Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  “Check,” he said and walked away.

  Behind him rose the expected cries of outrage.

  “What the hell, Archer?” Payden called after him.

  Gil chuckled as he crossed the library to the far wall, past rows of bookshelves, then made his way to a colonnaded walkway that overlooked a tiled floor three stories below. He trailed his hand absently along the rail as he walked, his gaze slipping over the soaring white walls and frescoed ceiling overhead. Despite being built only a score of years before, the Lyceum of Karikesh housed one of the most extensive collections of books anywhere in the world, second only to the Temple of Wisdom in Glen Farquist. Gil appreciated a good library. He’d been raised in one, and returning to the Lyceum’s collection of books felt like coming home.

  Or as close to home as anything could feel. He had never known a real home, at least none that he could remember. He could only guess what a true home felt like.

  At the end of the walkway, he came to a room caged off from the rest of the library by wrought-iron bars. Digging into the pouch he wore at his waist, he produced a ring of keys and sifted through them. He found the one he wanted and, unlocking the barred door, stepped inside. He stood still for a moment, looking around at the circular room lined with shelves loaded with books. Inhaling deeply, he savored the musty odor of ancient paper and leather bindings, a comforting scent that brought an intense pang of nostalgia.

  His gaze trailed over the rows of bookshelves and the treasures they contained: a priceless collection of texts and documents, most found nowhere else in the world. Some were well over a thousand years old, harvested from the ancient library on the Isle of Titherry, where they had spent a millennium protected from the ravages of mildew and time. But now, with their relocation to the Lyceum’s library, the texts in the Cage required enormous care in their storage and handling.

  Gil moved to a tall desk and, opening a drawer, removed a pair of pristine white gloves. He drew them on, flexing his fingers to stretch the fabric. The gloves were a standard precaution when handling the books, protecting them from skin oil and nail abrasions. There were many other strict protocols in place to conserve the delicate collection. Some of the texts were so old, their pages would disintegrate if handled at all. Only a few of the Lyceum’s many scholars were allowed access to the Cage. And, among those, fewer still had access to the Vault.

  Gil was among those few.

  He walked over to an iron door set into the wall between shelves and stopped in front of it. For a long moment, he simply stood there. Then, with a slight click, the heavy door popped open just a crack. Holding his gloved hands up, Gil used his foot to nudge the door open just enough to sidle through. He moved forward slowly into the small room, which was little more than a niche carved into the wall. The Vault contained some of the rarest–and most dangerous–texts in existence. The room’s purpose was twofold: to protect its trove of relics from the world, but also to protect the world from the danger of its contents.

  Standing with his hands raised, Gil scanned the dark shelves lining the room. In the ambient light, it was difficult to make out the markings on the spines of the texts. He strolled forward, scanning a long shelf of books of similar sizes, until he found the text he was looking for.

  Carefully, Gil pushed back the two books to either side of the one he wanted, then removed the leather-bound text from the shelf. Staring down at it, he wandered back toward the center of the Cage. There, he paused, silently contemplating the title inscribed on the book’s dusty cover:

  A TREATISE ON THE WELL OF TEARS

  Supporting the book so as not to harm the ancient spine, Gil opened the cover and flipped to the first yellowed page written in flowing ink:

  The Well of Tears was created under the direction of Prime Warden Zavier Renquist, who purposed to use the power of the Netherworld to halt a magical cataclysm…

  “Excuse me. Grand Master Archer?”

  Gil cursed himself. He’d forgotten to lock the Cage door.

  He gave a defeated sigh, then turned to regard the lost-looking acolyte who had come up behind him. The boy wore a black mage’s cloak, though his cheeks were covered with only the first attempt at a scraggly beard. Gil stared at him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

  The acolyte reached up to fidget with his collar. “I’m sorry for interrupting—”

  “Then why are you?”

  The acolyte paled. “I, uh… Sorry…”

  Gil smiled. “Relax. What can I do for you?”

  Looking enormously relieved, the young man said, “I bear a message from the Prime Warden.”

  Gil closed the text in his hands. “What’s the message?”

  “The Prime Warden desires to speak with you in her office. Right away.”

  “Right-right away?”

  The acolyte looked confused. “Yes, Grand Master. Right… right away.”

  Gil glanced down at the book in his hand, feeling flustered. He said, “Thank you.”

  The young man bobbed the slightest bow, then scurried out of the Cage, where he hadn’t belonged in the first place. Gil returned Treatise on the Well back to its place on the shelf, beside other influential texts not half as apocalyptic. He stepped out of the room, locking the Vault. Then he removed the white satin gloves and left the Cage.

  As he crossed the library, Gil passed the same group of men lingering over yet another game of chess. He angled away from them and made his way toward the stairs.

  Payden called after him, “You’re such an ass, Archer!”

  He took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor, then started up a wide hallway lined with sandstone blocks. As he walked, his black cloak fluttered in his wake, the outward symbol marking him as a mage to the rest of the world. Embroidered into the fabric between his shoulders was a silver eight-pointed star: another legendary symbol, this one far older than even the cloak that bore it.

  Gil’s long strides propelled him down the wide, tiled corridors to the Prime Warden’s office, situated at the north side of the Lyceum and surrounded by its own courtyard. Gil found her secretary’s desk mercifully empty. Which was good. The woman was a battle-axe with the personality of a prison guard. Moving forward, he rapped once upon the door and entered without waiting for a response. Inside, he found the Prime Warden seated behind a cherrywood writing desk.

  Naia Seleni looked up from the letter she was scribing. “Grand Master Archer. Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.” She gestured with her quill at the chair across the desk.

  “Thank you, Prime Warden,” Gil said.

  He sat and waited in silence as she finished scribing the letter. After a moment, he realized he was staring at her and dropped his gaze to the desk. Naia Seleni was a formidable woman, and yet beautiful. Though middle-aged, her face remained untouched by the years or by the power she wielded. She could have been taken for any one of the young acolytes scurrying about the Lyceum’s halls, right up until she wanted to be seen as something more. Then, Naia’s presence could swell to dominate any room. The Prime Warden was the most powerful woman in the world, with or without the white cloak of office she wore.

  She set her quill down and, pushing back her auburn hair, smiled at him warmly. “You look more like your father every time I see you. How long has it been this time?”

  “Eight months.” Gil leaned back in his chair, his gaze roaming over the walls. Naia’s office was decorated in an intriguing riot of colors: tapestries, curtains, knickknacks, cushions… all of a style Gil had never seen anywhere else in the Rhen. He often wondered how Naia had amassed the collection.

  She gave him a surprised look. “Has it really been so long? It doesn’t seem like it. So how was Southwark?”

  “Bloody boring.” Spying a bowl of dates on her desk, he leaned forward and popped one into his mouth, sucking the flesh off the pit.

  Naia cocked an eyebrow before continuing. “Then it sounds like you might welcome some excitement. I have another task for you.”

>   Gil looked at her in interest. “What kind of task?”

  Naia’s face turned grim, and she sat forward in her seat, lacing her fingers on the desk. “There has been a rather tragic incident involving a farmer and his family from northern Chamsbrey. The crime, as it was reported, sounds particularly heinous. The farmer’s young son was burned alive in a cornfield. The assailants left the poor man alive but absconded with his daughter.”

  “What about the man’s wife?” he asked.

  “She died in childbirth.”

  Gil sat still for a moment, gazing straight ahead at a paining on the wall, letting the information seep slowly in. “That does sound very tragic,” he said at last. “Are you sure the ‘poor man’ didn’t murder his own children?”

  Naia nodded. “Quite certain. Apparently, one of his two assailants was a mage who forced his Gift upon him. And died in the process, of course.”

  Gil’s mouth dropped open in shock. Every mage carried inside them a magical legacy that could be passed from one person to another. But such an act always resulted in the death of the donor of that legacy. This mage had sacrificed his life to transfer his Gift to this particular farmer. He must have been desperate. Desperate enough to die for his cause… But why? What could he have possibly hoped to gain?

  “When did this occur?” Gil asked, still deep in thought.

  “Two days ago.”

  Suddenly, the ancient texts in the Lyceum’s library didn’t seem important anymore. He asked, “Since we’re having this conversation, I take it you’re sending me to Chamsbrey?”

  The Prime Warden nodded. “I am. Your task will be to determine exactly what happened in that cornfield and why. But more importantly, you are to deliver the farmer here expeditiously. We must assume his life is in grave peril.”

  “That’s a good assumption.” Gil picked another date out of the bowl and plunged it into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “I’ll leave right away—”

  “One more thing.” Naia said, cutting him off. “You will be taking your new acolyte along with you.”

  Gil stopped chewing. He must have heard her wrong. Clutching the pit of the date in his hand, he peered sideways at the Prime Warden. “My new… what…?”

  Naia looked at him sternly. “It’s past time you took on an apprentice, Gil. I’m assigning you Ashra ni Sayeed.”

  He almost choked on the date. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. I’m not.” Naia’s smile seemed almost motherly. “Ashra needs a mentor, and you’re in need of an apprentice.”

  Gil shook his head. “Prime Warden, forgive me, but give me anyone—anyone in the whole world—but not her! You know our histories—”

  Naia smiled. “Your histories are exactly why I decided on this match. This land has not yet recovered from the deep wounds inflicted upon it by both your parents. It is long past time to start mending those wounds. I’ll begin with you and Ashra.”

  Gil felt himself sinking lower in his chair with every word. When Naia was finished, he looked at her dismally. “And there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?”

  “Nothing.”

  He dragged in a deep breath, held it in for a moment, then slowly let it back out again. “All right, then. I’ll let her know. This is going to be a fun trip. I pity the poor farmer.”

  He shoved back his chair and started to stand up, but her voice halted him.

  “Take great care, Gil,” Naia said, her gaze capturing his own. “Whoever did this, did it for a reason. It is imperative we determine that reason. And it’s also imperative that we keep this farmer out of the hands of those who have taken such an interest in him. Do you understand?”

  He stared across the desk at her a moment before finally nodding. “Understood.”

  “Relax, Gil. She won’t bite.”

  “It’s her claws I’m worried about,” he muttered.

  He didn’t acknowledge Naia’s sympathetic smile as he left her office. His mind continued to grumble all the way back through the Gathering Hall and up the stairs to the living quarters of the Lyceum. By the time he reached the hallway of the Acolytes’ Residence, his mood had turned exceptionally black, as black as the cloak on his back. He drew up in front of Ashra’s door and raised his hand to knock.

  He couldn’t make himself do it. He lowered his hand, glowering at the door. Then, gritting his teeth, he rapped forcefully.

  Long seconds dragged by. He heard nothing from the other side of the door. Gil waited, listening for the sounds of footsteps. He almost turned and walked away.

  The door cracked open.

  A young woman with lustrous brown skin and sleek raven hair peered out at him through the narrow opening. Her lips parted, as though in shock. But she recovered quickly and opened the door wider. She was holding a glass of wine, which she immediately retracted, bringing it close against her chest almost protectively.

  “Grand Master Archer. To what do I owe the pleasure?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

  Gil had to force himself to look at her. Swallowing his anger, he asked, “Might I come in?”

  She opened the door the rest of the way, standing aside.

  Hands behind his back, Gil shuffled past her through the door. A single lantern lit the dim interior of her quarters. The floor was covered in patterned rugs, the walls softened by woven tapestries. Her bed was a simple pallet pressed up against the far wall. That surprised him. He didn’t think someone like Ashra would be content with simplicity of any kind.

  She gestured at a pair of cushions set before a low table. “Please, have a seat. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any more wine.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” he said, moving around her.

  He doubted she was out of wine. Malikari didn’t share cups with their enemies. It was a subtle way of letting him know where he stood with her. Gil claimed a cushion for himself, while Ashra settled on one across from him. She set her glass down on the table between them and proceeded to stare at him with a raptor’s pinned gaze.

  He had no idea how to say it. So he just said it. “I’ve been assigned to you as your mentor.”

  “I see.” A slight smile formed on her lips. “And by the look on your face, you’re not happy about it?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Nevertheless, he answered it anyway. “No. I’m not happy about it. Look. Trust is an important part of the whole acolyte-mentor relationship-thing. But liking each other isn’t. So, for the sake of trust, I’ll just state my feelings plainly. If the world was ending—and if you and I were the last people left in it—and if all I had to do was lift one finger to save you… well, to put it bluntly, you’d die.”

  He stood up with a forced smile. “But I’ve been told I have to work with you. So, I guess I’ll have to work with you.” Bending down, he scooped her wine glass up from the table and took a thirsty gulp from it. She rose after him with a look of outrage.

  “Sour!” he gasped, wincing, and handed the wine back. Gil started to say something else, but then stopped himself. Instead, he moved to the doorway. “Pack a bag, Princess. We’re leaving for Chamsbrey.”

  He let his feet carry him swiftly out of the room, then smirked at the sound of the door thundering closed behind him.

  3

  The Farmer’s Son

  The shrine of Death echoed coldly, its harsh marble walls devoid of warmth and solace. It was not a place for children. No child should ever be made to lie on a cold stone bier. Even the flowers brought by well-wishers did nothing to ease the shrine’s bleak austerity. Instead, the colorful blossoms served only as blunt testimony to the inequity between the world of death and the world of life.

  Rylan Marshall sat on a bench near the front of the shrine, his mother and father at his side. He sat with his eyes pinned on his son’s funeral shroud, a semi-transparent fabric that revealed just enough of the boy’s burned features to make his heart ache in misery, and yet opaque enough to maintain the sense of separation that was his
new, unbearable reality. A priest of Death lingered between them, uttering a long litany of prayers Rylan didn’t hear. They were a meaningless, droning refrain that dissolved into the background of his awareness.

  A hand squeezed his.

  Rylan looked up. The priest had stepped back and stood with his head bowed. He was done with his eulogy. The guests behind him rose from their seats and filed out, sharing words of grief and comfort. It took Rylan a moment to realize the rites of passage had been spoken and the blessings administered.

  It was time to say goodbye.

  Rylan stood. The blurry world waivered for a moment. Summoning the last, tattered scraps of his courage, he crossed the floor to stand over his son’s remains. That journey was the most difficult he had ever undertaken and seemed the longest. Rylan lingered over the cloth-draped bier for a long while, his throat clenched in grief. Collecting himself, he stooped to gather a single white daisy from a cluster of flowers arranged at the foot of the bier. He placed the blossom on the embroidered shroud, next to the new shoes Korey would never get a chance to wear. Then he bent and pressed a kiss against the fabric.

  He straightened, his hand lingering upon the funeral cloth.

  There had been words he’d wanted to say. But no words were adequate to express his grief. Anything he could say would be vastly insufficient.

  So he said nothing.

  “I think that’s it,” Gil said, nodding at the farmhouse ahead of them: a two-story structure ringed by outbuildings, visible through a stand of trees.

  Ashra peered in the direction he indicated, her arms crossed, squinting her eyes against the harsh glare of sunlight. “How do you know that is the right house?”

  “Because of that bunch of flowers.” Gil nodded at a bouquet of dried flowers tied with black ribbon and hanging upside-down over the farmhouse door. “It’s a symbol of mourning.” The flowers were an offering to the Goddess of Death. Different kingdoms had different traditions. Chamsbrey had known more death than most in recent years. The kingdom’s long-contested border with the Malikari Empire was a continual source of corpses to feed Death’s Catacombs.