Darien and Myria walked side by side toward the awaiting Greystone entourage, leading their horses behind them. It was a long, sobering walk across the canyon floor, painful in many ways. Darien could feel the eyes of his men lingering on his back, as well as the suspicious glare of Devlin Craig. Meiran’s bitter stare tracked his every movement.
It had been right here, in this very canyon, where the Enemy had dealt a deathblow to Greystone’s infantry under Darien’s command. That defeat had been counted as a victory, even though the graves had outnumbered the living. Now Darien returned to the same site, the same defeat.
Only, this time, he was the Enemy.
His gaze wandered over the faces ahead of him. There was a sadness in Meiran's eyes that he hadn’t expected to see. The look on her face, on Kyel’s face, made everything that much more difficult.
He halted as soldiers jogged forward to relieve them of their horses.
He turned to Craig. Darien stood for a moment, staring into the eyes of his old friend, searching there for some trace of compassion. There was none.
He said formally, “Force Commander Devlin Craig. I present to you myself, Grand Master Myria Anassis, and the commanding officers of the combined legions of Malikar. We are here to surrender unconditionally and throw ourselves upon your mercy.”
Before Craig could respond, Darien reached up and drew the leather baldric off his shoulder, offering out his scabbarded sword. Devlin Craig accepted the blade solemnly then handed the weapon to the officers at his side. Meiran’s eyes left Darien to follow the retreat of the sword that had once been her gift to him.
When it was done, Craig nodded. “Tell your men to ground their arms.”
Darien called back over his shoulder, “Ground arms!”
Behind him, the first line of men stepped forward and dropped their arms and armor down on the black dirt of the canyon floor. They then turned as one and were ushered away toward the canyon wall by Greystone soldiers. There, they were made to kneel, hands on their heads. The next rank of men stepped forward and did the same, dropping their arms and shields in a growing mass of weaponry. Then the next rank, until row after row of kneeling men collected along the canyon’s walls.
Darien watched until the last of his men knelt at the mercy of Craig’s soldiers. Gray-cloaked sentries walked up and down the lines, binding wrists, patting down bodies. The entire process of surrender would take some time; it was only just beginning.
In front of him, Craig plunged a fist into a pocket, producing two small vials of liquid. He moved forward, holding the vials in his hand. One he handed to Myria. The other he offered to Darien.
“Drink.”
Darien received the vial warily, holding it up and noting the small amount of dark liquid it contained. “What’s this?”
“It’ll put you out,” Craig answered.
Darien nodded, understanding. He felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He glanced back up at Craig. “Will I wake?”
“You’ll wake.”
It didn’t sound like a lie. That didn’t mean it wasn’t. He felt drenched in fear; his plan hadn’t accounted for this. Darien lifted the vial and drained the contents in one swallow. The mixture had a bitter taste. It made his mouth go instantly dry.
He dropped the vial on the ground.
He could feel it hit his stomach. A warmth ignited in his belly, spreading quickly to his limbs. His skin felt suddenly cold. The magic field quivered, then drained completely away.
At his side, he heard Myria groan. She wavered, staggering. He reached out to grasp her.
His arm was captured by a soldier who pinned him from behind. The man shouted something at him, but in his confusion, he couldn’t make out the words. Another man slapped Darien in the face. He swayed, blinking, perspiration streaming from his forehead.
A skeletal man clad in gray robes stepped forward, peering into his face. A priest, Darien realized. He gaped into the man’s face, his confusion rampant. What need had they for a priest? The man smiled odiously. Then he took Darien’s hands one at a time, snapping something around his wrists.
He looked down, seeing heavy black manacles with strange markings that flickered and began to glow.
Darien’s eyes went wide as he felt the Hellpower die inside him. Panicking, he fought against the manacles’ power. But it was no good; his mind was ebbing, drifting away. He sank to his knees. The world faded even as he fought its fading. It didn’t matter. In the end, the drug won out.
The last sound he heard was Myria’s weeping.
23
Fatally Flawed
Quin knelt down beside Naia’s frozen form. She was covered with a thick coating of frost, her hair brittle with ice. Her fingers remained clenched like gnarled stone in front of her face. He placed a hand on her arm. Cold. Damn cold; so cold it hurt. He shot a glare up at Tsula.
“Move back,” she warned, then struck out with the raw force of her power.
There was a sizzling sound, and steam rose from the floor, from the walls, from Naia herself. It made the air of the room hot and moist. Immediately, Naia relaxed and toppled over, spilling limply across the floor of the ice cellar.
Quin lunged to catch her, but not in time. Naia’s head hit the ground with a hollow thunk. He scooped her up, cradling her head against his chest. Her skin was still gray, but brightening even as he looked at her. He patted her cheek a few times lightly, then harder. He stopped only when he felt her body spasm and quiver.
Naia’s face twisted into a gruesome expression. Then her eyes burst wide open, deep black and unfocused. She sat up rigid.
“Watch out!” she screamed.
Quin hugged her close, not knowing what else to do. He ran his hand through her wet hair as her body trembled against his chest. She was sobbing, he realized. He wasn’t sure if it was from shock, pain, or terror. Or a twisted combination of all three. He touched her cool hand, seeking to reassure her.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did, tilting her head back enough to peer feverishly into his eyes. Her cheeks were splotchy red, her pupils large and round, staring through him instead of at him.
“What? Where?”
He could barely make out the words through the force of her chattering teeth. He released her hand, cupping her face as he glared up at Tsula.
“You’re going to be fine,” he assured Naia. His eyes shot hatred at the woman towering over him with arms crossed, face a mask of brutal calm.
“So cold!” Naia’s jaw trembled against his chest.
Quin struggled out of his coat. Still clutching her against him, he wrapped her in the fabric, tucking it tightly around her body. He took her hands into his own and rubbed them briskly.
“Bring her along,” the Harbinger commanded, backing out of the room.
Naia still trembled in his arms, her eyes staring dimly up at him. Quin wasn’t even sure if she knew who he was. She wasn’t up to walking, that was for certain. So he scooped her up, lifting her shuddering body off the ground.
There was a metallic clink as something fell out of her clothes. He looked down. And just about dropped her.
There, on the ground by his feet, lay the Soulstone medallion. Quin stared down at it, blinking dumbly, as his brain slowly registered its presence there in the cellar. It had fallen out of Naia’s pocket. The stone was dull and black, like a faceted lump of damnation. Quin found himself holding his breath. To him, that sinister stone was the most terrifying thing in all the world.
He knelt, supporting Naia’s weight on his knee, then stooped to snatch the medallion off the ground and replaced it in Naia’s pocket.
“Bring her this way,” Tsula said.
He followed the woman down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. Naia’s weight was slight; there wasn’t much to the woman. Her body still trembled from the cold, but not near as violently. When he looked down at her face, she was gazing up at him with dim awareness in her eyes.
Tsula led them down a lon
g corridor lit by yellow magelight. Many doors lined the hallway. She picked one, seemingly at random, indicating they should enter with a jerk of her head.
“She can remain here.”
Quin ducked past her into what looked like some sort of living quarters. He bent to deposit Naia in a chair as he scanned the room for blankets. He found a bed shoved up against a wall, piled high with covers. He picked them up in a bundle, surprised to find that the blankets had a freshly laundered smell. He layered them over Naia.
“Let’s get you warm,” he said.
Then he looked up, noticing Tsula lingering in the doorway, watching him without expression. He stood and flung the door closed. Her hand shot out and stopped it, jolting the door back open. She stared at him blandly.
“Come to me in the morning,” she commanded. “I’ll show you where to begin your work.”
With a chilling stare, she pulled the door soundly closed behind her as she left.
“Who is she?”
Quin turned back to Naia, pausing to tuck a corner of the blanket in beneath her chin. Her skin still felt cool to the touch. He answered, “I think she’s the best chance we have.”
Naia’s head inclined toward the door. “Do you mind elaborating?”
“Actually, I do mind,” Quin said. “Right now, all I care about is getting you warm.”
Quin rose and glanced around the room, taking in their surroundings. They were in some sort of guest room, it seemed. There was a bed and a chair, along with a small writing desk in the corner. Against the far wall was a wood-burning stove with an iron crock set atop it. Curious, Quin strode over to the stove and took in the ancient-looking kettle.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, dipping his finger into the fine sand that filled the inside of the kettle. He leaned over and opened the door of the stove, happy to find it filled with a good supply of tinder. With a thought, he conjured up a flame. The stove sprang to life, instantly warming the cool air of the room. And the sand in the kettle.
Quin searched the room’s interior until he found a small copper cup with a long handle. To his delight, there was a pitcher already filled with water and a coffee grinder. He wasted no time, grinding up coffee and pouring the grounds straight into the copper pot. As an afterthought, he reached into his pocket and added a pinch of spice. He then thrust the pot into the heated sand.
Naia sat up, watching him closely as Quin waited for the coffee to come to a boil. When it did, he spooned some of the froth into two cups and returned the pot back to the sand. When it was done, he divided the rest of the coffee between the cups, handing one to Naia.
“Drink,” he commanded her.
Naia lifted the small cup to her lips and immediately made a face. “Ah! That’s strong!”
“But it’s warm,” Quin insisted. “Drink it.” He scooped his own cup into his hand, plopping down on the bed. He closed his eyes and took a sip, savoring the taste.
He glanced up at Naia with a grin. “You like it, don’t you?”
She took another sip, at last returning his smile. “I suppose I’m getting used to your spices.”
“Life is never bland when I’m around.” He saluted her with his cup, then took another taste. Like the smell of Tsula’s incense, the flavor of the spiced coffee took his mind back in time.
Naia asked, “What happened, Quin? Who is that woman?”
“Tsula’s a Harbinger,” he responded with a shrug. “She says she’s been frozen here since my time. She wants me to fix Athera’s Crescent for her.”
“But…?”
“She wants to destroy the magic field.”
Naia’s face filled with concern. “Can that be done?”
“Apparently so.” Quin took another sip of his coffee.
“How are we going to stop her?” Naia’s face was quite serious. The coffee in her hand went untouched.
That was a good question, indeed. Quin had no idea what the answer could be. “I’m not certain that we want to stop her. It’s possible it’s the only way to break the curse.”
Naia leaned forward, pulling the covers up around her. Her hair was still wet, falling in wavy ringlets around her face. In the poor lighting of the room, it looked almost black.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to repair the Crescent,” Quin decided. “And then I’ll use it.”
“What can I do to help?”
“You can keep me alive.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
Quin set his cup down on a table beside the bed. He scooted back, leaning up against the wall. “My profession can be exceptionally hazardous,” he explained. “That’s why there were never many Arcanists in the world. The better you are, the higher your risk. The good ones always ended up dead, usually sooner rather than later. Challenging projects are always risky. Especially something like Athera’s Crescent; none of the mages who built it survived the process.”
Naia looked down, her expression grim. She took a slow sip of her coffee. Lowering her cup, she said without looking at him, “Thank you, Quin. This is very good.”
“Just one of the many services I provide,” he said with a wan smile. “You should get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He rose from the bed and started toward the door. But a thought tugged at his mind, forcing him to turn back around. He extended his hand toward Naia. “Give me the Soulstone.”
The startled look on her face was satisfying to see.
“Why do you want it?”
“Because I made it,” he snapped. He wiggled his fingers. “Now, give it here.”
Naia’s mouth dropped open. “You…?”
Quin nodded, quirking a brow and flexing his fingers.
She gave a long, protracted sigh, then fished the medallion out of her pocket and handed it over to him. He closed his fingers around the dark stone, squeezing it tightly. Then, with a curt nod, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Once in the hallway, he clutched the Soulstone against his chest. The corridor was lined with rough-hewn doors, the same as the one behind him. He didn’t know where else to go, so he tried the door across from Naia’s, finding it unlocked. It opened into another guest room much the same as the one he’d left. It took only a glance and a second of concentration before every candle and lantern in the room was ablaze, the room’s woodfire stove awake and radiating heat.
Quin sank down in a chair at the writing desk, tossing the Soulstone down on the desk’s smooth surface. In the light of the room, the medallion didn’t look like a stone at all, but more like a dull chunk of coal. The silver bands of the collar were far more lustrous, glowing a liquid white in the candlelight. He spread the collar out on the surface of the desk, positioning the medallion upside-down.
Quin reached up and slipped his hat off his head, tossing it aside. He stared down at the Soulstone medallion, then gave a dispirited sigh. The last time he’d seen the artifact, it was lying beside the corpse of his dead brother. The Soulstone had been used to kill Braden. And Amani; Renquist had issued the order to execute his own daughter. Not to mention Darien, who’d been coerced into fastening the medallion around his own neck.
Three torturous deaths. All his own fault. When he’d created the Soulstone, Quin had overlooked the flaw that prevented the smooth transfer of power through the well-stone. He hadn’t realized that one of the crystals was misaligned, creating resistance, but not enough to nullify the artifact. Instead, the Soulstone’s victims were subjected to agonizing deaths, tortured as long as they had the strength and will to fight.
Quin stared down at the dull black stone, despising it utterly. So much suffering. All because he’d rushed the job and had the arrogance to think that his work didn’t need double-checking. He resisted the urge to throw the damn thing against the wall. But he knew the Soulstone couldn’t be destroyed like that. Besides, it offered him a singular opportunity that he desperately needed.
It had been a thousa
nd years since he’d last engineered anything. His skills needed honing.
“Ah, hell,” he muttered, running a hand back through the sweat-slick curls of his hair.
He reached into his pack and withdrew a tool roll. With delicate regard, Quin rolled it out on the desk in front of him, eyes scanning over the many implements of his craft that he’d collected throughout his lifetime. They were old, just like him. Some were much older. Small hammers and delicate probing instruments, wedges and corkscrewing drill bits, all with intricately worked handles, some bone, some wood or even ivory. Some were ancient. Some he’d made himself. Each separate tool was tucked into its own little sleeve in the leather roll.
He ran his hands over the tools reverently. It had been a very long time, indeed. Reaching into the rightmost pocket, he wriggled out a pair of wire spectacles with a swing lens loupe. He put them on, the vision of his right eye immediately blurring. He pushed the lens back and lifted the Soulstone up in front of his face. He clicked down a different lens, nudging it into place. One of the stone’s dark facets popped into detail. He clicked down another lens, squinting as his eye adjusted to the depth of field.
At first, he could make out nothing. He moved the stone in and out until at last the individual crystals were revealed to him. He scanned the latticework: backward, forward, moving in and out through the layers. At last, he saw it: the one cuboidal crystal that was aligned different from all the others in the pattern.
He’d found the flaw.
He had never viewed it before. Not with his own eyes. He’d known it was there, but had never had the opportunity to see for himself that tiny imperfection. It seemed so innocent: one subtle, almost undetectable, crystal.
It had inflicted so much damage, so much pain.
Quin fumbled with the tool roll, extracting a copper probe. He held it up to the dark surface of the Soulstone and, focusing his concentration, willed the probe to sink inside. He watched it descend through the lattice of crystals as they bobbed out of the way of the moving tip. Until the probe was nudged up against the single crystal that was misaligned.
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