Priests armed with crossbows sprang forward, slaughtering the helpless soldiers mired in the mud. Soon, the ground beneath them ran red with spilt blood.
Darien broke away from the melee and started back across the canyon.
His Zakai escort swept ahead of him, slaying anyone who stood in their path. A rank of pikemen spilled forward, charging their position. Without breaking stride, Darien threw up a hand and stopped their hearts.
Kyel clenched Thar’gon so hard that his arm was shaking. The talisman glowed with a brilliant light, radiating enough power to heat the air around it. At his side, Alexa clung to his arm, her mouth open, eyes wide in an expression of awed exhilaration. Ravaged by the wind, her hair whipped against her face, giving her a wild appearance.
Kyel watched in satisfaction as the Enemy soldiers trapped in the mud were set upon by a group of warrior-priests. The sight of their slaughter chilled him, making him writhe inside his own skin. He had to keep reminding himself that he hadn’t killed even one man. Not one. Yet hundreds were dying as a result of his actions. The realization made him want to vomit. With Thar’gon in his hand, he had already decimated a third of Darien’s attack force. It was as though the talisman were wielding him, instead of the other way around. He was merely the weapon’s conduit, nothing more.
Worse, the raw feeling of power was exhilarating, intoxicating. It was like being a god without being godly. All trace of fear inside him had been brushed aside. With the talisman in his hand, Kyel felt indomitable.
Because he was.
He saw Darien’s small band of men break away from the main force, sprinting toward those being butchered in the quagmire.
“You have to stop him!” Alexa cried.
Kyel closed his eyes and tried. “I can’t! He’s too far away!”
Alexa tugged at his arm. “The true strength of that artifact is mobility!” she cried. “Don’t stay in one place! Go where you need to be! Use it to control the field of battle!”
She was right. He wasn’t using the talisman to its full potential. But if he were…
Kyel closed his eyes, visualizing the ground behind the trench.
“Vergis.”
Darien staggered to a stop, realizing the only thing left ahead of him was dead warriors and blood-wet earth. Furious, he lashed out at the retreating defenders, burning the priests to char. Then burning the char to ash. The screams were satisfying. His gaze snapped back to the corpses of his men lying in a trough of oozing mud. His mouth went dry. His mind yet grappled with the concept that Kyel could pose any threat at all. Certainly nothing this devastating.
Reeling, Darien backed away from the slaughter.
He turned to find that the priests had regrouped. They had taken advantage of his absence to flank what was left of his assault force. Already, his men were nearly enveloped.
Sprinting forward, Darien pulled at the magic field, filling himself until he burned with charged power. Holding it steady, he drew next on the Onslaught, then wrapped the contradictory energies together in a knot. He launched that volatile missile at the charging priests. The hurling magic flew like a comet across the battlefield—
—and exploded in the air as if hitting a wall.
The recoil hit Darien in the face, smashing him to the ground. The world went red and then black. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, gasping for breath.
Sayeed knelt at his side, blood running freely down the left side of his face. “Brother!”
His voice sounded strangely muffled. Darien saw that many of his Zakai lay sprawled across the ground, either dead or unconscious. The man nearest him had been dismembered. The head, still helmed, lay a good distance away.
Sayeed stood above him, repulsing the attacks of three monks who had seen Darien on the ground and were trying to exploit the opportunity. His blade wove through the air in great, slashing arcs. Kicking one man back, he drew a cut across another man’s belly in time to parry an attack by the third. Sayeed brought his sword around in a diagonal slash that ended the fight.
He dropped to the ground next to Darien and hauled him upright by the arms.
“Can you walk?” he gasped.
Darien nodded. Gritting his teeth, he struggled back to his feet. He spat a mouthful of blood that stringed from his lips. Eyes searching for Kyel, he reached up and tightened his helmet’s cinch, then started forward again. Ahead, his men were on the verge of being overwhelmed.
“Can you counter him?” Sayeed demanded.
Darien ignored the question. A group of priests had marked his position and were charging his way. His few remaining Zakai sprang in front of him, ready to shield him with their lives.
“Get down!” Darien shouted, forcing his way through the ring of Zakai. He dropped the magic field entirely and summoned the Onslaught, wielding the power of hell in both hands before flinging it headlong at the charging priests.
The men rushing them stumbled and fell screaming to the ground. They writhed in the dirt, wailing horrifically as their flesh began to dissolve. Their agony didn’t last long.
“Narghul,” Darien whispered.
A host of necrators bled up from the ground like shadowy wraiths: a hellish ring of protection. Darien’s blood turned to ice. It was as though the creatures sucked the heat right out of his body to feed their own existence.
He willed them forward. The necrators obeyed, ranging out across the battlefield in search of souls to consume. They were a last resort; necrators were indiscriminate in their killing.
He turned to Sayeed.
And saw Kyel standing behind him.
Darien shouted a warning, shoving Sayeed out of the way. He lashed out viciously with the Hellpower.
Kyel merely waved his hand, deflecting the assault. Darien gaped at him in shock, taking a step backward. Then another, his mind reeling toward panic.
“Run,” Darien gasped.
Sayeed and the Zakai obeyed, but Darien didn’t follow. Instead, he turned back to face his adversary.
“How?” he gasped.
Kyel raised his weapon. It shimmered with power, brilliant and blinding. Darien took one, good look into Kyel’s eyes. Then he turned and started running.
Kyel sensed he had one chance—one chance—to take Darien to the ground, to rid the world of him forever. He could hear Alexa’s persistent voice in the back of his mind, begging him to abandon his Oath.
All it would take was one strike with the talisman. One act.
And Thar’gon was eager. He could feel its need, the weapon’s desire to dominate. He swept the morning star back, preparing a strike that would send Darien’s twisted soul back to his master.
Kyel growled and lowered the weapon, unable to complete the act.
His eyes tracked Darien as he sprinted away. He was losing his opportunity. His mind sifted through options.
Then it came to him. The answer was obvious.
Concentrating, Kyel willed the air to thicken around Darien. He watched the darkmage slow to a stop, stumbling, fighting to stay on his feet. Kyel tightened his grip on his weapon, concentrating harder. When Darien struck out at his invisible cage, Kyel was ready. He reflected the attack back on him. Darien staggered and fell, blood streaming down his face. He tried to get up, but Kyel thickened the air more and held him there.
He thinned the shield, allowing Darien enough air to breathe. Enemy soldiers rallied to his aid but could do nothing against the bubble of solid air that contained him. As his men watched, Darien lashed out at his prison with the magic field, with the Onslaught, with anything and everything he could throw at it.
Nothing worked.
All of Darien’s demonic power was useless against Thar’gon’s great might.
Kyel smiled triumphantly. He raised his hand in the air, signaling the priests to move in.
For the first time in his life, he saw real fear in Darien Lauchlin’s eyes. The darkmage railed against his prison as the priests closed the distance, swords and crossbows raised
. The harder Darien struggled, the stronger the shield became, absorbing his power to reinforce its structure.
Eventually, Darien gave up. He knelt on the ground, head bowed as though defeated.
Then, slowly, he looked up and locked his stare on Kyel, his eyes black pools of shadow that burned like hellish coals. He raised his hand. His lips moved silently.
A terrible chill pierced Kyel’s heart. And a more terrible feeling of dread.
He whirled to find three necrators hovering behind him.
Fear clenched Kyel’s throat, choking him, terrorizing him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The arm that held Thar’gon sagged uselessly to his side. Like a fickle lover, the magic field abandoned him.
Wide-eyed, Kyel stared into the face of the nearest necrator and saw his own death gazing back at him. He wanted to run, but that was impossible. The fear was too raw, too paralyzing. It slithered out of his gut, tightening its grip on his chest, numbing his mind.
Kyel’s hand opened reflexively, dropping the talisman.
A shadowy hand reached toward him, fingers groping to touch his face.
“Kyel!”
Something shoved him backward, hurling him away from the wraith’s outstretched hand. He staggered as his mind was suddenly released from the paralyzing grip of terror. He glanced back to see Alexa standing between the necrator and himself, hands raised in the air, fingers splayed. Somehow, she was holding the demon at bay.
He couldn’t leave her there. She had no chance against such a creature.
But neither did he. Kyel scooped Thar’gon off the ground and did the only thing he could do.
“Vergis!” he whispered.
The cage of air disappeared. Darien bellowed in rage as Kyel disappeared with it. His eyes darted toward the woman—
—but she was already gone. So were his minions. He felt their loss, as though a piece of his soul had been torn out of him. He stood rooted to the ground, crippled by shock and disbelief. He started forward toward the place where the woman had just been standing.
“No!” Sayeed bellowed. He caught Darien by the shoulder and spun him around. “Brother, we must flee!”
“That woman—” Darien began.
An explosion erupted on the far side of the battlefield. And then another. A shockwave hit, deafening. Darien could feel the thunder of it. Screams of death and terror erupted all around, ringing off the cliffs. More fires sprang out of the ground, one after another, traveling across the canyon floor in quick succession.
Everywhere Darien looked, priests were running aflame. The melee disintegrated into bedlam as screaming men and women fought and clawed and battered their way clear of the flames.
Darien stood stunned, watching it all unfold before him as if staring inward at a dream. Black smoke billowed over the battlefield, obscuring his sight. The entire scene seemed disjointed and surreal.
Before him, a lone figure emerged from the thick haze of smoke, moving toward him with a confident stride. At first, he thought it was Kyel, returned to slay him.
But it was not.
“Azár,” Darien whispered in awe.
25
Branching and Unbranching
“Are you sure you can do this by yourself?” Quin asked. “You’re not a Harbinger.”
Naia paused, one hand lingering on the balustrade, and looked back at him. Quin stood on the balcony overlooking the Crescent with his hat in hand, hair tousled by the wind. He was trying to look unruffled but failing miserably. He hadn’t seemed right in days. Not since the morning they’d buried Tsula.
“I am the closest thing to a Harbinger there is left in the world,” Naia corrected him. “I no longer need Tsula’s guidance. At least, not to read the Crescent.”
His brow furrowed. “In my time, it took twenty years to train a Harbinger.” He bounced his hat against his leg. “Don’t you think you might be getting ahead of yourself?”
Naia shot him a reproving look. “Most of the training Harbingers received went toward teaching them how to cope with their visions. Simply reading the Crescent is effortless.”
Quin planted his hat squarely on his head. “Is that why Tsula had the personality of a rock?”
“Harbingers were trained to let go of all attachments and emotions. I think it was the only way they could protect themselves from going insane.”
“I don’t want you going up there,” he said firmly, his face stern.
“I’m going up there,” she insisted, and set a hand on his arm. “That’s the reason why we’re here. With Tsula gone, I might see new versions that were not available before. I have to try. I’m going to die, anyway, in just a few days—”
“No, you’re not.”
Looking suddenly more dangerous than she’d ever seen him, Quin stared at her piercingly. He held her gaze steady for a long moment, then leaned in to press a slow, lingering kiss on her lips.
“Come back to me,” he ordered, his eyes still fixed on hers.
Naia swallowed, taken aback. And stunned by the bold feelings his kiss inspired. She licked her lips and turned away, feeling off-balance. This wasn’t the Quin she had known, she realized. Tsula’s death had changed him.
A bolt of understanding rocked her hard. This was Quin the way he used to be, she realized. This was the man he had been, before Amani’s death had extinguished the spark within him. Naia turned slowly back around, searching his face for confirmation. Quin regarded her with a steady confidence she’d never seen before.
“I’ll come back,” she assured him.
Naia turned away and walked through the stone balustrade onto the arching path of transparent stepping stones. The breeze caressed her face and fanned her hair. It felt cool, even as the sun felt warm on her skin. She followed the invisible path out over the mercurial surface of the Crescent toward the Nexus.
Steadying herself, Naia passed through the thin membrane. Entering the room always reminded her of the way a stick can pass through the surface of a bubble without bursting it. Inside, she found herself once again within the dark, spherical chamber. The silver tendrils writhed across the walls like vines, twining and untwining, branching and unbranching. Naia moved forward until she was standing in the exact center of the sphere.
There, she closed her eyes and emptied her mind of all thought, until the only thing in the world that mattered was the sound of her own heartbeat. She stood there a moment, settling into the serene bliss of emptiness, letting her mind drift on the ebb and flow of her breath.
Then, from out of the darkness, a silvery filament emerged and uncoiled. It grew, branching and twirling, coiling and vining. It fed her with a soft luminescence that grew slowly, throbbing like a pulse. The darkness abandoned her, her mind washing after it.
The epitome of all storms—the storm that every other storm aspired to be—raged and ripped through the atmosphere. All was fading, all was dying. And she was dying with it.
“I can’t stand it!” Naia shrieked to the absent gods.
She could feel the magic field stretched around her to its thin limit. And then it ripped. Naia screamed her life away, feeling her mind heated to boiling inside her skull.
With a shriek, Naia opened her eyes. All around her, the walls throbbed to the time of her heartbeat. Cold sweat dribbled down her face, and she gasped for breath. She stood there a moment, steadying herself until her pulse finally slowed. The vision had been too real.
And it was not the first time she had experienced it. That version was the most likely ending to her Story. Every time she came here, it was always the first version she was subjected to. She should be used to it by now. Desensitized. But she wasn’t. It was impossible to grow accustomed to the act of dying.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes again, letting her mind seep back into that dark and empty place.
The wind howled a monstrous wail as it rampaged through the mountains, terrorizing the clouds, which fled wildly before it. In front of her, Darien lay in an expand
ing pool of blood, more blood than any human body could possibly contain. It spread rapidly, as if seeking to saturate the entire Circle of Convergence. Or the entire world. Or the universe.
Standing behind her, Zavier Renquist lifted Quin’s sword and swept it back over his shoulder. “Let the reign of Xerys begin!” he snarled, and cleaved Naia’s head off.
Gasping a sharp hiss of breath between her teeth, Naia opened her eyes. Out of all the possible versions she’d been subjected to, she found that one the most chilling. Not only was it the most visceral, but it was also the most desperate, the most dire. She was left with the ominous feeling that the price of failure was much greater than any of the other versions. She didn’t know where that future led; she couldn’t read anything beyond her own death. But she knew with certainty that the resulting fate would be appalling.
With a shudder, Naia cleared her mind and, glad to be rid of that terrible image, closed her eyes.
Kyel advanced across the Circle of Convergence, wielding a glowing silver talisman in his hand. In the center of the Circle—in full command of it—Zavier Renquist swept out a fist. A blinding glare of light whiter than bright and brilliantly powerful assaulted Kyel from the sky. He was hurled across the terrace, the talisman flying from his hand.
The green pillar in the sky above exploded in fury. The magic field wailed in protest, in defiance, in outrage.
Then it went forever silent.
Naia’s eyes snapped open. Inside, she roiled in a cauldron of despair and grief. That version of the future was the most painful, left her aching with a tremendous sense of loss. Every time she witnessed it, she was left heartbroken.
And that was the last version. There were never any more after that, only slight variations of those three. Those were her only possible futures, and all three were horrendous.
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