Darkfall

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien lay in the blood-wet grass, gaping up at the sky as the rest of the world blurred around him.

  “Rest,” his brother commanded. Darien obeyed, closing his eyes.

  37

  The Price of Betrayal

  The western sky was the faded yellow of an old bruise. Darien stared out at the sunset and cursed himself, regretting how long he’d slept while letting the daylight go to waste. Zakai moved immediately to cluster about him, much more protective than they had ever been before. The carcass of the thanacryst had been dragged away, but there was still a dark stain in the grass where the beast had fallen. Demon blood. Too dark to be human.

  He stopped and stood there still, gazing down at the place where the hound had fallen, a deep sadness working its way into his bones. He hadn’t realized how much the beast had wormed its way into his heart. It felt like a little piece of him was gone, bled away into the grass.

  Darien lifted Azár onto her horse, a golden palomino with a silvery mane. Moving to his own mount, he climbed onto Turtak’s back. He took the braided reins in his hand and directed the horse forward with the pressure of his legs. The stallion snorted and moved into a trot, head and tail carried proudly high. Darien guided the animal into a gap in the long column of soldiers, behind a small vanguard of Zakai. There, he pulled the horse to a halt and waited for his wife to draw up at his side.

  On his signal, the soldiers started forward. Their column marched to a cadence tapped out by a single drum, an irregular pattern that had a rustic wildness about it. To Darien, it seemed an odd rhythm to march to. Nevertheless, the horses and men seemed born to it.

  The procession moved forward as a unit, moving off the grass and onto a wide and rutted road. Darien stared in front of him at the mangled city ahead. The victory they had won felt more bitter than sweet. Rothscard as he had grown up knowing it was no more. The city once heralded as unconquerable had fallen under his sword.

  The procession reached the remains of the Lion’s Gate. The arch above the gate had fallen, the rubble already cleared away. On the other side of the walls, he could hear the sounds of the city, a restless and growing panic. The air moving toward them carried with it a malodorous blend of smoke, death, and spilled sewage. Their assault had crippled parts of the city’s infrastructure. It would have to be rebuilt.

  Above them rose a pair of limestone turrets that looked gnawed by the teeth of a monster. Remains of the portcullis had been pushed aside, its lattice grate bent into a distorted, crosshatch pattern. The gate itself had been shattered, its wood carried away to be used to fuel Malikari fires. Beyond the wall, the sounds of a terrified populace grew boisterous and frantic.

  At the sight of their vanguard, the crowds erupted into a collective outcry of terror and fury. Darien’s stallion tossed its head, spooked by the thunderous clamor. They processed down a broad avenue lined with mailed sentries who were hard-pressed to restrain the surging masses. The entire crowd behind them churned like a boiling pot as individuals vied for a better view.

  Until they caught sight of him.

  It was like a strange ripple that passed through the crowd, flowing behind Darien as he passed. People stilled and fell quiet, their eyes filling with awe and horror.

  Silence trembled in his wake.

  Darien’s ears rang with the hollow sound of his horse’s hooves striking the blood-stained cobbles. The animal lifted its legs smartly, as if purposefully strutting to impress the crowd. To his left, Sayeed fought to keep his spirited mount in check. And on his right, Azár rode straight-backed and elegant, her red gown flowing over the sides of her golden mare.

  They rode along the wide boulevard that paralleled the Grand Canal. The avenue they followed led through the center of the city, under the shadows of tall, sloped-roof buildings joined together in long rows. All along their path, the crowds remained dense and frantic. Only the threat of the soldiers’ weapons prevented the populace from spilling into the street. The avenue ended at a large, tree-covered hill that contained the palace grounds.

  They were met at the gate by a company of Tanisars, while the rest of the procession continued on through the city. Riding within a tight guard of Zakai, Darien entered the grounds of Emmery Palace. He directed his horse around the girth of the Citadel, through acres of torn-up gardens and trampled lawns. Ahead, above the substantial wall that curtained the Inner Ward, the towers of the castle came into view, high turrets of white limestone capped by crenelated ramparts. Smoke yet billowed from the eastern wing, and one of the turrets was partially collapsed. Emmery Palace had not fallen easily.

  Their party gained the courtyard, where they were met by a small group of elite Zakai who took the reins of their mounts. Darien dismounted and helped his wife climb down from her horse’s back. Together they strode, arm in arm, up a wide span of steps to where a group of the city’s former ministers awaited them under the castle’s broad portico.

  Darien stopped at the top of the steps, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his gaze sliding from one horrified face to the next. The ministers stood sweating and fidgeting, as if too fearful to act. At last, a balding man in a rumpled suit walked pale-faced toward him. Halting a good distance from Darien, he went to his knees then bowed forward to the ground.

  There was a rustle of nervous motion. Then the other ministers followed suit, abasing themselves on the ground, granting him the obeisance usually reserved for a Prime Warden.

  Darien stared down at them, coolly considering the gesture, giving them ample time for the humility of the act to sink in. His mother had sometimes waited minutes before acknowledging a petitioner. Darien had learned many things from Emelda Lauchlin, not the least of which was how to intimidate.

  He’d learned that lesson well.

  After long minutes, he uttered, “You may rise.”

  The group of ministers regained their feet, more than a few tottering dizzily. The balding man came forward, wringing his hands nervously.

  “Welcome to Emmery Palace, my Lord.”

  “I’m not a lord,” Darien snapped. “Where’s Romana?”

  “My Lo…” The minister’s voice trailed off as he visibly struggled to find a more suitable honorific. He finally settled on “Great Master,” a generic title that could be applied to any mage. When Darien didn’t correct him, he stumbled on, “The Queen awaits you in her throne room.”

  “Former Queen.”

  The man paled even whiter. Swallowing heavily, he bobbed his head. “The former Queen awaits you.”

  The minister turned and beckoned their party forward. Offering his arm to Azár, Darien strode beside the man into the guts of the palace. The tiled floor of the foyer was sticky with blood. The room reeked a strong metallic odor, which combined with the choking smell of smoke. As they crossed the wide room, Darien had to watch his step, picking his way over the wreckage of a chandelier that had fallen from the ceiling, its crystalline remains scattered across the floor. A wide smear of blood streaked the tiles where a corpse had been dragged away.

  The minister turned and led them down a wood-paneled hallway that ended at a set of double doors. The man paused for a moment, then pulled both doors open with a flourish. Darien guided his wife through without sparing the minister a glance, his eyes fixed on the pair of chairs sitting on a dais at the far end of the hall. Emmery’s throne was a tall, elaborately carved piece of rosewood, set with velvet cushions. To its right sat a similar throne, smaller and less ornate.

  Darien’s eyes were drawn to the group of people clustered together on the far end of the dais. Romana Norengail stood with one hand draped over a wood banister. The look on her face could have curdled milk. Beside her stood Kyel and the woman who had banished his necrators. Her presence in the throne room troubled Darien more than anything else.

  A terrified servant lingered off to the side, holding a trembling platter laden with filled wine glasses. None of the Queen’s company seemed to be partaking.

  Letting go of his wife
’s arm, Darien climbed the steps of the dais and approached the Queen. But instead of halting before Romana, he angled toward the servant and scooped a wine glass off the tray. He slung himself down on the Queen’s throne, slouching back with deliberate arrogance. He drained the wine in one swallow.

  To Romana, he said, “My condolences on the death of your husband.” He opened his hand and let the spent glass fall from his fingers. It shattered on the tiles.

  The Queen shot him a hateful glare. “My condolences on the death of your soul.”

  Ignoring her, Darien beckoned his wife forward, motioning her toward the smaller throne. With a calm and regal grace she’d never shown before, Azár flowed across the dais and assumed her place at his side. Darien smiled at Romana.

  He nodded toward the doors. “If you leave now, you leave with your head.” Thinking on it, he corrected himself. “Well, you’ll be leaving either way. I’d just prefer you not bloody up my throne room.”

  Romana shot him one last, vicious glare, then turned and moved with an unhurried stride out of the hall, her life and dignity intact.

  When the doors closed behind her, Darien allowed himself a smirk. He beckoned the servant with the wine forward, claiming a glass for his wife and another for himself. He looked up to find Naia gaping at him, her face aghast. He didn’t care. With a toss of his head, he commanded her:

  “Talk. Start with the Soulstone.”

  Naia shared a nervous glance with Kyel, then stepped forward. For once, she seemed at a loss for words. After a moment, she said, “The Soulstone was created by Quinlan Reis.”

  Darien blinked. The revelation was both surprising and disturbing.

  Naia went on, “Quin did what he could to fix the medallion’s gemstone. The stone now functions better than he ever intended. So well, in fact, it can create new legacies by drawing vitrus directly from the magic field itself. With it, we have the ability to recover our lost numbers—conceivably, anyone with the slightest scrap of the Potential can be imbued with the gift.”

  Darien sat quietly, letting the information sink in. When it had, he needed another glass of wine. He motioned the servant with the tray back and helped himself.

  “Why was it necessary I put it on?”

  Spreading her hands, Naia explained, “I needed to be able to speak freely about what Quin and I discovered. And you need to be able to act on that knowledge, even if it contradicts Xerys’ interests.”

  Darien set the empty glass down on the floor. “Then speak.”

  Naia nodded. “On Titherry, we found one last Harbinger who taught me how to read Athera’s Crescent. With the Crescent, I saw there are only three possible futures still available to us. There are an infinite number of variations of those futures, but it boils down to this: we must destroy the Well of Tears.”

  “How is that possible?” he whispered.

  Naia turned to look at Kyel over her shoulder. “We need Kyel’s talisman. He can use it to shatter the Well of Tears, but it needs to be done at just the right time. The magic field will fail completely before it flips. Most of the Well’s defenses rely on magic—when the magic field falters, the Well will be vulnerable.”

  Kyel stared at her sideways, looking intensely skeptical. “I can’t shatter anything without magic.”

  Naia insisted, “Somehow it works. In my visions of this future, you always wield the talisman successfully, even in the absence of the magic field.”

  Darien realized he already knew the answer to that problem. “Thar’gon is a magical reservoir,” he said. “It’ll work.”

  Naia turned back to Darien. “If we destroy the Well, then the portal between worlds will collapse. And the recoil will knock the magic field back into its proper alignment.”

  Darien gnawed on that for a moment. It was an enticing alternative to Renquist’s dire strategy … too enticing. There had to be a reason why Renquist had chosen to ignore that option. He took another glass of wine, drank it down in one swallow, then replaced the spent glass on the servant’s tray.

  “What are the risks?”

  “If we fail, then Renquist will bring Xerys fully into this world.”

  Darien nodded slowly. Naia had seen Renquist’s plan in the mirror of Athera’s Crescent. He couldn’t help wondering if she had seen his own part in it. He studied her eyes, looking for sign of doubt. But in Naia’s dark eyes, he saw only hope.

  False hope, he felt certain.

  “And why would releasing Xerys be so terrible?” he asked.

  Naia’s mouth dropped open. The hope in her eyes chilled to icy dismay. “Did you truly just ask that question?”

  Darien sat forward. “I did. Xerys is not evil. He has been tasked with the preservation of the magic field. He is simply carrying out his duty. But, then, aren’t we all?”

  Naia shook her head slowly, as if dazed. After a long moment, she breathed, “No, Darien. Not at that price.”

  He shrugged. She still embraced the false narrative that Xerys was an evil god. That Chaos was malevolent by nature. She didn’t understand that the magic field was born of Chaos, that Chaos itself birthed every destiny.

  But he understood part of Naia’s hesitance. Xerys was, at best, a callous and indifferent master without compassion for the masses. If Xerys was allowed to cross into the world, it would precipitate a purging of the temples and risked a genocidal war that could last generations. Thousands would die. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. And, yet, it was conceivably worth the price. How much was the existence of magic worth? Could anyone put a value to it?

  “What are our chances of success?”

  “Not good,” Naia admitted in a dismal tone. “Quin went to Bryn Calazar to try to assassinate Renquist and Krane. He hasn’t come back.”

  Which meant Quin was dead. He would have no chance against Renquist. Darien couldn’t imagine what the man had been thinking. He sagged, collapsing back into the throne. He shook his head, feeling an aching grief as familiar as breathing. He’d lost enough kin in his life that he should be used to the ache of it by now.

  But he wasn’t.

  Forcing his emotions aside, he looked back up at Naia and started weighing his options. Renquist’s plan had a much higher chance of success. But a success that came at tremendous cost. Naia’s proposal had a great risk of failure, and that failure would mean the death of all mages.

  Including Azár. And their child.

  But perhaps he could hedge his bets. Darien’s gaze slipped to Kyel and the woman from Aerysius he had taken up company with. It was Renquist’s will that he absorb Kyel’s power along with Naia’s. Darien didn’t know how that made him feel. Kyel’s opposition had hurt—hurt with the bitter ache of betrayal. But Darien respected it. Through all that had transpired, Kyel’s chains and integrity had remained intact. Not like his own. In the end, Darien decided that Kyel’s life was worth something, worth enough to give him a chance. Naia’s life, as well. And if her plan failed, then there would still be time to carry out Renquist’s command.

  Darien gave a slight nod. “You have my support.”

  As soon as the words were out, a terrible feeling of loss welled within him. It was a harrowing feeling. A life-twisting feeling. Suddenly ill, Darien broke into a clammy sweat, clenching the armrests of the throne. Rocked to his core, he sat upright with a gasp of understanding.

  He had betrayed his Master, so his Master had betrayed him.

  He had lost the Onslaught again, just as he had in Tokashi’s dungeons. Only, this time, he’d lost it permanently.

  He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and sat there panting, sweat streaming down his face. Azár leaned into him, setting a hand on his back, her face full of concern. Kyel started forward, his companion moving alongside him. Darien looked up, feeling a lightning-like stab of fear.

  “Don’t bring that woman near me,” he snarled.

  Kyel halted and threw his hand up, blocking the woman from moving forward. He stared a question at Darien.

  Darie
n rose to his feet, feeling besieged. “Her name is Alexa Newell. She was a Master who disappeared from Aerysius four years ago. She’s not on your side.”

  “I have no reason to doubt her,” Kyel said.

  “Then let me give you one.” Darien paced forward, skirting their position. “She banished my necrators. Only a darkmage could do that. And not just any darkmage—only one with the talent to command the undead.”

  Kyel’s stare shot to Alexa. A peculiar smile formed on her face. A knowing smile, full of confidence and audacity. She trained that smile on Darien like a weapon.

  “Where is your hound, Darien?” she asked. Her smile became a gloating sneer. “Where are your necrators? Why don’t you summon them?”

  Darien’s insides twisted as he realized his danger. He closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging under the heavy burden of defeat. She had him, and she knew it.

  Azár rose from her seat and moved to stand at his side. The fear in her eyes told him she understood every nuance of his plight. She set a hand on his back. He barely felt the touch. His mind and senses stood frozen.

  The woman’s eyes widened, her smile triumphant. She whispered a word. And with that whisper, commanded shadow. All around the room, necrators bloomed upward from the floor, coalescing into obsidian forms.

  Darien’s heart chilled with terror—a primal, feral emotion unlike any other. At his sides, his hands grew cold and started trembling.

  The woman spun to Kyel. “Look at him—he’s defenseless! Kill him now and absorb his gift—then even Renquist himself will not have the might to oppose us! We will destroy the Well of Tears together. Act now and rid the world of this monster!”

  Kyel stepped back away from her, his face gripped in a war of conflicted emotions. Darien could see the struggle in him. It was brutal.