Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  Ashra nodded, gazing ahead at the farmhouse. A breeze played with wisps of hair that had fallen loose from her intricate braid. She fretted with it as she followed Gil across the field, angling toward the gravel-strewn farmyard. The house in front of them was made of stacked river stone supported by dark beams of wood. It had an ancient feel about it, as though its tired bones sagged wearily with age. Considering the area, the farmhouse was at least a hundred years old. Perhaps much older.

  She was still fussing with her hair when they arrived at the steps to the house. Gil halted under the dried bunch of flowers hanging from the eaves. Ashra drew up beside him, staring up curiously at the blossoms. They looked like daisies, though dry and brittle. She reached her hand up to examine one. Her light touch disturbed some of the petals, which showered down on Gil’s head.

  He shot her a sideways glare as he dusted petals off his shoulders, then reached up and knocked on the door. He didn’t hear anything within, as though the farmhouse was vacant. No conversation, no creaks of footsteps walking on the floor. He was about to turn away and start searching the outbuildings.

  The door opened, and an old farmer with thinning red hair and a sun-leathered face greeted them. At the sight of their black cloaks, the man’s skin took on a pasty hue. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, then just stood there with a blank expression, as if uncertain what to do.

  Gil glanced at Ashra before extending his hand to the farmer. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Grand Master Gil Archer, and this is my acolyte, Ashra. We’re here to speak to Rylan Marshall.”

  The old farmer stood staring down at Gil’s offered hand with a defeated expression. His eyes were red-rimmed and weary, his shoulders sagging. He considered Gil’s hand for a long moment. Then his gaze swung up to Ashra’s face and hardened. Apparently, the man wasn’t fond of Malikari. Probably from twenty years of watching his kinfolk being slaughtered by them. Gil couldn’t blame him. He understood completely.

  The farmer said in a firm voice, “I’m sorry, but Rylan’s not accepting any visitors.” He started to push the door shut.

  Gil shot his hand out, catching the door before it could latch. “I know it’s a bad time, but—”

  “It’s all right,” came a man’s voice from within. “They can come in.”

  The old farmer fixed Gil with a resentful glare that expanded to encompass Ashra. Heaving a sigh, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” Gil said, moving past him.

  The interior of the farmhouse was warm and dim, except for broad streaks of light that slanted in through sheer curtains hanging in the windows. The rugs and the furniture were drab, and the walls lacked almost any kind of decoration. A rock hearth, darkened by soot, dominated one end of the room, an area that doubled as a kitchen. A woman in a prim black dress stooped next to the hearth, tending a large iron kettle that hung suspended over the flames.

  The old man grudgingly shook Gil’s hand. “Clemet Marshall. This is my wife, Lena. And this is our son, Rylan.”

  He gestured toward a dim back corner of the room. A man sat there in a high-backed chair, staring at them through a thick screen of stringy, shoulder-length black hair. He looked to be in his early twenties, but it was hard to tell; the man had been severely beaten, one eye swelled shut, his face a mask of bruises. The shaggy growth of whiskers on his face was too long to be considered stubble, yet not quite a beard. He was dressed in what was probably his best outfit, though it looked slept in. He regarded Gil with a shrewd, steady gaze that seemed out of place on his haggard face.

  He nodded in their direction, then rose slowly to his feet. “You’re here for me, I take it,” he said. “Because of…” His words trailed off. He spread his arms, palms upward.

  Gil took his meaning. He nodded, sympathizing with the man. “We’re here because you’re a mage now,” he said. “We’re also here to find out why this happened to you. We’ve got some questions.”

  The man continued to stare at him, at last issuing a slight nod. He lowered himself back into his chair. The old farmer brought up a stool so Gil could take a seat next to him, while Ashra pulled up another chair from across the room. The man’s brown eyes lingered on Gil’s black cloak with an indeterminable expression.

  “Rylan Marshall,” he said, nodding his head by way of introduction. “What would you like to know?”

  His right hand was bandaged, probably broken. The fingers of his other hand fumbled with something in his lap. It took Gil a moment to figure out what he was holding. It was one of the daisies from the dried bunch of flowers hung over the door. Rylan twirled the flower absently between his fingers, back and forth, gazing down at it with a vacant expression.

  Gil asked, “Can you tell us a little about yourself?”

  Rylan looked up from the flower, his expression never changing. In a flat voice, he said, “I’m just a farmer. This is my family’s farm. I’ve lived here nearly my entire life. Though for the past two years, I’ve been serving my time in the King’s army. I just came home from the front.”

  Gil asked, “What did you do at the front?”

  The man hesitated a moment before replying. “Infantry.”

  There was no emotion in the young farmer’s voice. His fingers kept twirling the dead blossom. He didn’t seem aware he was doing it.

  Behind them, the floor creaked as Rylan’s father crossed the room and sat down on a bench, holding his head in his hands. Ashra glanced at him, her face sympathetic. Gil’s eyes scanned the drab walls of the room, his gaze coming to rest on a wind-sculpted piece of sandstone sitting upright on a bureau.

  “You said you lived here nearly all your life,” Gil said. “Where did you live before?”

  The man answered, “My family’s originally from the Vale of Amberlie. We were displaced by the war.”

  Gil pondered his words. Nothing in Rylan’s account was out of the ordinary. Thousands of families shared a similar story. When the Malikari had invaded the North, they had sacked every town and village in the Vale of Amberlie, butchering the defenders and driving the population southward.

  Gil asked, “Did you know your assailant? Or had you seen him before?”

  “No.” Rylan shook his head.

  Feeling at a loss, Gil spread his hands. “Do you have any idea why you were singled out? Any idea at all?”

  “None.”

  Gil blew out a sigh and glanced back at Rylan’s mother, who was making herself conspicuously busy. He allowed his gaze to roam the long room. It was a simple farmhouse. Except for one chunk of sandstone, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other farmhouse in Chamsbrey, just as there was nothing to distinguish Rylan from any other farmer. No reason why a mage would sacrifice his life to pass his power to him. There was a large piece of the puzzle that was missing, Gil felt sure. But he couldn’t fathom what it could be.

  Ashra placed her hand compassionately on Rylan’s arm and asked, “Can you tell us of the attack?”

  Rylan’s gaze slipped to her hand. His eyes darkened, shoulders stiffening. His fingers stopped twirling the daisy. To Gil, he looked about ready to slap Ashra’s hand away. But at last, his shoulders relaxed, and he nodded slightly. He closed his fist around the dried blossom, then told them of the two men who had lured him into the cornfield. Gil listened to his account, becoming more unsettled by the word. When Rylan recounted the moment the mage forced his Gift into him, Gil asked him to repeat that part of the story. Rylan frowned but complied.

  “When he caught my hand, this terrible energy flooded into me,” he said. “It was the most unnerving thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I can’t describe the sensation. But you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? You’re a mage. You’ve felt it. Whatever he gave me, it came out of him, and it killed him to give it to me. When I came to my senses, I found him lying dead on the ground next to me.”

  He shook his head, drawing a deep breath. “That’s when the other man appeared. A tall man. I thi
nk he might have been Malikari. I asked him why–why me? He said because of who I am. I didn’t understand, and he didn’t explain himself. He promised me he wouldn’t kill my daughter. But he took her. He said someday I’d come to him.” His voice trailed off into silence, his eyes going toward the fire in the hearth.

  Gil saw that Rylan had let the crushed flower slip from his hand. His own mind fumbled with the images conjured by the farmer’s account. He wasn’t sure which part of Rylan’s story disturbed him most: the appearance of the shadow-men that he described, or the fact that his assailant seemed to think he had some kind of lasting control over him.

  Feeling a cold sense of dread, Gil asked him, “These men that looked like shadows. Did you ever see their faces?”

  “No.” Rylan shook his head. “They didn’t have faces. They weren’t physical. My sword went right through one, as if it was made of smoke.”

  Gil believed him. Rylan had perfectly described a type of demonic servant called a necrator, a collection of souls bound to serve whatever master controlled them. But there were no more necrators left in the world. Not since the Well of Tears had been destroyed. That was the last time a darkmage had walked the world, and no mortal mage could raise such minions. Unless something significant had changed. Unless the Well was open again… or something just like it.

  Gil pressed, “Is there anything else you can think of? Anything that struck you as odd? Or unusual?”

  “Other than my son being murdered?” The man’s face went hard, and there was a sudden, intense anger in his eyes. But then the farmer squeezed his eyes shut. He brought his hand up to his brow, hanging his head. “One of the men called me Gerald.”

  He said it so softly, Gil almost hadn’t heard him. “What?” he asked.

  “One of the men called me Gerald.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gil caught Rylan’s parents exchanging startled glances. He didn’t think Rylan noticed. And then it struck him: that was the piece of the puzzle that was missing. He looked at Ashra. She met his gaze and nodded slightly.

  Gil turned to face Rylan’s father. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let us stay here tonight,” he said. “We’ll be leaving in the morning. And I’m sorry but… I have to take Rylan with us. I hope you understand.”

  The woman grimaced and brought a hand up to her face. Rylan’s father put an arm around her and drew her in, holding her close as she wept quietly against his chest.

  Rylan looked at Gil coldly. To his credit, he said nothing.

  Awkwardly, Gil pushed himself to his feet. He felt horrible for the farmer but didn’t know what to say to him. Rylan had lost his son and would now be losing everything else he knew. Gil couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. And somewhere in the world, Rylan still had a daughter who had been taken from him. To be used as leverage, Gil felt sure.

  “Ashra,” he said. “Stay with Rylan.”

  “What about his injuries?” she asked.

  Gil glanced at the farmer’s bandaged hand, wishing that Ashra wasn’t an acolyte. Then she would have a mage’s power and could heal Rylan’s hand on her own. And, more importantly, she wouldn’t be his problem.

  “I’ll mend him when I get back,” he grumbled. He looked at Rylan’s father, beckoning him toward the door. “I need you to show me where this happened.”

  The old man nodded and, kissing his wife’s head, let her go and walked, head bowed, toward the door. Gil let him go first, then followed him. Clemet Marshall trudged down the gravelly path that led out of the farmyard, out toward the wide, flat expanse of cropland that spread for miles around them. Gil followed him in silence, not knowing what to say that would offer even the illusion of comfort. He could feel the weight of the old man’s grief pressing down on him, even at a distance.

  Clemet led him into the cornfield, then turned off the path and held the stalks back for Gil to enter. Gil followed him through the corn, down a narrow, barely visible trail that led deeper into the field, until they came to a small clearing where the stalks had been trampled down in a wide ring. There, Clemet stopped and stood with his back to him. He fixed his eyes on the ground and simply waited.

  Gil walked slowly forward, his gaze roving over the ground. In the middle of the clearing was a blackened ring where the boy had been incinerated. Walking closer, Gil knelt over the spot and trailed his fingers through the remaining ashes. Staring at the scorched ground, Gil felt his stomach clench. He stood up and looked at Clemet.

  He didn’t want to ask his next question. But he knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer.

  Walking toward the old man, Gil said, “I need to ask you something. And I need you to answer me honestly. The people who did this are very powerful and very dangerous. If you tell me any word that’s not true, or if you leave out any of the truth, you’ll likely be signing your son’s death warrant. Do you understand?”

  Clemet Marshall paled, his red-rimmed eyes seeming to falter. He stared at Gil for a long moment with a stricken look. At last, he bit his lip and nodded, looking down.

  Gil asked, “Do you know why Rylan’s attackers called him Gerald?”

  The farmer brought a trembling hand up to his face.

  “Mr. Marshall. I need to know.”

  There was a long, gaping span of silence. Then the old man responded, “Gerald was Rylan’s birth name.” He made a strangled noise deep in his throat. “He’s not our son.”

  Gil stiffened, his brain stumbling over the information. After a minute, he whispered, “Does Rylan know?”

  “No.” Clemet shook his head. He raised his hand, forcefully wiping tears from his eyes.

  Gil moved forward and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder to steady him. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Clemet nodded, his body seeming to deflate. “We used to live in Amberlie—a little town in the Vale below Aerysius.”

  Gil knew of it. The town had been overrun during the invasion. Prior to that, it had been a hub for travelers going to and from Aerysius, the ancient city of mages built high up on the face of a mountain cliff. When the Well of Tears was opened, Aerysius had been the first casualty. The city had been destroyed, along with every mage inhabiting it.

  Clemet paced a few steps away. “One of the mages of Aerysius, a woman, came to town looking for a family to foster her baby. Lena had just given birth to Rylan. Since Lena was already nursing, we volunteered to foster the babe. The boy’s name was Gerald.”

  Gil’s lips parted in a silent “oh.”

  Hands balled into fists, Clemet paced away across the circle of trampled cornstalks, staring dismally at the ground. “We raised them together, our two boys. When our own son was eighteen months, he fell ill. At first, it was just a cold. But then his lungs filled with water. We didn’t know what to do. We tried getting him up the mountain, to Aerysius. Hoping the mages up there could heal him. But he died on the way up, before Lena could get him help…”

  Clemet’s voice broke. He stood still for a moment, clenching his teeth. Fighting back tears. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. It was moments before he could continue.

  “Lena was devastated. She’d just lost a son. She couldn’t bear to lose another, and we knew Gerald’s mother would be coming back for him. We couldn’t do it. We couldn’t lose him too. So we told the mages it was Gerald who’d died. That way they’d leave us alone.”

  Gil stared at Clemet without speaking, his brain working furiously. It was all starting to make sense. Perfect sense. Only, the farmer’s story raised more questions than it answered. Who were Rylan’s real parents? And how did his attackers know his lineage when Rylan didn’t even know it himself?

  “I know it was wrong,” Clemet said gruffly, casting Gil a resentful glare. “But I don’t regret it. Together, our family buried Gerald in the oak grove behind our home. We kept Rylan with us. He’s our son now. We raised him up as our own. Do you understand? He’s my boy. And I don’t want you nor anyone else telling him different. You understand?
He’s our son…”

  His voice choked off into sobs. He brought both hands up to his face and wept openly into his palms, his shoulders quaking. Gil stood still, gazing down at the ground, feeling wretched. Not knowing what else to do, he let the old farmer spill his pain into his hands.

  When Clemet’s tears subsided, Gil said quietly, “He has to know. You should be the one to tell him. Not me.”

  The old man nodded, biting his lip.

  Gil took a step closer. “Do you know the names of his true parents?”

  Clemet shook his head. “The mother wouldn’t tell us her name. She never mentioned the father.”

  “And there’s nothing more you can tell us? Anything we could use to figure out who his parents are?”

  “No.” The old man shook his head wearily. Gil could tell from the look in his eyes he was done. Clemet Marshall was emotionally emptied.

  Gil said, “Come on, then. Let’s get back.”

  He reached out and patted the old farmer on the back, lending him what meager strength he could. He wished he could do more. But one look at Clemet Marshall told him that nothing anyone could do would ever be enough.

  4

  Stabbed Through the Heart

  Rylan knelt and plucked a blossom from a field of daisies that spread all the way to the golden horizon and beyond. He looked up and smiled at Emma. Though his wife had been dead for over a year, she was somehow standing there in front of him, a breeze stirring her chestnut hair. Her kind blue eyes gazed at him with the same look of joy she’d had the day he’d proposed to her. He would do anything to keep that expression on her face.

  Standing, he offered her the white blossom. “I want you to keep this,” he said, pressing the stem into her hand and gently squeezing her fingers closed around it. He drew her into an embrace and kissed her cheek tenderly. “I’ll come back. I promise. And when I do, I won’t leave you again.”