“Why did Braden marry Amani if he didn’t love her?” she wondered.
Quin shrugged. “Oh, everything went fine until the day Braden found out that Amani was a sensitive. And even then, I think he still would have treasured her with all his heart—if it hadn’t been for her father. You see, Braden didn’t exactly see eye to eye with the Prime Warden on every issue. Renquist can be an exceptionally callous man, as I’m sure you can believe. I don’t know what my brother was plotting but, whatever it was, he didn’t want Renquist finding out. He distanced himself from Amani. I think he was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that his loyalties might be questioned.”
“Were they?”
“Perhaps. Amani’s death might have actually saved Braden’s life. Who knows? After that, Renquist sent him away to Aerysius as an ambassador. I think he suspected that Braden was a threat. I think Renquist wanted my brother very far away from him, yet still within reach.”
His voice trailed off. “I’m tired. I’m going to get some sleep. If you want to hear more, you’ll have to ask me about it again some other time. Goodnight, Meiran.”
With that, he lay on his back, sliding his hat down over his eyes. Meiran sat there gazing across at him for a little while, reflecting on their conversation. Despite herself, she found Quinlan Reis fascinating. He was a darkmage, yes. A Servant of Xerys. But he just didn’t seem very evil. Complex, yes. Flawed, most certainly. But evil? She just didn’t see it.
Against her better judgement, Quinlan Reis gave her hope.
Perhaps not all demons were as awful as she’d feared.
The next morning didn’t dawn. It darkened.
Meiran awoke to a world blanketed in thick gray mist that had settled all around like a still and imposing ocean. She could see nothing through that haze, not even Quin. The fog had the effect of dampening all of her senses, not just sight. The world was rendered silent and drab, as if all trace of vitality had been sucked right out of it. It didn’t even feel like the world she knew. It reminded her of what the Netherworld had seemed like.
She could hear Quin, even if she couldn’t see him. He was rummaging around in his pack. Tentatively, Meiran reached out and probed his feelings, taking the measure of his emotions. But Quinlan Reis had wrapped himself in the chill detachment of the Onslaught; she could sense nothing through the link.
They ate a tasteless, meager breakfast by the wan glow of Quin’s magelight. He didn’t speak; he hadn’t said anything since settling down to sleep. Meiran didn’t bother to press him; she could sense his gloom. It was as cold and murky as the fog that encased them. She knew better than to try to draw him out when he was like that. He could clam up tighter than an oyster in its shell, and all the prying in the world wouldn’t make him open up until he was ready.
After breakfast, they collected their things and shouldered their packs. Meiran followed as Quin resumed his interminable trek ever northward. At least she assumed they were still on course; the fog was disorienting. For all she knew, they could have doubled back on their path.
It was hours before the haze began to lift. And even then, the mist continued to roam in thick, slow-moving patches. Quin’s magelight was like a diffuse, red glow. The silence was explicit, isolating. Meiran walked forward, hugging herself for warmth. Each step she took filled her with a deepening sense of foreboding.
The fog opened up into a flat plain of crisp, cold darkness. In the distance, there was light. Meiran couldn’t help herself. She hastened her pace toward the glow, drawn toward it as if by compulsion. She caught up to Quin, drawing past him.
His hand shot out, pulling her back.
“Something’s not right.”
Meiran frowned.
“Stay here,” he commanded, adjusting his hat. He stared at her until she finally nodded, relenting.
Then he stalked off without her. Meiran stayed where she was, letting a wandering cloud of mist envelope her. She strained her ears after the crunching sound of his footsteps.
From the distance came the sound of frantic screams.
Meiran shivered as a wave of panic washed over her. She thought about going after him. Instead, she stayed where she was, dropping to her knees in the dirt. She used the fog to her advantage, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
The sound of screams grew louder, rising to a shrill, blood-curdling climax. Then there was silence. Followed by another noise: the sound of distant keening.
Whatever had happened, it was over. And it was terrible.
Trembling, Meiran knelt on the grainy black dirt, her senses groping through the fog in despair.
“I need your help.”
Meiran flinched, jerking to her feet. Whirling, she found Quin standing right beside her. His face was pale.
She gasped, “What is it? What’s happened?”
Quin licked his dry lips. His expression was slack.
“There’s been a raid on a village up ahead. Evidently, there’s a new warlord in the region making his presence felt. His soldiers came demanding tribute. But the good people of Deryah had nothing left to give. So instead of taking food, the warlord’s soldiers took their share of blood. I need your help; you’re better at healing than I am.”
Meiran started after him, running just to keep up as Quin jogged back toward a patch of light. Lightfields. It wasn’t long until Meiran saw the small group of villagers clustered together on the edge of the fields.
The ground was littered with scattered bodies.
Meiran gasped, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
Many of the corpses had been savagely skinned. Ribs had been separated from the spinal column and pulled out, one by one, sticking up through the flesh, giving the appearance of flayed wings. Some of the victims were just children.
Meiran gagged at the sight, clutching her stomach as the taste of acid rose to her throat. All around, she could hear the sound of moaning and weeping along with tortured, anguished groans.
“They’re still alive,” she gasped with a sob.
“Some of them,” Quin confirmed. “I can’t do it all myself. There’s too much damage.”
Meiran was already in motion, throwing herself toward the first victim at her feet. Trembling, she placed her hands on the man’s shoulders, the only place on his body not covered in blood and exposed tissue. She closed her eyes and grappled with the magic field in desperation. Tears leaked down her face; she could feel the man’s suffering as if it were her own.
Meiran threw back her head, screaming in anguish as she forced a torrent of healing energies into him. The bones moved, popping back under the skin. Muscle rewove over the ghastly wounds and exposed openings. Flesh squirmed back into place. The pain of the healing was almost incapacitating.
Meiran turned her head to the side and vomited. Then she vomited again. She stood up, wiping her mouth, and forced herself to stagger toward the next victim.
This one was beyond saving.
With a cry, Meiran flung herself toward the next grizzly, tortured soul.
It was a child.
Meiran wept as she laid her hands upon the girl, her fingers shaking so hard she could hardly cup the blood-splattered face. When the pain hit, it almost took her to the ground. Crying out, Meiran screamed until she was hoarse, furiously working to reweave flesh and bone back together. When she was done, she rolled over onto her side. She couldn’t get up.
“That’s enough!”
Sobbing, Meiran looked up into Quin’s contorted face. The darkmage’s eyes were moist and reddened.
“You’re a sensitive!” he gasped. “Sensitives aren’t meant to be healers! You feel everything they feel!”
“It’s what I do,” Meiran protested, shaking, fighting against the pressure of his hands. There were still many others left to care for. “I’m a Querer! It’s my job.”
He shook his head, aghast. “Why would they train a sensitive as a Querer? It’s inhuman!”
She brought her hand up to her face, scrubbing the tears from her eyes. As she did, her sleeve fell back.
Behind her, a woman screamed. Then everything happened at once.
Meiran whirled as Quin flinched back, his eyes widening in alarm. The woman was pointing at Meiran’s arm, screaming at the top of her voice. Meiran looked down and saw the exposed chain on her wrist. She jerked her sleeve back down to cover it, too late.
The woman fell silent. Her eyes glassed over. She slumped sideways and collapsed to the ground.
People surged toward them, shouting, shoving each other out of the way.
Suddenly, Meiran was being hauled to her feet. Quin jumped in front of her, inserting himself between Meiran and the small but enraged mob that confronted them. He started yelling at the top of his voice in his native tongue. The way he ran the words together, Meiran couldn’t understand a single thing that he said.
But the villagers understood. They drew back, settling into a mournful, quiet mass. One by one, they turned away, moving back toward the flayed corpses of their loved ones. Meiran was left standing there trembling, alone with Quin. She took his hand and led him back in the direction they had come, shaking in rage and shame.
“You killed that woman,” she accused him under her breath. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Quin stopped walking, turning to stare at her. His eyes were reddened and intense. “I didn’t exactly have a choice, now did I? Unless you’d rather be put to the torch?”
Meiran’s lips contorted into a grimace. “That woman did nothing wrong!” she cried out in despair.
Quin raised a finger in front of her face, leaning forward. “Make no mistake, Prime Warden: this was your fault. Now, pray, never let it happen again.”
Meiran gaped at him as Quin turned his back on her. She stood there in the darkness, shaking her head, sobbing in muted grief. She could feel the cold rage of his anger through her link with him.
He was right. The woman’s death was her fault. Quin had done exactly what his nature demanded: he had acted decisively to neutralize a threat.
Meiran whispered, “Promise me something, Quin.”
He was still standing with his back to her, hands on his hips. His shoulders rose and fell with every sharp, ragged breath. “What?”
More firmly, Meiran told him, “Never kill for my sake ever again.”
He turned to glare at her over his shoulder, gaze narrowed and contemptuous. “I beg your pardon?”
Meiran turned fully toward him, lifting her chin. “I mean it. I swore an Oath of Harmony. ‘Always to heal and never to harm.’”
Quin’s lips curled in disdain. “I think I’ve heard it.”
Meiran swallowed, unable to tell if he was being sarcastic or serious. She took a tentative step toward him. “I mean it, Quin. If you kill another person because of me, it will be because I allowed you to. It would be the same as if I’d killed that person myself.”
Quin gaped at her. He turned fully around to face her, his hand shooting up to sweep his hat off his head. “Please tell me you don’t believe that drivel!”
“I do,” Meiran stated adamantly. “Never kill for me again. Even if it means my death.”
Quin stared at her hard for a moment, saying nothing. At last, he replaced his hat squarely back atop his head. “Let’s make certain I understand this,” he said at last. “You want me to escort you through the most dangerous and inhospitable territory in the entire world, where every person you meet—every man, woman and child—is your sworn blood enemy … but you don’t want me to lift a finger in your defense?”
“That’s right.”
He stared at her very long and very hard. “Very well, Madam.” He tipped his hat in her direction. “I hope that both you and your swelled sense of righteousness enjoy a glorious death together.”
With that, he turned and strode away.
Meiran couldn’t believe it. Was he actually going to abandon her there?
“What are you doing?” she called after him, trotting forward.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m leaving.” He didn’t turn to look at her.
Meiran shook her head, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Why? I need you!”
Quin whirled around with a snarl. The wind kicked up, billowing his longcoat out away from his legs as he strode back toward her. “You don’t need me, Prime Warden. What you need is someone stupid enough to dignify your martyrdom. Trust me, any audience will suffice. But it won’t be me.”
Meiran stared at him, her mouth open, limbs trembling. Her eyes pleaded with him to change his mind. She could feel him, feel the enormity of his anger. He was suffused with it, and with the chill fury of the Onslaught.
“Quin. You go too far.”
“No, Prime Warden. You go too far,” he growled. “If you want to bind your own hands behind your back with those chains on your wrists, then go right ahead. Feel free. But no one—and I do mean no one—is going to bind me! I was there when my brother devised that wretched Oath you flaunt so zealously. It was the last thing Braden ever said—right before they killed him.”
Meiran gaped at Quin in startled confusion. She hadn’t known that the Mage’s Oath had been conceived of by his brother. It made sense. But it still didn’t change anything.
Tightly, she stated, “Then it sounds like Braden died with a great deal of honor and dignity.”
The flood of rage that washed from Quin into Meiran was so forceful that it made her gasp.
“My brother died screaming in agony!” Quin raged. He stalked away a few paces, fists balled at his sides. He kicked out at something on the ground.
At last he turned back to Meiran with a look of desperation in his eyes. He licked his lips, his face a mask of grief. “Don’t you understand? The Oath doesn’t protect you from becoming someone like me! Generations of mages existed before Braden ever came up with it! If you don’t want to end up like me, then just don’t end up like me! You don’t need some irrational and aesthetic Oath to keep you from doing something that’s entirely against your own nature to begin with!”
Meiran shook her head. Tears leaked unbidden from her eyes. She didn’t believe him. Quinlan Reis was a darkmage. How could he possibly understand?
“You can’t convince me that the Oath of Harmony is worthless,” she said gruffly. “Darien is a perfect example. Look what happened to him!”
“Don’t talk to me about Darien!” Quin snarled. “You weren’t there. The truth is, you really don’t know a damn thing about him.”
Meiran was shocked. “How can you say that?”
“Darien swore the Oath,” Quin reminded her. “It didn’t help him.”
His anger was contagious. It was infecting Meiran, now. She could feel it burning at her from within, scorching her heart. Quin was wrong; that’s all there was to it. He was a darkmage, a Servant of Xerys. How could he understand? His life and death were lived in complete opposition to everything the Mage’s Oath stood for.
“Darien forswore his Oath,” Meiran reminded him in a voice suffused with anger. “That’s why he became a darkmage.”
Quin barked a bitter laugh. “Sorry, darling, but you’re getting it backwards. Darien was already a darkmage. That’s why he broke Oath.”
His words stung like a slap because she knew he had to be right. Her anger dissolved into anguish.
“That’s not true!”
Quin strode right up to her, planting his feet just inches from her own. The brim of his hat pressed against the flesh of her brow. “Tell me something, because I’ve been curious about it.” He peered intently into her eyes. “Whatever possessed you to give your mage-lover a sword as a fare-thee-well gift? Why a weapon of all things, out of everything else in the entire world you could have possibly given him? Why not a nice warm cloak or a new pair of boots?”
Meiran’s face twisted in grief. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She pulled back away from him, bringing her hands up to co
ver her face. “You have no idea how often I’ve regretted that decision,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “It was such a stupid thing to do. I acted on impulse!”
“But why?”
How could she explain? She had been so young then, so foolish. In the thrall of a man whose child she carried in her womb. She hadn’t had the courage to tell Darien she was pregnant, to send him off like that, possibly to his death. So she’d kept it a secret.
Instead of telling Darien that he was going to be a father, she had given him a sword, instead. Then she had kissed him and sent him off to war. That was the last she had ever seen of him, until the moment he had appeared before her in the gateway. The moment of his death.
“When I gave him that sword, Darien was only just an acolyte,” Meiran said. “Weapons were not yet forbidden him. And he’d trained so hard for so many years. Darien always had a passion for the art of the blade … and he was going into battle. So many men we sent to the Front never came back. I chose the gift that I thought would have the most meaning. I didn’t think what kind of meaning it would have. I didn’t think it through.”
Quin’s gaze had been softening the whole while she spoke. He stared at her with conviction in his eyes. “You chose the gift that suited him best, Meiran. That’s why you did it. Darien was born to be a Battlemage. I think, even then, you understood his nature.”
“I’ve regretted it every day,” she insisted. “Giving him that sword … I may as well have been giving him my blessing to strip those chains off his wrists.”
Quin shook his head. “You acknowledged the warrior within him. I can think of no greater gift.”
Meiran strangled back a sob. “I damned him, Quin. I damned his soul.”
“No. You didn’t. Darien damned himself.” He reached out, touching the marking of the chain on her wrist. “So … am I leaving? Or staying?”
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