The remaining soldiers had drawn back away from him a fair distance. He glared his anger at the gathered crowd, raising his voice. “Anyone else feel the need to settle a score? Let’s get this over with now.”
Apparently, no one did.
When not a soul came forward to challenge him, he turned his wrath on the kneeling Zakai. “You failed me once. Never fail me again. Now, get up.”
He tugged at the magic field until energy clawed like blue flames over his body. The men sprang back away, fear wild in their eyes. Darien trudged forward, his very presence boring a hole right through the center of the crowd.
Myria followed, her face smug as she jogged forward. “You’re creating a scene,” she whispered when she caught up. “That mail shirt won’t stop everything they can hurl at you.”
“I don’t care.”
He stopped, scanning the dark plain ahead for sight of the pavilion, changing his course toward it. Seeing the hostile energies leaking out of him, soldiers moved back, scrambling out of his way. Darien let a wash of azure magelight erupt from the ground in front of him, trailing forward to light and clear his path. People saw it as a sign, backing away with their palms held up in a gesture against evil.
Darien released the magic field as he stopped before the pavilion. He ducked as he entered, thrusting back the tent flap. The interior was dark and dappled with ruddy light. The scent of agarwood did a poor job of masking the stench of sweat and coal smoke. The tent was larger than it had looked from the outside, with multiple rooms cordoned off by hanging fabric, the floor carpeted by ornate rugs. To one side, a group of people were arguing heatedly over a table dominated by an oversized map. Darien couldn’t help but stare at the two women among their number who seemed even more vocal in their military opinions than either of the men. One was pounding a fist on the map to elucidate her point.
“This way.”
Myria pulled back the fabric of a partition and guided him into another, dimmer area. Darien ducked as he went in, straightening to find himself staring at Byron Connel. The Warden of Battlemages reclined on a long sofa positioned up against a wall of the tent. He leaned forward, setting a waterpipe down on the rug as he beckoned Darien to come forward.
Darien stiffened, wanting nothing more to do with the man. Memories of their last encounter still haunted his nightmares.
“There you are,” the Battlemage said, standing up. He clasped Darien in a mercifully quick embrace then turned to kiss Myria on the cheek.
“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” she said, smiling at Darien as she turned away. Her hand trailed down his back.
Connel chuckled. “You had him long enough. It’s my turn.” He sat back down on the sofa and lifted the pipe, putting the mouthpiece to his lips. He waved his hand, indicating the seat across from him made from a bale of hay wrapped in cloth. Darien sat heavily, eyeing Myria through a gap in the partition.
Connel said, “I hear you’ve been trying to get yourself killed before the fighting starts.”
Darien couldn’t help but grin. “That wasn’t my intention, actually.”
“Yes, well, intentions are always worth their weight in gold, aren’t they?” Connel took a heavy draw on the pipe.
Darien shrugged. “I suppose they are.”
Connel set the pipe down, his face going grim. “Welcome to the Front, Darien. Here’s the situation: about half the population of Malikar wants you dead for what you did at Orien’s Finger. The other half would rather see you tortured slowly over a long period of time. Which is unfortunate, because they’re the ones tasked with keeping you alive on a battlefield. So you’re already at a disadvantage.”
Darien sighed. “I never figured it would be easy.”
Connel narrowed his eyes. “It’s not going to be. You’ll be a target everywhere you go.”
He passed him the waterpipe. Darien accepted it, drawing the smoke into his lungs. The tobacco went down smoothly, with a strong taste of fruitwood. It was decadent, unlike anything he’d ever experienced in the Rhen.
“So what do you suggest I do?”
Connel appeared to be pondering the question as he accepted the pipe back. He sat with his face screwed into a frown for a long moment, hand resting on his bearded chin. At last, he said, “We’ll have to find a way to prove your loyalty very publicly.”
Darien wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. His thoughts went to his ordeal in Bryn Calazar, when he’d been paraded like a beaten slave through the streets of the city.
“And how are we going to do that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll come up with something.” Connel glanced back at him. “In the meantime, make yourself at home. Just be careful. We’ll be settled here for about another week as the last of the stragglers find their way to us. Then we’ll be heading south.”
South. Into the Rhen.
Darien felt the strangled chill of that thought settle into him, penetrating deep into his bones. He’d known when he’d come here that war was on the imminent horizon. But sitting at the Front in a command tent made it seem that much more of a reality. Quietly, he asked, “Any plans for negotiation?”
Connel shrugged. “There’s plans. Of course, you’d be a part of any negotiations that take place.”
Darien wasn’t certain if that was a good idea. After his last interaction with Meiran, he didn’t think he was capable of talking anymore. He asked, “What’s the status of Greystone Keep?”
“It’s been rebuilt.”
“In only two years?” It seemed inconceivable. The monarchies of the Rhen had ceased to support Greystone’s defenses in previous years. Apparently, the last invasion had shaken them up enough to make them reevaluate their priorities.
Connel said, “They allocated the resources and dug in.”
Darien was having a hard time envisioning it. The logistics seemed impossible. Whoever had coordinated that effort already had his respect, and then some. “Who’s their new force commander?”
“A man named Devlin Craig.”
Darien shot up straight in his seat. “Craig?” Hope flared like a beacon in the darkness. But it was brief. Devlin Craig had been his friend, but that had been under different circumstances. Like Meiran, Craig would be opposed to him now. He’d see him as a traitor.
“You know him?” asked Connel.
“Aye. I know him.”
“Will he work with us?”
Darien shook his head, breathing out a heavy sigh. His eyes gazed at the waterpipe. “I don’t think so. Although he might be willing to talk.” If he could just get Craig to sit down at a table and hear him out … but no. He’d been unable to convince Meiran. What chance would he have with a man who’d forged a career defending the pass from the Enemy?
Connel leaned forward. “That’s all for now. Go get some rest. You look like you need it. Oh, and congratulations on your nuptials.”
Darien was taken aback that Connel already knew of his marriage to Azár. “My thanks,” he muttered awkwardly, rising to his feet.
He swept the cloth partition aside, emerging into the main area of the command tent. The argument over the maps had wound down. The tent was quiet, filled with a slight haze of smoke that snaked through the slanted light from the lanterns. He turned toward the entrance but stopped as he spotted Myria seated on a cushion in the corner. She noticed him and rose, gliding over to stand in front of him.
“Leaving already?”
Darien nodded, feeling weary. “It’s been a long day.”
A mischievous grin sprang to her face. “We could make it a long night. I’ve got wine.”
He blinked, shocked by her forwardness. He stared at her hard, taking her all in. Her smooth, dark skin, the sweet curve of her hips, the long drape of her hair. He had to admit, he found the offer enticing. The playfulness in her eyes sealed the deal.
“I suppose I could use a drink,” he decided.
Myria’s grin was triumphant. “Let’s go out the back way,” she urged. She
scooped a conical helmet off the floor and handed it to him. “Here. Put this on.”
Darien tugged the helm down over his head, figuring it wouldn’t look too out of place in the context of their surroundings. He understood her intentions: the helm had a wide nose guard that would render him anonymous. He followed as Myria took him by the hand, guiding him out of the pavilion and into the darkness.
She led him across the bustling encampment that was oddly quiet for the amount of activity going on. None of the soldiers they passed paid him any mind; the helm did its job. The eyes of the men slipped right over him, past him, beyond him. They looked but didn’t see; he was invisible.
In all his adult life, Darien couldn’t remember one single day when he hadn’t been the object of every stare. To be so completely inconspicuous was a bizarre feeling. A freeing feeling. No one noticed. No one cared.
Myria pushed back the cloth drape of her tent.
She made her way over to the far wall while he lingered in the entrance, struggling to remove his various armor and armaments, making a small pile of his things in the corner. She returned to present him with a cup of wine, which Darien accepted gladly. He stared down at the blood-red liquid in his hand. Then he raised the cup to his lips and let the wine slide down his throat. It did little to quench his thirst. He grimaced, handing it back.
Myria set the cup aside and drew him in for a kiss.
Darien stiffened, pulling back. “No.”
“No?”
He shook his head. That wasn’t what he wanted, not why he was here. He didn’t want to be touched like that.
Myria peered at him until understanding dawned in her eyes. For a moment, she looked almost wary.
“No,” she agreed.
Her fingers slipped to the blue sash at her waist, tugging at the knot. Her gown fell open, exposing long inches of firm, smooth skin. Darien stared, his eyes sucked into the gap between fabric and held there fast. Her hand stroked across his chest then altered its course, skimming downward.
She sank to her knees on the rugs in front of him, gazing upward into his eyes. Her slim brown fingers worked at the drawstring of his trousers, taking their time.
The lanterns dimmed around them, wavering, then went out.
There was no light or love in the act that followed.
18
Isle of Winter
Naia winced and squinted as brilliant light clawed away the darkness of the Catacombs. The screech of metal grinding against rusted metal shuddered down her nerves, making her clench her teeth as the doors of the shrine peeled open in front of them. They stood in a shard of garish blue light that widened with the yawning of the doors.
“I do believe we’re underdressed for the occasion,” Quin remarked, and started buttoning his coat.
Naia held her cloak closed against the searing chill that invaded the shrine’s outer door. “What’s the occasion?” she asked, shivering.
“Winter.” Quin didn’t appear particularly happy about it.
“What were you expecting?”
“Not winter.” Quin jumped down off the marble foundation of the shrine, turning back to offer Naia a hand.
She landed in the snow and staggered a few steps, making crunching noises with her boots. She glanced around at a world clad all in white, pristine and radiant. The ground was covered in freshly fallen snow, the trees frosted with ice that shimmered beneath a cold sun. The air was crisp and deadly cold.
Naia’s breath made a misty cloud before her face. She glanced at Quin in alarm.
“Have you ever been here before? Is this normal for this time of year?”
“No,” he responded, glancing around with a concerned expression. “Only Harbingers were ever allowed here, even in my day. The entire island was off-limits.”
Naia said, “I’ve never met a Harbinger before.”
“Then you’re not alone. No one but Harbingers meet other Harbingers. They’ve always been a secretive lot.”
Snow frosted the landscape, unmarred by bird or animal tracks. A powdery field ranged away from them to the rolling mountains in the distance. A crystalline woodland bordered the foothills. Except for the small shrine behind them, there was little trace that civilization had ever existed here.
Naia listened to the great silence that surrounded them. “Where do we go?”
Quin didn’t seem to know the answer to that. He stood with his hands on his hips, glancing nervously about. He worked his lips against his teeth.
“Athera’s Crescent is somewhere high in the mountains. That’s all I know.”
His tone was dismal. Perhaps he was still grieving for his brother. Or perhaps their situation was far more dire than she’d feared. Naia stared at him, wondering if there was something he wasn’t telling her.
She asked, “How much food do we have?”
“It’s not food I’m concerned about.” He turned slowly as he surveyed the stark landscape around them. “Something’s not right. Don’t you feel it?”
She did. Something was off. That’s the best word she could think of to describe it. Like a bite of food that had just turned; that’s what the world was like here. Not fresh. But not tainted either. Just off.
“I think so,” she whispered. “Do you see a road?”
“No.” Quin shook his head. “But I bet it’s over there.”
He gestured across the snow-fed meadow to an archway half-buried in the distance. Naia agreed; the arch looked like a gateway to something.
“Let’s go.”
She started across the meadow, her feet crunching through the top layer of snow. Quin came along at her side, arms wrapped around himself, looking thoroughly miserable.
A wind kicked up, chilling them all the more. The sky didn’t seem quite as bright as it had just a minute before. Naia couldn’t see the sun through the gray haze that closed in over them, but she had the feeling that the day was winding down. Night would soon be following. Which was a daunting prospect, considering how cold it was already.
“We need to find shelter,” she complained.
Quin nodded but didn’t say anything. He seemed focused on where he was walking. They trudged on through murky grayness that smothered like a blanket. They found a straight path that ran along the edge of a wood that seemed grown from crystal.
Up ahead, there was an orb of diffuse, golden light.
“What’s that?” Naia asked.
“Looks like a lamp.” Quin frowned at the pallid glow that filtered toward them through the haze.
“What’s a lamp doing all the way out here?”
He shrugged noncommittally as Naia tried to make sense of it. They were both shivering, and the cold was only getting colder. Naia’s toes and fingers were already numb. They would have to find shelter soon.
They arrived at the base of a lamppost that stuck out of the snow. Its presence there was bizarre; utterly out of place. There was nothing else around. Nevertheless, it glowed with a defiant flame, its glass murky.
“Someone had to light it,” she said.
“Not necessarily.”
She didn’t like the expression on Quin’s face. He was considering the lamppost with a look of anxious dread. Whatever it was that was off about this place was sinister enough to frighten even a darkmage. Which made Naia doubly afraid.
She glanced back at the crystalline wood then turned back to the path ahead.
Then she turned and looked again.
“Is that…?”
She raised a trembling finger, pointing at a shadow set amidst the ice-frosted trees.
“A cottage,” Quin agreed. He took a reluctant step toward it.
“Maybe whoever lives there will put us up for the night,” Naia said hopefully, starting after him.
“And maybe they appreciate their solitude.” Quin caught her arm, forcing her to stop.
Naia looked at him, torn. “Are we going to find out? Or shall we just stand here until we freeze to death?”
“I suggest
a more cautious approach. Why don’t you wait here while I go check it out?”
“No.” Naia shook her head. “We go together. We’re stronger together than we are apart.”
Quin gave her an appraising look. “Are we? You freed yourself from the chain on your wrist. But did you also cast aside the indoctrination? In other words, are you comfortable killing someone if that’s what it takes to survive?”
Naia looked at him through the mist of her breath. He was staring at her, face implacable, arms folded in front of him. Waiting for an answer.
“If that’s what it takes,” she agreed finally. She’d taken a life once already. And she knew she could do so again, if the situation called for it.
Quin seemed mollified. “Good. But I’m still going first. Count to twenty then follow me. At the first sign of any trouble, don’t wait. Just run.”
Naia nodded as a creeping white fog stole over them. Quin turned and walked into the thickening mist and was quickly shrouded from sight. The fog swallowed him whole, just as it gobbled up the rest of the world. Naia could see nothing but ubiquitous, unrelieved white. She heard his footsteps moving away from her, the sounds seeming more distant than they should.
She waited in the wan yellow glow of lamplight, counting, “One. Two. Three….” The lamp itself made the slightest hissing noise, almost inaudible, like the final gasp from a dying throat.
On twenty, Naia started after him. Her feet crunched on crispy snow that yielded beneath her weight, the noise strangely muffled by the fog. She couldn’t see the cottage up ahead, so she walked to where she imagined it would be. When the wooden planks of steps appeared in front of her, she felt relieved.
Across a porch made of roughly hewn boards, the cottage door was cracked open already. Naia pushed it open the rest of the way and slipped within. The interior was musty and dark. It had a dusty, abandoned feel. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight. The chill of winter lingered even here inside the cabin. The cold was relentless, going on forever.
Naia glanced around and saw Quin standing in a liquid pool of magelight. There was no one else in the one-room hovel. Only a bed and a table with a bench. A cupboard stuffed with plates and bowls was shoved into a corner. But no people.
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