Darien thought of Bryn Calazar’s dead Circle, feeling a pang of loss. “I’m sorry, Prime Warden. Vintgar’s Circle was destroyed beyond repair.”
“Perhaps. I will have it examined by someone more competent.”
Darien paused in the action of raising his drink to his lips, shaken by the insult. He set the cup back down, a growing unease tightening his gut. The chamber seemed colder than it had just moments before.
Renquist continued, “You have fulfilled many of the tasks set out for you. In that respect, I am pleased. But there is still the matter of Nashir….” His voice trailed off into a festering silence.
Darien drew in a deep breath, fighting to steady his already rattled nerves. “I assume you’ve heard from Byron Connel.”
“Yes. A message did arrive.” The Prime Warden took a sip of his drink. “I was greatly troubled by the news. You shouldn’t have been able to best Nashir; he had superior training and a thousand years more experience than you. I must admit … I can’t help but find myself impressed.” His eyes locked with Darien’s. “I hear you raised a necrator. That is a rare talent. We may need you to produce more.”
“I don’t know what I did,” Darien said quickly. “I don’t think I could repeat it.” He didn’t remember much of the torture or its aftermath. It was not something he wanted to remember; he’d done his best to forget.
“You will try,” Renquist directed. It was not a request.
“Aye, Prime Warden.” Darien drained the last of his coffee, an attempt to hide the sickened look on his face. The cup was replenished as soon as he set it down.
“Lightweaver Azár.” Renquist turned to the woman. “Are you satisfied with Darien’s progress?”
Azár shot Darien a nervous glance. “I am, Prime Warden. He has proven a worthy ally. He has gathered many fine warriors behind him.”
“And yet…” Renquist’s gaze slid back to Darien. “I hear you are having difficulty uniting the tribes?”
Darien had to nod; there was no use trying to hide it. Renquist must have anticipated the challenges he would face. “I rule the Khazahar in name alone. I’ve the support of the Tanisars. But I’ve failed to gain the support of the tribes.”
“Because of your blood.”
“Aye. Because of my blood.” It was hardly a secret.
The Prime Warden’s stare drifted downward to Darien’s waist. To the golden buckle of the warbelt fastened there. The Prime Warden’s stare lingered on the buckle. “What an interesting piece of workmanship,” he said finally. “Omeyan, unless I miss my guess?”
Darien closed his eyes, feeling the last of his hopes slip through his fingers. The room felt suddenly, oppressively cold. Perhaps Renquist had seen the warbelt on Quin. Or even on Braden Reis a thousand years before; whichever. It didn’t matter. His own possession of the belt was inexplicable. And incriminating.
The game was up.
Renquist leaned forward, capturing his gaze. Very softly, he said, “Do you have something you wish to tell me, Darien?”
Cold beads of perspiration broke out on his brow. Immediately, Darien was transported back in time to the pavilion below Orien’s Finger, to his first meeting with Renquist. When the demon had broken him with nothing more than the simple, crushing truth.
A trickle of sweat dribbled down his face, dropping to the floor. He wet his lips with his tongue. “Quinlan Reis left me this warbelt along with a note. He claims it belonged to one of my ancestors.”
The gap of silence that followed his words seemed to drag on forever before finally wearing out. With the silence came the creeping feel of danger. Darien knew he was being judged. He also knew he may not survive the judgement. He was well aware of the price of betrayal.
“When was the last time you saw Quinlan Reis?”
There was no use being evasive. “I saw him when he brought Meiran to me in Qul.”
Another gaping silence. Darien counted the seconds with the ebb and flow of his breath. Another drop of sweat leaked down his face.
“And where is Quinlan Reis now?”
“I sent him on to Athera’s Crescent.”
Another pause. Another drop of sweat. Darien kept his eyes focused on the bronze cup in Renquist’s hand.
“Toward what end?”
“To find a way to resolve the curse over the Black Lands.”
He shifted his weight. His fingertips twitched.
“And where is Sareen Qadir?”
Darien’s breath froze in his throat. He hadn’t thought of Sareen.
“I don’t know. I never saw her.”
The warmth of the air seemed to bleed right out of the room.
“And where is Meiran now?”
“I don’t know.”
His breath turned to mist before his face.
“Darien.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look the demon in the face.
“Do not lie to me, Darien. If you lie to me … I will know.”
Which had to mean Renquist was a Sensitive … and he’d been reading Darien’s emotions all along. The information clicked into place like the last piece of a wood knot. Darien froze, unable to breathe.
He sat in a room with the most dangerous creature in all the world’s history. There was a reason why Renquist had gained that reputation. Darien struggled to find his nerve under the weight of realization. The man could sense anything he felt.
“I’ll say this one more time.” The Prime Warden’s voice sliced through the air like the edge of a blade. “Where is Meiran now?”
Darien took a deep breath. “She sided with Nashir against me. If it wasn’t for Quin, they’d have gotten their way. Meiran bolted after that. I’ve no idea where she went.”
Renquist absorbed this information in silence. At last, he motioned for his drink to be replenished. Raising his cup, he commanded, “Return immediately to Tokashi Palace. Find a way to win the allegiance of the tribes. I want every last human transferred out of the Khazahar by the end of the week.” His eyes filled with shadow and malice. “Now. You are going to stand up and walk out that door. While you still have the ability.”
Darien didn’t hesitate. He swept to his feet, managing a stiff bow.
“Prime Warden,” he breathed as he turned to leave. Before he reached the door, he heard Renquist utter:
“Lightweaver Azár. Please remain.”
Darien pulled the door closed behind him. The corridor outside was empty. He leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes as he struggled to control his pulse. His arms trembled at his sides.
He knew exactly how close he’d come.
He waited, staring at the floor, for an infinite period of time.
At last, the door to the chamber opened and Azár rejoined him in the hallway. She glanced at him with an expression that suggested everything but said nothing.
They traced their steps back the way they had come. Azár walked at his side, conspicuous in her silence. Back across the cold Circle of Convergence that writhed and wept like a dying thing. Down the stairs, into the chamber filled with portals and black-mailed bodies.
Azár gave him her hand. There was a brief flash and Bryn Calazar was gone.
Somehow, he was still alive.
Darien stepped out of the portal and turned to Azár, knowing he’d been left without a choice.
“Please join me for dinner tonight,” he said.
She turned and studied his face. At last, she consented with a nod.
Darien buckled the Omeyan warbelt about his waist. Then he turned to face Sayeed. “Is there anything else I’ll need?”
The Zakai officer frowned, face squirming through several layers of thought. He slowly shook his head. “Not at this time. All will be negotiated after.” He took a step forward, fixing the lay of Darien’s robe. He handed him an embroidered vest.
Darien pulled it on, avoiding the looking glass next to the bed. He already knew what the image would tell him: that he looked nothing like the man h
e remembered. His hair had grown longer, worn tied back in a single braid. The green robe and vest were unlike any style he’d ever considered wearing in the Rhen. Indeed, he could have never afforded such luxury. Other than his complexion, he looked every inch Malikari.
It felt like he’d left the Rhen behind completely. It didn’t even feel a part of him anymore.
“Let’s go.”
Sayeed bowed and swept the door open. Darien strode out into a cluster of Zakai, who moved quickly to surround him. They accompanied him to the dining hall where, mercifully, he was allowed to enter alone.
A long wooden table awaited him there. He took a seat at the table’s center, a footman moving forward to assist him. The servant’s attentions made Darien uncomfortable; he still wasn’t used to such treatment. It went against every grain of self-sufficiency he’d been trained to rely on.
“My thanks,” he muttered as another servant set a fingerbowl down in front of him.
He sloshed his fingers around in the water, scooping some up in his palm to wipe over his face. He blotted his cheeks dry on an offered cloth. The bowl was removed, a celadon plate set before him in its place.
Then he waited.
A servant came to pour tea.
Another brought arak.
Darien took his time about draining them both.
He stared at the table, at the walls, at the blue-painted ceiling. He considered the workmanship of the beaten copper bowls in the center of the table. He studied the table’s hardwood grain. He was about to stand up and leave when Azár entered, clothed in a gown with flowing sleeves, her hair wrapped in ribbons.
He’d never seen her in a gown. He almost forgot to stand.
“Thank you for coming,” Darien said, rising awkwardly.
Azár looked at him sideways. Her expression was just as fierce as it had ever been. He motioned for her to take the seat opposite him as maids rushed to settle her in. She suffered their attentions much more gracefully than he had.
After the meal was served, Darien dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand.
They ate in silence. The kitchen staff had prepared a rich stew made from krill harvested from the ponds below the palace. Darien ate hungrily, relishing the taste. His body, starved for meat, had learned to crave the dish. It was seasoned with spice hot enough to make him break out in a sweat.
The silence became uncomfortable. Darien was conscious of every clink of silverware, of the sound of his own teeth working in his mouth. He tried to think of something to say, something to ease the tension in the room. But he couldn’t force one word past his lips. He couldn’t think of anything to say that would not betray his intentions.
Abruptly, Azár pushed back her plate, sitting up straight in her seat. “I’m not hungry.”
She was glaring at him, he realized. He supposed he’d been an inconsiderate host. Darien swallowed the food in his mouth, bringing his napkin up to wipe his face. Moving purposefully, he pushed back his own plate. Azár’s eyes were intense, probing, daring. Still, he couldn’t speak. He just gazed back at her.
“Why did you invite me here?” she asked.
Darien sighed, knowing he couldn’t put off his purpose any longer. He folded his napkin on the table, taking his time about it, using the space to summon his nerve.
“I don’t know how to say this. So I’ll just say it,” he said, gazing down at his plate. “I don’t wish to marry. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just that … I lived my life already. Understand? There’s nothing left of me to offer a woman. I’m empty.”
He glanced up, searching her face. He expected to find it full of hurt and resentment. But Azár’s expression hadn’t changed. She sat motionless in her chair, eyebrows raised. Waiting for him to continue.
He cleared his throat, scooting forward in his seat. “So I’ll not lie to you and tell you that I’m proposing marriage out of love. I’m not. I’m asking for your hand because it’s the only option left to me.” His gaze shot down to the table, fixing on a knot in the wood. He didn’t want to look at her. He was too ashamed by his own audacity.
To his surprise, she didn’t walk out. Instead, she leaned forward and took his hand. “I am not a woman of the Rhen. I understand what you are saying, and I’m not offended. Marriage is not about love. It is about commitment. Love comes and goes many times throughout the lifetimes of two people. It is the commitment that remains. If you wish to commit to me, Darien Nach’tier, then I will commit to you, as well.”
He looked up to study her face. To his surprise, her expression had lost all of its ferocity. He was confused; he didn’t understand. She should despise him for what he had said.
For some reason, she didn’t.
He asked, “Are you certain?”
“Yes. I am certain.” There was absolutely no doubt in her eyes. He couldn’t understand it.
“You know what I am … and you’ve no problem with it?” He held her gaze firmly, looking for any trace of reluctance but finding none.
Her voice was adamant. “You are a demon. I know this … and I don’t care.”
Darien couldn’t fathom her reaction. It made no sense. “Why not?”
She shrugged and squeezed his hand. He stared down at her fingers, creamy brown, soft and delicate.
Azár said, “You made many wrong decisions in your past. For this, you are damned. But there is much sharaq in you. I have seen it. I will honor you as my husband. And I know you will honor me as your wife.”
Darien found the nerve to look her in the eye. “Then I ask you formally: Azár ni Asu’am, will you marry me?”
“I will.”
Uncomfortably, he squirmed in his seat. “Then I’ll have the clerks prepare the marriage contract. I understand I need to provide you with a bride-gift. Feel free to write into the contract whatever it is you desire. If I have it, it will be yours.”
She nodded, her eyes sliding to the side. “How soon will you want the contract signed?”
“As soon as possible.” This was not about love. This was about war. He needed the legions of the Khazahar, and he needed them yesterday. Azár was only a means to an end, and she knew it.
Still, her thumb stroked his skin. Her fingers squeezed his. Then she released his hand and stood up.
“I will go prepare,” she said and left the room.
Darien sat staring at the door, staring at her plate, staring at his hand, long after Azár had left. He tried to label his emotions, but found that he couldn’t. The truth was, he had no idea what he was feeling. Or what he was supposed to be feeling.
Certainly not this.
12
Of Sorrow and Ash
The prevailing wind blowing down from the Sagros Mountains was razor-sharp and gnawed at the bone like a pack of dogs. Naia shook her head in frustration at its power, pushing all of her weight against the brute force of it. The sting of the wind wrung tears from her eyes, sucked the breath right out of her lungs. Her fingers throbbed even in her thick cotton gloves. She held her cloak closed against her chest, clutching it tight. She had tried pulling her cowl forward to warm her head, but the fiendish wind just yanked it back off again. After a few attempts, she’d given up.
Battered and exhausted, Naia staggered to a stop.
She felt a hand on her back. The demon at her side was attempting to reassure her. It wasn’t working.
“Come on!” Quinlan Reis shouted in her ear, tugging on her arm. “… a little further! We have to…” His voice faded out, suffocated by the hellish wind.
Naia didn’t need to hear him to understand his point. They had to find shelter. The wind was just as wet as it was chill. It sucked the heat and energy out of her body, leaving her shivering and staggering.
She glanced at the sky, awestruck by the clouds that raced across the dark expanse, flickering and flaring with light. The clouds moved at an impossible speed, surging toward them from the vast horizon that loomed larger than
the world. A ball of lightning silhouetted the jagged mountains in the distance. They looked like the black-toothed jaw of some predatory beast.
Another stab of lightning revealed a tall, cone-shaped peak just ahead, its flanks charred, its summit oozing rivers of blood.
Not blood, she realized. Lava.
Stooped and shaking, Naia followed Quinlan Reis in the direction of the volcano. They made camp in the lee of an ancient lava flow and prepared to wait out the wind. Naia sat in the dirt, hugging herself as her teeth clattered and her flesh shivered. Her companion dug out a fire pit and lit a small pile of coals. The heat of the flames was more than comforting; it was life-saving. Naia held her hands over the coal-fire as waves of exhaustion stole over her. The wind howled overhead, wailing like a wounded thing.
As her companion set about the business of cooking their meal, Naia curled up into a tight ball. She wrapped her cloak snugly around herself and fell asleep.
“Time to eat.”
Naia opened her eyes, feeling rested and warm. She sat up, rubbing the crusted sleep from her eyes. For a moment she sat there considering Quinlan’s profile in the flames. The flickering light of the coal-fire created a harsh rendering of his features, the flesh of his face shadowed and sunken under sharp cheekbones. His expression spoke volumes about nothing.
He leaned forward, offering out a piece of stale bread. Naia blinked in distaste.
“You missed dinner,” he explained. “This is breakfast. Better eat this time.”
Naia accepted the bread and took a bite, worrying it around in her mouth. She supposed she should be grateful. She swallowed the pasty lump, chasing it down with a sip of water that tasted like dirt. Unable to help it, she made a face.
The darkmage noticed her and smirked. “My apologies. Malikar has a sad lack of mountain springs. It’s deplorable, I know. My fault, of course. Just like everything.”
Naia forced a smile, unamused. She was becoming accustomed to the man’s self-deprecating wit. It was quickly becoming just as stale as the bread in her hand. “The water is fine, Quinlan.”
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