Darien refilled both cups then sat back, resting his hands on his knees. He said, “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”
Sayeed’s gaze never left his own. “You may ask me anything, Brother.”
Darien warned him, “It’s an awfully big favor.”
He drew in a deep, troubled breath, feeling his emotions squirm inside him. He didn’t like letting them out; admitting his fears made him feel wretchedly uncomfortable. He knew the rika was meant to help with that but, of course, it didn’t. Nothing could.
He poured Sayeed another cup, then filled his own to the brim, knocking the liquor back in one swallow. “The magic field will reverse its polarity in two days. Then I’ll be returning to the Netherworld.”
Sayeed stared at him in silence a long minute before pouring them both another round. He said softly, “And your wife carries your child in her womb.”
Darien froze, pausing in the motion of lifting his drink. For a moment, he sat still and silent, gazing down at the scrollwork pattern of the rug. “How did you know?”
Sayeed’s whole body appeared to deflate. “She is sick every morning. Brother … I have no words….”
Darien set his cup down hard. “Forget words. I’ve a problem to solve. And I need you to help me solve it.” He didn’t want the man’s pity. That was the last thing in the world he needed.
Sayeed nodded, his face hardening. “Of course. Forgive me.”
“There’s a way to stop this,” Darien said. “To stop the Reversal.”
“Ishilzeri! How? What must we do?”
Darien raised his hand. “Stop. You can do nothing—it’s all on me. And I won’t survive, so I need you to—”
Sayeed shook his head vehemently. “You have no way of knowing that—”
“I do,” Darien insisted. “Remember when you swore to be my brother? You told me that, if I should ever fall, you’d provide for my family. Tell me those weren’t just words. Tell me you meant it.” He pinned his stare on Sayeed’s face as he waited for a response. It took long seconds to come.
“Of course I meant it.” Sayeed’s voice sounded hoarse. He stared past Darien at the wall of the tent, looking deeply troubled. Darien hoped it wasn’t because the man had changed his mind.
“Then would you do that for me, Brother? Will you care for my wife and daughter after I’m gone?”
Sayeed placed his cup upside down on the rug, then firmly clasped Darien’s arm with both hands. He said gravely, “I swear I will guard your family with my life and provide for their needs. And I will make certain your daughter grows to womanhood knowing of the man her father was. It is far more than my obligation. It is my honor.”
Darien nodded, feeling suddenly incapable of trusting his voice. To cover, he lifted the jug and poured each of them a fresh cup. He drank his down, listening to the great, brooding silence that had settled between them. He felt comforted by Sayeed’s pledge. But at the same time, he felt disturbed by his own reaction to it. He had expected to feel the sadness, the frustration, the grief.
He just hadn’t expected to feel the envy.
Naia stared out through the curtained window of the carriage that carried her, rattling along, toward Emmery Palace. The city teemed with panicked residents who filled the streets, shouting and shoving their way through the bedlam.
By the time her carriage drew up in the manicured courtyard of the palace, Naia was already on edge. Athera’s Crescent had shown her visions of Rothscard under siege, and those visions had always led to dark and uncertain futures.
A group of blue-cloaked guardsmen rushed forward to attend her. One man with captain’s bars peered in through the carriage window. His face had been scarred by the pox, his hair white and peppered with gray.
“Come on out,” he ordered. “What business have you?”
Naia threw open the carriage door and hopped to the ground without waiting for a footman. She informed the captain, “I am Master Naia Seleni of the Order of Harbingers. I am here to request an audience with the Queen.”
“You claim to be a mage?” The captain sounded skeptical, looking her up and down intently. “Let’s see the chains on your wrists.”
Naia froze. She hadn’t anticipated such a question. She had lost the markings of her Oath before her journey to Titherry. Her mind searched frantically for excuses—anything to distract from the glaring absence of the chains.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. In a rigid voice tempered by ice, he said, “Bare your arms. If you like, you can do it away from my men. But unless you’ve got the marks of the Oath on your wrists, you won’t be going anywhere near the Queen.”
Naia stared at the captain in dismay, having no idea how to react. If Romana found out she’d given up her Oath, the Queen might go so far as to order her execution. Staring at the captain fixedly, she said, “You wish me to prove that I’m a mage? There are other ways.”
A blue mist of magelight appeared at her feet. Startled, the captain stepped back with a look of alarm.
“I am a Master of Aerysius,” Naia proclaimed. “Do you still doubt?”
The captain stared at her hard, unblinking. A small drop of sweat dribbled down his brow. His hand tensed and then untensed on the hilt of his sword. His lips compressed to a fine line, his jaw tightening. He took another step back.
“Run, Jeffers!” he growled.
The captain drew his sword, his men fanning out behind him. One of the guards turned and lit out across the courtyard.
Something struck Naia from behind.
Her knees buckled, her vision erupting in a shower of sparks.
33
The Pain of Truth
Kyel Archer stood on a turret overlooking the Lion’s Gate, the banners of Emmery Palace fluttering behind him. A breeze stirred the air, moving in from the river delta. Kyel stared off in that direction, hoping for a glimpse of the ocean. But Rothscard was still a good distance from the shore, and the tower wasn’t tall enough to offer a view of it.
A different kind of ocean spread out from the base of Rothscard’s walls. The Enemy encampment extended to the horizon, arranged in perfect geometric patterns. There were so many more tents than he had expected. Kyel tried not to let the numbers intimidate him, but it was hard not to. His hand tightened around Thar’gon’s haft, seeking and finding comfort in the weapon’s extraordinary might.
He turned away from the parapets. As he did, a jolting shock seared down his nerves, making him reel. He shot his hand out and caught himself on the coarse stone of a merlon. All around him, the lines of the magic field stretched and then recoiled as if bludgeoned. The aftershocks continued for a while, the field lines convulsing spastically before evening out again.
Kyel stood panting, taking a moment to collect himself. He knew exactly what had happened, and it scared the hell out of him. The Reversal was imminent, and the magic field was already cringing in anticipation.
Filled with dread, he fled the ramparts and turned his attention to navigating the escalating confusion of Rothscard’s streets. Even the black cloak on his back didn’t spare him from being pushed and jostled, shoved and elbowed. A climate of panic had infested the city, which was getting worse as the siege dragged on. By the time he gained the palace grounds, Kyel felt as though he’d been on the receiving side of a tavern brawl. The streets were becoming dangerous, nearly impossible to negotiate.
As he crossed the Inner Ward, a commotion across the courtyard caught his attention. Near the Citadel, a group of guards had a woman on the ground. Two men had thrown their weight on top of her, pinning her down, while another man struggled to lock a set of manacles around her wrists. To Kyel, the entire scene looked brutal and irregular. There were far more guards than it should take to arrest one woman who wasn’t resisting. Concerned, he hastened toward her, wondering what she had done to deserve such treatment.
They rolled the woman over, and Kyel got a glimpse of her face.
Recognition slapped him in the stomach, tearing a gasp fro
m his lips. He lurched forward, shoving his way through the cluster of shocked guards.
The woman on the ground peered up at him, squinting, as though staring into the sun. Her face was streaked with bloody grime, her dress torn and filthy.
“Kyel?” she muttered.
A grizzled captain with a pox-scarred face shot between them, waving him away. Seeing the color of Kyel’s cloak, the guardsman’s face twisted into a grimace.
“Do you know this woman?”
“I know her,” Kyel growled, dodging past him. He dropped down to Naia’s side and, setting a hand on her back, healed the cut on her scalp before the man could protest.
The captain caught his arm, trying to pull him away. “This woman’s a darkmage! She admitted it freely!”
Kyel jerked his arm out of the man’s grip. He looked down at Naia, suddenly troubled. Her wrists were bound by wide iron bands that hid the presence of any markings that might be there. Or any scars. Remembering the body of Sareen Qadir lying dead on the floor of the shrine, Kyel had to admit that the guards might be right.
His eyes went back to Naia’s face, searching there for answers. But her eyes were closed; she’d fallen into the healing sleep. He wasn’t going to get any information from her. So he went with his gut.
Kyel stared flatly at the officer. “I’m not asking. I’m telling. Get the damn restraints off her.”
The guard captain didn’t move. The man stood frozen as his men looked nervously on. Frustrated, Kyel reached out from within and tore Naia’s shackles off himself. They opened of their own accord, slipping to the ground with a metallic clink. The guards surged back, hands darting for their weapons.
Kyel’s stare remained fixed on Naia, at the set of awful scars that encircled both her wrists. A feeling of profound sadness crept over him. Anger followed quickly. With a disgusted growl, he heaved Naia into his arms and lifted her from the ground.
The captain bellowed after him, “She’s a godsdamned darkmage! And you’re one, too, for helping her!”
Ignoring him, Kyel carried Naia toward the palace, mired in his own turbulent outrage.
The dark avenue Quin followed split into two smaller avenues, forking around a short temple that squatted like an abandoned god in the midst of the intersection. The temple’s walls leaned drunkenly to one side, its parallel columns bent at a painful angle. The entire structure looked ready to fall over. It was a miracle it already hadn’t.
The city streets still buzzed with people who, for whatever reason, had chosen to ignore the order to evacuate. Tall-wheeled rickshaws sped by, pulled by bone-thin youths, while merchants dragged carts behind them laden with trade goods. Quin walked down the center of the street, careful to maintain the shambling stride of the city’s malnourished underclass. A peddler, mummified in cloth, noticed him and sprang forward, thrusting a skewer of roasted vegetables under his nose.
“Five darham!” the peddler shouted in the Calazi dialect, waving the skewer. “Five darham! Delicious!”
“No thank you,” Quin said, pushing the skewer out of his way.
The man was undeterred. He jogged after Quin, waving his skewer. “Four darham! Very fresh! You should taste!”
Quin waved him away, quickening his pace. A woman ahead of him carried a howling baby strapped to her back, its thin legs kicking in exclamation. Quin veered around her, almost tripping over a broken cobble in the street. Up ahead, he could see the tall, step-sided ziggurat thrusting its weight above the skyline. He set his course toward it, boring his way against the flow of foot traffic. Vexed pedestrians dodged and jostled him, raining him with curses and threats. Quin ignored them all and shambled onward.
The avenue narrowed abruptly, tall walls erupting on both sides of the street. Quin turned onto a winding alley lined with merchant stalls, each stuffed with odd assortments of pottery, textiles, and iron-forged wares. Eventually, the cobbles ran out. The street continued on, paved with tarry mud that reeked of stale urine.
Quin halted at the base of the ziggurat. His eyes traced the long, ramp-like steps that slanted upward at an intimidating angle. There were no guards stationed around the temple’s base, at least none visible. He paused long enough to make certain the fabric of his head scarf was tucked in tight, then started up the stairs.
The steps were grueling and precarious, much taller than they were narrow. His legs burned by the time he reached the temple entrance only midway up. There, recessed in a split in the rise of steps, two black-mailed sentries warded the entrance to the Grand Temple of Xerys. Though they remained thoroughly motionless, Quin knew the sentries had marked his approach.
Which was why they slumped dead, like toppled suits of armor.
Unwinding the scarf, Quin stepped around the bodies and slipped into the dim corridor beyond. A narrow passage led straight back into the temple’s dark interior, lit at long intervals by lanterns ensconced along the walls. Quin moved forward cautiously, using just a dribble of magic to soften the sounds of his footfalls. A little ways in, he found an opening in the wall that led to a side passage. He turned onto it, finding himself in a short corridor that led to a series of rooms partitioned by brightly-colored fabric. Quin stopped at the first drape of gauzy cloth and, pulling the fabric aside, slipped through the doorway.
Warm light greeted him within, along with the heady odor of perfume. Sounds of conversation and laughter drifted from an adjoining chamber. Backing against a wall, Quin wove a web of shadow and tightened it around his body. Within the shadow-web, he could go unremarked by the casual observer, nothing more than a fuzzy distortion in the air. He moved toward the light and the laughter, stopping before a thin drape of turquoise gauze.
He pushed the curtain aside just a fraction and peered within. The chamber on the other side was ornately tiled and contained a luxurious octagonal bath ringed by pillowed sofas. Men and women lounged in and around the water, in various stages of undress. Judging by their well-nourished bodies, the men were most likely priests of Xerys. Which would make the women attending them either acolytes or slaves, if there truly was a distinction.
He let the fabric sway closed then retraced his steps, taking a moment to tighten his shadow-web.
Back out in the hallway, Quin moved to the next fabric-draped doorway. He parted the curtain and slipped into a long, dim chamber lit only by the glow of a single lantern. He stood quietly for a moment, just listening to the sound of the room’s emptiness, assessing his surroundings. Dark silhouettes of furniture lined the walls. The oil lantern sat on the floor in the corner behind him, casting a timid glow. He crept further in, drawn toward an unlit doorway at the far end of the room.
“Your hatred is so loud, I could hear it echoing from Titherry.”
Quin squeezed his eyes shut as a feeling of defeat seeped through the pores in his skin. He released the shadow-web, since it no longer served a purpose.
If it ever had.
He turned slowly around to confront the dark figure that moved forward to eclipse the lantern light.
“You knew I’d come,” Quin surmised.
The shadow nodded. “Of course I did. In truth, I was counting on it.”
Quin groaned. Renquist must be a sensitive—and a damn powerful one, to feel his emotions across such a broad expanse of ocean. He hadn’t suspected that. But there was so much that revelation explained. Suddenly, a thousand different things made a thousand different kinds of sense.
Quin asked, “What do you want from me?”
He leaned his staff against the wall and curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, the one artifact in the world capable of dampening a mage’s gift. He could feel Renquist’s strength from across the room, a dark and potent energy that exuded from his presence to oppress the air. Renquist’s power had grown tremendously since the last time Quin had seen him, making him wonder if the Prime Warden had been sitting in Bryn Calazar drinking in mage power. And mage lives.
Renquist took a step deeper into the pool of light. Th
e wavering glow of the lantern defined his face in jagged angles and sharp planes. His eyes burned through the shadows like glowing embers.
He said, “You have something I deeply desire.”
Quin drew his sword with a metallic hiss, holding the tip leveled at the demon’s heart. Or where his heart should have been. Quin doubted Renquist had ever had one.
“I didn’t think you had such confidence in my abilities.”
He was awarded with a condescending smile. “It’s not your abilities I have confidence in, Quinlan. It’s your stupidity. You have defied me twice. Once with Braden. And now with Darien. You have a knack for leading my most talented pupils astray.”
Quin scoffed. “Darien isn’t like Braden.”
“No,” Renquist agreed. “He’s not. Darien is much more competent and powerful than your brother ever was. Which is why I need your assistance.”
Quin felt his heart pounding against his ribs. With every word, Renquist’s voice clawed deeper into his chest. “What makes you think I’ll help you?”
The demon smiled. “You’ll help me because Darien is determined to do exactly what you and your brother gave your lives to prevent all those years ago. You see, Darien knows a way to halt the Reversal. And he is willing to open the floodgates of hell to accomplish it.”
“No.” Quin shook his head. “Darien wouldn’t do that.”
Renquist took a step toward him, smiling kindly. “Wouldn’t he? Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think.”
“I know him well enough.” Quin drew the sword back over his shoulder, winding his arms as he backed away. He didn’t get far.
A noise behind him made him turn. Cyrus Krane stood in the doorway, flanked by three of his sinister pets. The necrators glided silently forward like obsidian death. Quin backed away until he found himself pinned against the wall. He didn’t know if Krane’s necrators could harm him, but he didn’t want to find out.
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