of air, testing his will against the fury of the storm. It was far worse than he’d thought, a severe disturbance in the air that encompassed much more of the atmosphere than he’d thought. Against such a force, he found his own strength seriously wanting.
Darien opened his eyes, feeling numb.
“I can’t do this alone,” he admitted.
Azár gazed at him with wide, terrified eyes. She brought her hand up to draw her scarf across her face, fixing it in place against the fine grains of sand that pebbled them with scouring fury.
“This thing cannot be done,” she insisted. “Please! It is sakeem! It will eat your flesh and throw away your bones!”
Darien shook his head, offering his hand. “Feel through me. I’ll show you what to do.”
Azár backed away as if repulsed. “What you ask…”
Darien waited silently, palm extended. After a moment’s hesitation, Azár finally swallowed and took his hand. He closed his fingers around hers, locking his grip firmly around her own. He closed his eyes. He could hear the howl of the storm, feel the sting of the sand biting his face. He could sense the torrent of charged energies carried toward them by the gale. The wall of needling death was almost on top of them.
Darien filled his mind with a startling, amber calm.
Once again, he sent his thoughts out across the air, groping at the violent reaches of the sky. He grappled mentally with the force of the wind, struggling to quell its sinister fury. Overhead, lightning flared and thunder exploded as the clouds retaliated with violence against his meddling.
Balls of hail rained down from the sky, pelting the ground all around them.
Darien clutched Azár’s hand, imploring her silently. Her fingers trembled in his grasp.
All that he had was not enough. Nowhere close to enough.
But then Darien realized: without knowing it, he’d been holding back. The magic field was not the only resource he was capable of tapping. Despite his reservations, Darien realized that he could no longer afford the luxury of denying the darker aspects of his nature.
He had died and been remade.
He was no longer a man. He was a demon.
A demon with a confused but sinister purpose.
For the very first time, Darien Lauchlin opened his mind to the power of hell and drew on the cold fury of the Onslaught, letting it ravage his brain with velvet claws.
He gasped, falling to his knees, tormented by rapturous waves of bliss unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Compared to the seductive violence of the Onslaught, the magic field was impotent, insignificant.
He was no longer aware of Azár at his side.
He struggled to his feet, panting, drowning, writhing in wondrous, frantic ecstasy. Above, the wall of billowing dust shuddered backward, collapsing in upon itself as if repulsed by the infernal assault that was being delivered.
Lightning flared and thunder clashed. Hail pelted the ground with vicious abandon, the roar of it almost deafening.
“What is that? What are you doing?”
Darien opened his eyes and peered at Azár in dazzled confusion. Submerged in the violent bliss of the Onslaught, he had a hard time even recognizing her. It took him a long, bleary moment to focus on her face. She was considering him, studying his features. Then something in her expression subtly changed. Inside, something clicked. Somehow, she understood what was happening.
Azár’s eyes widened with excitement. She threw her head back with a whoop of elation.
“Ishil’zeri!” she exclaimed through her laughter. “You are magnificent! You are my Sentinel, now!”
Darien shot her a look of gaping dismay.
Above, the heavens flared as the clouds slammed back together, showering zigzag trails of sparks across the sky. Darien trained his attention upwards, focusing his mind on the approaching storm. The billowing wall of dust crumbled backward as if repulsed, collapsing. The wind reversed in direction, driven back the other way.
Darien could feel the moment when Azár added her own strength to the battle that raged above them in the sky. With delicate skill, she tamed the unruly currents of air, pacifying what was left of the storm’s resistance.
A thick blanket of calm settled in around them, the wind stilling to a quiet breeze. Sand rained straight down from the sky, the failing updrafts no longer capable of sustaining it.
Azár was only second tier. But she was far more skilled than Darien in the ways of light and air and sky. Together, hand in hand, they quelled the storm’s fury. The breeze ebbed, disappearing entirely. Eventually, the roar of thunder became a fragile, half-remembered whisper on the wind.
In the stark calm that settled, Darien finally relaxed enough to release the Hellpower and let it drain out of him. He fell to his knees, overcome by a jarring wash of dizziness. He felt suddenly, desperately weak. Azár’s grip on his hand steadied him enough so that he didn’t fall over on his face. Propping himself upright with a hand thrust down into the sand, he struggled to catch his breath, panting, his pulse echoing in his ears.
Azár ripped the scarf away from her face, revealing cheeks flushed pink with excitement. “I’ve made my choice,” she announced proudly into the darkness. “I choose you.”
Darien peered up at her, shoulders heaving as he gasped for breath through a ball of dust that choked his throat. “How can you say that?” he whispered in a gravelly voice, gagging a bit on the words. “What’s changed?”
She cracked a grin, reaching out to brush away the sand that still clung to his face.
“Everything has changed,” she assured him. “The Prime Warden said to trust you. I did not believe him, but now I do.”
“Why?” Darien demanded, frowning in exasperation. “What changed your mind?”
“Because I have seen the power that Xerys has placed within you. It is pure. It is beautiful! There can be no going back for you. I understand that, now. You are His Eternal Servant, and I am your Lightweaver. I will follow wherever it is you lead, for you will deliver my people from the darkness just as you promised.”
Darien gazed at her, mouth slack. He shook his head, patently confused.
That night, they camped by the side of the river. There were no tents; tents were too bulky and heavy to be transported across the wastes. Instead, Haleem’s people camped under the clouds, building fires of coal bricks.
Darien ate alone off to the side, well away from the smoke of the cookfires and the constant stares of the people in the camp. He sat leaning back against a boulder, cupping a bowl in both hands. The th
in stew was heavily spiced. He took his time about eating it, savoring the blend of flavors in his mouth, the heat of the stew warming his belly.
He glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Haleem, his wife at his side. Behind the two of them stretched a long line of people. Darien set the bowl down and rose awkwardly, dusting off his pants and shaking the dirt from his cloak. Haleem’s expression was enigmatic; Darien couldn’t guess the man’s purpose.
The caravan master stopped in front of him as the others surrounded him, their bodies pressing in closely. Darien gazed from face to face, alarmed by their proximity. The presence of so many people seemed like an oppressive weight bearing down on him, making him feel like he couldn’t get enough air to breathe. He brought his arm up, wiping his mouth with a sleeve.
Azár appeared, stepping out from the crowd of people to stand on Haleem’s right. Her hair was freshly plaited, her skin washed. She appeared completely unaffected by her part in the struggle against the storm. There was no trace of fatigue in her eyes. She was wearing a new shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a rich ochre fabric, frayed at the edges.
Without speaking, Haleem raised his hands, offering out a folded garment.
Uncertainly, Darien accepted the offered parcel from Haleem. He held the fabric up in front of him, shaking out the folds. It was a rectangular piece of black woven cloth, heavily embroidered with gold thread in an interlaced design. Two gold cords with thick tassels hung from either end.
“My thanks,” he told Haleem sincerely. He gazed down at the splendid garment, having never seen anything like it before. He couldn’t figure out how it was meant to be worn. “It’s beautiful. But it’s not necessary.”
Azár moved to stand beside him. “Haleem is very grateful to you for protecting both his people and his investment.”
Darien shrugged. “He doesn’t need to thank me.”
Azár muttered a rapid burst of speech under her breath, translating Darien’s words with more than a few additions of her own. Then she plucked the garment out of his hands and moved behind him, reaching around to wind the fabric around his hips.
“It is meant to be worn this way. The tassels should hang to the left. It can be worn either over pants or by itself. It is a very fine gift.”
She tied the cords, tugging the knot twice to make certain it would hold. Then, with a curt toss of her head, she stepped back, appraising him.
Darien ran his hand over the fine embroidery, continuing the motion downward to finger one of the cords. “My thanks. Sukrien, Haleem. I’m honored.”
Haleem nodded stiffly, apparently satisfied. He brought his hand up to his chest, bowing his head. Then he turned and walked back toward the camp. As he left, another man approached, muttering something and smiling as he laid one hand on Darien’s shoulder, his other hand on Azár. Yet another man moved forward and repeated the gesture before turning to follow Haleem. As Darien stood still, every person in the caravan came forward and laid their hands on the two mages in an expression of gratitude before turning back toward the camp. Eventually, the last woman turned and limped away into the darkness.
Darien was left standing alone with Azár. He stood as if in a daze, gazing in wonder at the retreating backs of the people whose lives they had saved. He was thankful for their gratitude, but even more thankful to be left alone. The closeness of so many bodies wore on his nerves.
“Did that trouble you?” Azár asked, considering him.
Darien shook his head as he brushed his palm over the new wrap Haleem had given him. “No. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
Azár nodded. She gazed at him with a searching look. “May I stay and speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
She dropped to the ground, sitting cross-legged, and motioned with her hand for him to sit down at her side. Darien hesitated, not wanting to soil Haleem’s gift. He dropped to a crouch.
Azár made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Sit,” she admonished him. “It was made to be worn and used. What, are you never going to sit or sleep?”
Darien couldn’t help the small, fragile grin that slipped to his lips. She had a point. Carefully, he settled all the way down into the dirt, leaning back against the boulder he’d claimed previously.
Azár nodded in approval. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to my village. I would like to talk to you about the people you will meet. They are a good people. A hard people, full of pride, full of stone. But I must warn you: they will not like you.”
That came as no surprise. “Because of Black Solstice?” he assumed.
Azár shook her head. “It is much more than that. You are a Sentinel of Aerysius. The warriors of my clan once followed a man who called himself a Sentinel. We followed him to our deaths. He lied to us, betrayed us, and then he abandoned us. In all the history of the Khazahar, there has never been a man so reviled.”
“You speak of Braden Reis,” Darien guessed.
Azár lifted a finger. “That name is never to be spoken. We speak only of his treachery. Because of this man, the people of the clans will have no trust for you at all. In truth, some may even try to kill you on sight.”
“Then they’ll try,” Darien shrugged dismissively, spreading his hands. “There’s little I can do about it.”
And, indeed, there wasn’t. He could defend himself if he had to, even without resorting to magic. He had been trained by a Guild blademaster; the sword that rode at his back was just as lethal as his mind. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Any defense he could offer would only solidify their distrust in him.
Azár was staring at him sideways, surveying him critically, her gaze harsh and full of doubt. “How do you intend to save my people, Darien?”
He hadn’t anticipated that question. He was caught completely off-guard. Darien raised his eyebrows, spreading his hands and shaking his head. “I’ve no idea,” he admitted.
Azár tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. “If there is no other option, are you willing to lead my people south to invade the Rhen?”
Darien bowed his head, breathing out a heavy chestful of air. He sat there for a long while, wrestling within himself for the answer to her question. It was not the first time he had weighed this option. He had struggled with it before, many times. Just as always, the very notion made him shudder in dread.
He knew very well it might have to come to that.
As always, he found himself arriving at the same, terrible conclusion: it was not an option he could rule out.
“I’m hoping I won’t have to,” he whispered, staring at the ground.
Azár scooted forward until she was sitting right next to him. She gazed up piercingly into his face.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” she pressed. She peered deeply into his eyes without blinking.
Darien said nothing, troubled by her directness. And her proximity. Azár’s stare hardened, her lips compressing.
Somehow, somewhere in his eyes, she found her answer.
“You would,” she gasped. “How is that possible? You gave your life in defense of the Rhen. Now you are willing to lead Malikar’s legions against it? What changed?”
Everything, Darien realized. Everything was different, everything had changed.
Nothing could ever be the same again.
Ever since he’d started looking at the world through the eyes of a dead man.
Darien groped for the right words, struggling to find a way to describe the conflict within himself. “I didn’t know the whole truth back then,” he fumbled, desperate to gain her understanding. “I didn’t know anything about Malikar, what the conditions are like here. I didn’t know there were so many of you in such terrible need. I was always taught to just think of you as the Enemy … as if you weren’t even human. Maybe animals or savages. Demons, perhaps. We were told you were evil, that you sought only to conquer, to enslave. To destroy.”
He swallowed, looking down, unable to meet her gaze. “But I kn
ow better, now. Your people are not conquerors, Azár. And you’re certainly not demons—you’re not even the Enemy. We are.”
Those last two words he spat with contempt. Without looking at her. His troubled eyes wandered to the side, regarding the severe darkscape before them in angry doubt. A shadow stirred within him, settling deep into his bones, chilling his brittle soul.
He knew he was a traitor. In heart, now, as well as deed. Azár had been right; he could never go back to what he was before.
That man was dead. The part that mattered, anyway.
He had been dead a long time.
“I’m the demon,” he whispered, gazing off into the distance. “Not you.”
13
The Conclave
Kyel felt like a quivering mass of abraded nerves. He paced relentlessly up and down the floor of the vestibule, fingers interlaced behind his back. When he reached the far end of the chamber, he turned on heel and doubled back. He finally drew up in front of Naia with an exasperated sigh.
“Are you sure I look all right?” he said as he tugged at his shirt collar with a finger.
“Stop fretting. You look like a Sentinel.”
He adjusted his posture, squaring his shoulders. “Do I look official?”
“Very official.” She paused, frowning. “Except for that.”
She reached out and smoothed the collar of his shirt. “That’s better. Now you look official.”
Kyel groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “This is bloody killing me. Why can’t they just get on with it?”
Naia plucked a bit of lint from his cloak. “Be patient. There’s certain protocol that must be followed. Think of it as a series of steps. Each step must happen in a particular order with a great deal of pomp and ritual. They certainly won’t rush the process simply because we’re the first mages who’ve had the audacity to grace their doorstep in five hundred years.”
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