Darklands

by M. L. Spencer

  The iron door was pulled the rest of the way closed, encasing him in shadow. Only the wan blue light of the glacier filtered down through the ice.

  Darien curled up in a ball, shivering violently, alone with only his anger and his misery to keep him company. Reflexively, he reached out with his mind for the comfort of the magic field.

  But the magic field wasn’t there; its song was just a faded memory.

  Desperate, Darien groped instead for the Onslaught.

  Like a fickle lover, the Hellpower fled from his touch.

  A terrible fear clenched his gut. Too late, Darien realized the folly of his mistake. In surrendering himself to Nashir, he had placed his own desires and concerns above the interests of his Master. And that was something Xerys would never tolerate.

  Despair settled deeply into his bones along with the throbbing ache of chill. Both the Zakai and the Onslaught had rejected him. He’d been wrong to put so much faith in Quin.

  Darien lay alone in the darkness, sprawled across the ice, shivering from the cold and shuddering with despair.

  Azár had been right. He should never have come.

  Meiran’s stomach growled. She stared across the table at the elegant platters of food arranged before the beautiful Katarya, Nashir’s new apprentice. The smell of the various dishes was enough to make Meiran’s mouth water. They’d given her nothing to eat. Just water. Nothing more.

  She watched Katarya eat, noting how well-mannered and elegant the woman was. Katarya plucked at her food daintily, taking small, delicate bites. She tore off tiny pieces of bread and took her time about chewing. Everything she did, every motion she made, seemed artfully practiced and executed. She was clothed in the finest silks and draped with gold and jewels. Her hair was curled and meticulously arranged. Her lips had just the faintest dash of color. Everything about Katarya was an elaborate pretense designed to both allure and obscure at the same time.

  Katarya noticed Meiran’s stare and smiled gently in her direction.

  “The bostalek is scrumptious,” she announced conversationally, indicating a particularly strong-scented dish. “The mustaq could have simmered longer, I’m afraid.”

  Meiran stared at her woodenly.

  The woman’s smile deepened. “What types of dishes do they prepare in the Rhen? Tell me, what are your favorites? I’ve always wondered what Southern food tastes like.”

  Meiran continued to gaze at the woman, lips pressed firmly together. She refused to be baited. She could sense the waves of amusement emanating from Katarya, and it galled her. She refused to be this woman’s plaything.

  A uniformed officer swept into the room, holding open the door. He was followed closely by Nashir. Katarya immediately rose to her feet and lowered her head to her chest, clasping her hands together in front of her. Her eyes glanced up beneath her long lashes, casting a hostile glare at Meiran, who made no attempt to rise.

  Nashir approached the table and extended his hand, waiting as Katarya pressed a kiss against his fingers. A fond smile grew on his lips at the sight of her.

  “My rose,” he greeted Katarya as he seated himself at her side. “How is our guest?”

  “Quiet,” Katarya scoffed, fixing Meiran with a glare of disdain. “I try to make conversation, but she will not speak. She thinks she resists.”

  Nashir chuckled mildly. His hand went to clasp his apprentice’s fingers, his thumb caressing Katarya’s olive skin. He gifted Meiran with an indulgent smile. “So, our little warrior stages a protest?”

  Meiran turned away from him in disgust. She fixed her eyes on the door opposite.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Nashir assured her. “In the end, we will all get what we desire.”

  “What exactly do you think I desire?” Meiran spat, turning to glare her disdain at him. Nashir was demon to the core. It was his nature; there was something broken inside him. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get a sense of his emotions. It was as if they simply didn’t exist. She was beginning to think he didn’t have any.

  Very patiently, Nashir explained, “Soon, you will long for death. You will wish for it more than anything you have ever wished for in your life.”

  His promise, spoken with such sinister assurance, sent a shiver of dread through Meiran’s body. Somehow, she understood that his words were much more than mere threat. They had the ominous ring of prophecy.

  “Why would I wish for death?” she asked softly.

  Nashir was no longer smiling. He still held Katarya’s hand in his own, stroking her skin gently. Gazing into Meiran’s eyes, he explained, “Because with death comes the slow peace of the grave. It is a kindness, a gentle mercy. One that I will surely never know.”

  Meiran felt a hard knot of anger balling up inside. “You speak as though you’re immortal. Are you?”

  “No,” Nashir corrected her firmly. “Xerys does not grant eternal life; what He grants instead is eternal servitude. In return, my Master demands unfaltering allegiance.”

  Meiran raised her eyebrows, surprised by his candid admission. “Do you regret your pledge to Xerys, then?”

  “Not at all. I have no reason to regret my decision. Not yet. A thousand years in hell is a long time. However, it is but an eyeblink when compared to the wide span of eternity. You are very fortunate, little warrior. Your fight is almost over. Mine is only beginning.”

  Meiran lowered her gaze to the table’s surface as she contemplated his words. So, Nashir Arman was not entirely happy with his circumstance. Which might explain why he had the temerity to defy Renquist’s commands.

  “What about Oblivion?” she found herself wondering.

  “Ah, sweet Oblivion. The last refuge of the soul.” Nashir smiled. His fingers froze, no longer caressing Katarya’s hand.

  Meiran pressed, “Wouldn’t Oblivion be preferable to an eternity spent in hell?”

  Nashir shook his head. He raised Katarya’s hand to his lips, favoring it with a tender kiss.

  “I am not yet so very desperate,” he confided, gazing overtly into Katarya’s eyes. “It is said that when a soul enters Oblivion, the spirit unravels like a thread pulled from a woven shirt. Oblivion is the negation of existence, the cessation of eternity. There is nothing after that.”

  He let go of Katarya’s hand and reached for a bowl of crushed salt. He scooped up a large pinch into his hand, rubbing his fingers together to dispense the salt in a line across the table before him. “Everything that a person is, all that they ever were … all erased in a heartbeat.” He leaned forward and blew across the line of salt, scattering the tiny crystals across the table’s surface. “Like dust flung by the wind.”

  A gracious smile returned to his lips. “May your soul never be scattered by Oblivion. It is a gentle peace that you go to, little warrior. In the Atrament, you will know the companionship of all you have ever loved. You will never be alone or sad or afraid.”

  “That’s not true,” Meiran insisted, goading him on purpose. “Darien won’t be there.”

  “No,” Nashir agreed. “Darien will never be there. Like myself, the Atrament is denied him. But before you die, you can do your lover one last kindness.”

  “What is that?” Meiran shivered with an acute sense of foreboding.

  “You can offer Darien the mercy of Oblivion.”

  “Why would I do that?” Meiran whispered.

  “Because if Darien Lauchlin can be convinced to deny our Master, then his soul will be unmade. He will be spared an eternity of hell’s torments.”

  Meiran’s eyes widened in dismay. So that was Nashir’s intention. He meant to use her as his weapon against Darien. Anger suffused her at the very notion; she could feel the heat of it scald her cheeks.

  “I won’t do it,” she told him firmly. “I won’t break my Oath of Harmony.”

  Nashir raised an eyebrow. “Would it truly betray your Oath to lead a damned spirit out of hell? Surely, it would not. Think of the favor you would be doing the man who gave up his life to de
liver your own soul from such torment. And there is also this: there would be one less demon for your armies to face when the time comes for battle.”

  Meiran gaped at him, growing more horrified with every word. A chill panic suffused her, starting in her cheeks and descending to her core. Her emotions screamed in anger and outrage, appalled by the very notion of what he was suggesting.

  And yet, the rational part of Meiran’s brain was still groping to find fault in Nashir’s logic.

  Try as she might, Meiran could find no argument to refute him.

  Because, appallingly, he was right.

  Meiran’s mouth went dry as she realized Nashir had left her no moral recourse.

  She was still gaping down at the table when Nashir pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He motioned with his hand toward the door. “Come. I have something to show you.”

  Thoroughly numb, Meiran made no attempt to refuse him. She followed in a daze, around the end of the table and out of the room, into a wide, torch-lit hallway. Nashir strolled at her side, one arm draped across her shoulders, compelling her forward. She had no choice but to go along with him. She was too weakened by hunger, too shackled by fear. Too appalled by her own sense of helplessness.

  The walk was long and unremarkable, broken only by the occasional flight of stairs. Nashir spoke not a word, but strode silently at her side. They were trailed by a small group of Zakai, Nashir’s personal escort, though Meiran scarcely noticed them. Her thoughts were focused inward on her own mind. Exploring paths of possibility, differing avenues of choice. Until all possibilities eventually fused into none.

  She drew up, realizing that Nashir had stopped walking.

  Meiran gazed around, blinking and confused, finding herself in a dark corridor made entirely of ice. Nashir stood at her side. His hand squeezed her shoulder, drawing her close against him.

  It was horrifically cold.

  Nashir made a motion to one of his officers. The man came forward and immediately offered up his own overcoat. Nashir draped it himself about Meiran’s shoulders, delicately adjusting the fabric. When he was satisfied, he gave a stiff nod.

  “Come, see what I have found.”

  Two soldiers sprang forward and unlocked an iron door recessed into the wall of the passage. Meiran held her breath, dreading what she might find on the other side. The door shivered open. Frigid air poured forth from the gaping opening.

  Meiran gazed ahead into the darkness within, seeing nothing.

  Nashir reached out, grasping a torch from the opposite wall. He held it up in front of him and thrust it forward through the doorway.

  Meiran gasped in dismay.

  Darien lay on the floor of a cell made completely of ice. He was drenched with water, his flesh pale. He was curled into a ball on the ice.

  “He presented himself to us just as I said he would,” Nashir stated. His tone was smug.

  Meiran felt the warmth of tears gathering in her eyes. “What have you done to him?”

  “No more than he deserves.” Nashir’s hand wrapped once more about her shoulders. He guided Meiran forward into the cell of ice. “I’m not fool enough to destroy another Servant by my own hands. But I can make him suffer. And so I have.”

  Meiran gazed down into Darien’s pale face. She whispered, “What exactly do you want from me?”

  “Convince him. Convince him to deny our Master and embrace Oblivion. It would be better for you. And better for him. You don’t really think Aerysius’ Last Sentinel ever wished to spend his afterlife fighting to destroy everything he ever loved? Of course not. Darien just needs to be made aware of his options. And he needs to exercise them.”

  Meiran looked up at Nashir in despair, marveling at the man’s sadistic cunning.

  “How does one become so evil?” she whispered, horrified.

  “I am not evil,” he disagreed. “I am merely a Servant of a cruel but effective god. All I desire is salvation for my own people, just as you desire salvation for your lover. Do as I suggest, and all of our interests will be served.”

  Nashir knelt to the floor. He placed a hand on Darien’s forehead. Frowning, he rose and strode out of the cell. Once outside, he turned to face two of his Zakai.

  “Fools. My order was to keep him alive and suffering. Instead, I find him near death and almost beyond the reach of pain. You failed entirely at your task. Go. Both of you. Provide blankets to the prisoners then present yourselves to the headsman.”

  Meiran flinched at the audacity of such a command. She whirled around just in time to see both condemned officers bow deeply in acknowledgement, just before the door swung closed with a jarring clank, eclipsing them in darkness. The only light was a wan blue glow shimmering through the surrounding ice.

  Meiran squeezed her eyes shut, blinking back tears. She brought her hands up to cover her face. She wanted to be strong, but it was too hard. She felt so helpless.

  She didn’t want to become the instrument of a monster.

  Meiran lowered herself down to the frigid ground, wrapping her arms around Darien’s body. His skin felt horribly cold, his hair crusted with ice. She wormed her arms beneath his torso and heaved him up into her lap, hugging him tight.

  The cell door creaked open just a crack.

  A growing sliver of light revealed the silhouette of a man. One of the officers had actually troubled himself to find blankets on his way to the headsman’s block. Meiran peered up, distraught, into the condemned man’s bearded face. He handed her the blankets in silence, bowed low, then departed with grace.

  Cold blue darkness returned at the thud of the closing door.

  Meiran lay down alongside Darien and drew the blankets around them both, pulling him close to share her body heat. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around the man she had once loved, contenting herself with the feel of him. She was determined not to cry, so she didn’t. She held him tight, wishing that the little time they had left together could last a bit longer. But she was too exhausted, the cold too depleting.

  Far sooner than she’d intended, Meiran fell asleep.

  23

  Death’s Doorstep

  Naia awoke to an eerie, unsettling feeling that brushed down her back like the soft blur of spider’s legs scurrying over her skin. She blinked her eyes, opening them just a crack. White, diffuse light filtered down from holes set high above in the ceiling, giving the marble statue above her the glowing appearance of warmth. The vacant eyes of the goddess stared down at her.

  A shadowy motion on the other side of the shrine captured Naia’s attention. She lay still, closing her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She slowed her breath, willing her fingers to relax. She focused on the slow, shallow rhythm of her breath as the sound of soft footsteps approached across the tiles. Fear wrapped around her spine, groped with chill tendrils through the pit of her stomach.

  The rustle of fabric, soft, against the floor beside her. The brush of a finger, tracing her cheek.

  Naia fought the urge to scream. She breathed in … then out. In. Out.

  A hand, resting with gentle pressure against the fabric of her bodice. Fingers softly circling her stomach.

  The touch sent shivers throughout her body, charged, like an electrical storm.

  The rustle of fabric stirred again. The sound of soft, slippered feet moved cautiously away.

  A gush of profound relief flooded Naia’s mind, paralyzing. Her breath hitched in her chest. The sound of the footsteps paused. Then they continued, retreating across the chamber.

  Naia cracked one eye open, just a sliver, and gazed across the shrine in the direction of the bier. The wooden cart was empty. The shroud had slipped to the floor, where it lay in a sprawled rumple of fabric.

  Naia turned her head ever so slightly, glancing over to where Kyel lay sleeping. A woman was bending over him. A woman in a dark robe, chestnut hair spilling down her back.

  Sareen.

  Naia clamped her mouth shut against a scream, both eyes opening wide.
She squeezed them shut again quickly before the woman glanced her way. She fought to relax the tense muscles of her face.

  In. Out.

  She peered out from beneath the long lashes of her eyes. She could see Sareen’s graceful form, a golden silhouette against the warm wash of light, settling down beside Kyel on the floor. He lay curled on his side, head resting on his hand, his cloak enveloping him like a blanket. Sareen set a hand lightly on his back. She tilted her head, tracing her fingers over the soft embroidery of the star on Kyel’s cloak. She continued the motion, sliding her hand down the length of his arm, caressing his hand.

  Kyel flinched awake.

  As Naia watched through cracked lids, he scrambled back away. The woman before him stayed her ground, raising her hand in a gesture of reassurance.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” she whispered. “I suspect I owe you both a great deal of gratitude for returning my life to me.”

  Naia blinked at the sound of Sareen’s voice, elegant and tender-soft, with an accent that was at once both exotic and sophisticated. She watched as the darkmage bent forward, laying a comforting hand on Kyel’s arm. The expression on her face spoke of wonder and exhilaration.

  Kyel gaped up at her, aghast, muscles flexed as if ready to bolt. His face was a medley of dismay, fear, and fascination.

  “It was Naia that healed you,” he finally managed.

  Naia winced internally, hearing that. She didn’t trust the enticing darkmage, who seemed to be trapping Kyel under the spell of her allure. He looked utterly baffled, captivated.

  Sareen smiled down at him. Reaching out, she stroked her fingers over Kyel’s bearded cheek. “But you helped, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Kyel admitted, gazing wide-eyed up into her face.

  Sareen’s smile broadened, her eyes sparkling. Leaning forward, she pressed a tender kiss against Kyel’s brow. “Thank you so much. I owe you my life.”

  Naia felt an appalling chill slither over her body. Things were getting quickly out of hand. She didn’t know what to do. Sareen’s placid voice drifted toward her across the chamber: