Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  The Prime Warden leaned forward and patted his arm consolingly. “No one can fault you for your birth. You are Gerald Lauchlin, son of Darien Lauchlin, whether you wish to be or not. But you are not alone in the world; we are here to help you and to answer any questions you may have. All three of us were very good friends with your father. If not your mother.”

  Rylan frowned. “Why not my mother?”

  It was the Grand Master who answered him. “Your mother made some very poor choices. That’s putting it lightly.”

  The Prime Warden rose from her chair, stroking a hand down her floor-length white cloak. She favored Rylan with a kind smile. “You must be exhausted. His Majesty has most graciously offered you a room at the palace.”

  They were dismissing him too soon. He hadn’t gotten what he needed from them. Rylan sat up straight, shaking his head. “I don’t have time to rest,” he insisted firmly. “I need to find my daughter.”

  The Prime Warden allowed him a sympathetic smile. “We will most certainly help you find your daughter. I assure you, arrangements are already being made. We’ll speak more of it tomorrow. In the meantime, retire to the palace. Get some rest.”

  The Sultan rose from his chair. There was no kindness in his face; only a greatly troubled look. He said to Rylan, “My servant is waiting outside. He will escort you to my coach.”

  Rylan nodded, feeling his hopes sink. He rose and made haste out of the room.

  Ashra was waiting for him in the hallway, seated on a stool. She rose as soon as she saw him and walked swiftly in his direction. But instead of greeting him, she kept walking, passing him by and entering the room he’d just exited. He heard the door shut behind her.

  Rylan stopped at the edge of the hallway and slumped against a wall, turning his mind inward in an attempt to calm his nerves. Rivulets of sweat flowed from his brow, coursed down his cheeks. The walls around him seemed to shiver and throb.

  “Pardon, Great Master,” said a voice.

  Rylan turned, startled, to find himself staring into the face of a bearded servant attired in colorful livery. The man bowed rigidly and gestured for Rylan to follow him. “This way, Great Master.”

  Rylan stared after him, unmoving, his mind stuttering over the title the man had just used to address him.

  Great Master.

  The man had just addressed him as a mage.

  Feeling dizzy, he moved to follow the servant down the tiled hallway.

  8

  The Sultan’s Promise

  Rylan followed the manservant down a marble staircase and out into the din of unexpected commotion. Startled, he glanced around in confusion, trying to get his bearings. He stood on the edge of a broad, cobbled road bustling with a chaotic sea of traffic. The thoroughfare led straight ahead, past long rows of sprawling, palace-like structures. Hundreds of minarets rose above the skyline, poking out between layers of graceful domes that seemed to rise and fall like the swells of an ocean. Every building looked to be sculpted of the same warm-toned blocks, each carved in intricate detail.

  Rylan stood and stared around in open wonder. The only other city he’d ever seen was Auberdale, the capital of Chamsbrey, called the City of Kings. Compared to Karikesh, Auberdale seemed a ramshackle and dirty hellhole.

  The Sultan’s manservant opened the door to an awaiting coach and stood aside. Rylan started toward him but then paused to look around, his senses overwhelmed. The street swarmed with carriages and foot traffic. The sounds and smells were too diverse and distracting to ignore. Across the avenue, a street vendor cooking meat over a wood fire called out to him, beckoning him over. Beyond, under a green tarp, a merchant haggled over textiles with a woman swarmed by six eager children. Horse-drawn carts clattered by, boring paths through a milling population garbed in colorful shawls and knee-length tunics.

  Still gawking at the tall buildings that surrounded him, Rylan climbed awkwardly into the carriage, seating himself on a cloth-covered bench within. The servant closed the door, and the carriage shifted its weight as the coachman climbed up into the box seat. Rylan parted the velvet curtains hanging in the window, eager for even a narrow view of the bustling city, as the horses started forward with the crack of a whip.

  The carriage clattered along the cobbled street, then turned onto a buzzing thoroughfare bordered by tall buildings rising five or six stories that looked centuries old. Each intersection they crossed contained a tall fountain, usually multi-tiered, surrounded by blossoms. As they drew further from the center of the city, the view became greener, the streets lined with trees, the walls of the residences covered by drapes of vines and hanging baskets of flowers, until they reached a high, crenelated wall broken by a fortified gate.

  There, the carriage drew to a halt. Rylan heard the driver speaking to the guards in a foreign tongue. Then, with a shout from the driver, the carriage lurched forward again, following a narrow path between manicured flowerbeds. They rattled to a stop before another wall and another gate, pausing a moment before continuing, until they reached yet another gate. And another, and another, moving through a narrowing series of concentric courtyards. Until, at last, the carriage creaked to a halt within a beautiful enclosure surrounded by tall walls and arcaded walkways.

  With a squeak, the carriage door opened.

  “This way, Great Master.”

  Rylan emerged from the coach into the bright light of afternoon. He was greeted by three servants who led him into the depths of the Sultan’s palace, up a long flight of stairs, and through a winding series of corridors. Eventually, they arrived at a door that opened into a luxurious room dominated by an enormous, canopied bed. Rylan halted in the doorway, hesitant to enter. His eyes wandered around the bedchamber, taking in the woven rugs, the intricate tiles on the walls, the rich furniture and embroidered cushions. He wandered forward a few steps, then turned slowly around, amazed by the colors and patterns.

  “Great Master. Please remove your boots.”

  Two uniformed guards entered the chamber. They moved in close, watching as he complied, then started running their hands over him, frisking him expertly for weapons. They found his dagger in short order, confiscating it without a word. They were professional about it, but they took their time and were more thorough than he would have liked. Rylan felt relieved when they left.

  Another servant approached, this time, a young woman. She fished a knotted string out of a small bag and wrapped it around his waist as Rylan stood still, confounded by her attention. The string slipped up to girth his chest, then moved to measure the length of his arms and legs. At last satisfied, the woman bowed deeply and backed out the door, closing it behind her. Rylan let out a deep breath, thankful to finally be alone.

  He eyed the bed and its deep layers of fabric. All he wanted was to sink down into it and fall asleep. It looked soft and comfortable. But he was filthy from the road, his shirt blood-stained. Forsaking the bed, he sat down on a cushioned sofa and leaned back heavily.

  He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he heard a knock at the door. Rylan groaned and rubbed his eyes. Before he could get up, a manservant entered and bowed low before him.

  “Great Master. His Majesty, the Sultan, requests your presence.”

  Rylan nodded wearily. The Sultan was the last person in the world he wanted to speak with. Despite his consideration as a host, the man was still the same tyrant who had conquered his homeland, the self-same man Rylan had spent the last two years of his life fighting to overthrow. He felt unnerved in his presence.

  He rose from the sofa, nodding his head in weary acceptance, then followed the servant out of the bedchamber. The man led him down the corridor to a rosewood door with mother-of-pearl inlay. Without a word, the servant opened the door and beckoned him through. Rylan moved past him to find himself within a high-ceilinged chamber rimmed by cushioned benches, a trickling fountain in the center of the room. The servant led him across the patterned floors to another door, this one covered with gilt latticework. Wi
thout speaking, the man opened the door and beckoned Rylan within.

  This time, the servant did not follow.

  The grilled door closed behind him. He heard it lock.

  Rylan move forward to find himself in the private chamber of the Sultan himself. Awed by the sheer grandeur of the room with its domed ceiling and enameled wall tiles, Rylan almost missed the man seated before a brazier. When Rylan’s eyes fell upon him, the Sultan gained his feet with a smile.

  “Thank you for coming,” the man said in a deep voice flavored with a melodic accent. There was a kindness in his eyes that had been missing earlier.

  Rylan felt his blood heat, a deep-seated anger kindling within him. A week ago, if he’d found himself alone in the same room with this man, he wouldn’t have hesitated before putting a knife through his ribs. He still wasn’t certain whether he should try. He didn’t trust this man, this enemy. He let his gaze wander the room, searching for anything he could use as a weapon.

  Warily, he said, “My thanks for your hospitality, Your Grace.”

  His host smiled. “There is no need for formalities between us. You may call me Sayeed. Please. Have a seat.”

  The Sultan’s words confused Rylan. Why was he treating him with such courtesy? It made no sense, even if the man had been friends with his wretched father. His eyes found a gilt poker leaning against a stand beside the hearth. His gaze lingered on it as he took a seat next to the brazier.

  “Would you care for arak?” Sayeed indicated a narrow bottle on the table at his side.

  Rylan had never heard of arak. Some kind of spirits, he presumed. More out of reflex than desire for a drink, he said, “Sure.”

  With a hospitable smile, the Sultan poured two cups halfway with liquor, then topped them off with water from a carafe. He raised his cup in toast. “To destiny.”

  Rylan didn’t move. Instead, he asked, “Why destiny?”

  Without lowering his cup, Sayeed explained, “There is a saying in my culture: ‘our choices define our destiny.’ We alone are in command of our own fate, and no other. Not any man. Not any god. We sit in the seat of our own judgment and mete out the consequences of our decisions upon ourselves.”

  Warily, Rylan raised his cup. “To destiny, then.” He took a sip of the arak, wincing at the strong flavor of spices and the bite of the liquor.

  The Sultan drank deeply, setting his cup down on the table at his side. He said, “When I was a young man, I thought very little of my fate. The Black Lands are not like the Kingdoms—there was no sunlight, and very little joy in living. A man’s future was never certain. The next day was never guaranteed, nor the next hour, or even the next second. Very few of us survived long enough to find the first gray in our beards.”

  He took a heavy sip of his drink, then replaced it on the table. “If you had asked me when I was a boy to name my greatest aspiration, I would have told you my one true desire was to end my life bringing death to my enemy. That craving is what drove me, every moment of my life, to seek perfection in all that I did, on or off the battlefield. Every decision I made carried me further toward that end, a little closer each day.

  “Do you understand?” he asked, leaning forward. “It is not that I was fanatical or suicidal. I was merely cynical. I had every reason to be. Like the rest of my people, I had no conception that a life could be lived as an end unto itself. In a land without sunlight, it is difficult to find joy in the labor of living. That is the world I come from. The world your father helped me escape. Now my greatest aspiration is not to bring death. Instead, it is to bring peace.”

  A heavy silence fell between them. Rylan stared down into the flames of the brazier, feeling their heat, letting the man’s words sink in deeper than they ever should have. Deep enough to make him doubt. He took another sip of his drink.

  “What of you?” Sayeed asked. “What is your greatest aspiration?”

  “To find my daughter,” Rylan said at once.

  The man nodded and then stated solemnly, “Fear not. Your daughter will be found.” It sounded like a promise. The kind of promise not easily broken.

  Hearing the conviction in his tone, Rylan felt a stab of hope. “You’d help me?”

  “I will,” the man said without hesitating.

  Rylan sat stunned into silence. He could feel every truth he had ever held crumble away, slipping through his fingers like sand. For the first time in his life, he felt certain of nothing.

  After long seconds, he managed to mutter, “I don’t understand. I’m your enemy. So why would someone like you want to help someone like me find one little girl?”

  The man gazed at him steadily for a moment. Then he drew in a deep breath and sat back in his chair. “Your father and I were more than just friends. By the end, we were brothers. We swore an oath to be united in blood, just as if we had been born of the same mother. I gave your father my pledge that, should he ever fall, I would provide for any children he might have as if they were my own—as he would have done for me. And now it seems I have failed entirely in that obligation.”

  A slow chill crept over Rylan’s skin as he grappled with the import of the Sultan’s words. Feeling suddenly weak, he said, “I don’t understand. What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  Sayeed captured his gaze firmly. “When I woke this morning, I considered myself a very fortunate man. I had eight palaces, a loving wife, a beautiful daughter, and two worthy sons. I had no idea that by nightfall, that would change. Instead of two sons, I now have three. And for that, I will be forever grateful.”

  Rylan’s thoughts stumbled to a halt. He tried to react but couldn’t. He didn’t have the capacity to accept or deny the gift he was being offered.

  Seeing his reaction, the Sultan gave him a compassionate smile. “It is far more than duty that motivates me. Do you understand? I will take you into my house as blood of my blood, just as your father would have done for any son of mine. And I will use every resource at my disposal to help you find your daughter.”

  Rylan slumped back in his seat, his mind and senses reeling. He struggled to breathe through a flood of intense relief that threatened to wash him away.

  “Your Majesty,” he gasped. “I don’t know what to say.”

  His host shrugged. “Sometimes the best words are those left unspoken.” He took a drink, then sat staring for a while into the flames of the brazier. At last, his smile returned, and he set his cup down on the table. “Come. I would like to show you something.”

  Rylan rose automatically from his chair and followed the man through a door that opened into a domed chamber with high walls covered with geometric patterns of blue and gold. Scalloped arches marched along the edges of the room. Against the far wall sat a wide throne, almost a sofa, under a golden canopy. All along the walls, under the shadows of the arcades, many small fountains trickled delicately. Rylan stared at the throne, unable to break his gaze away, his ears filled with the melodic dance of water.

  Until he realized that the Sultan’s attention was captured elsewhere.

  Following Sayeed’s gaze, he saw that the man was staring up at an oil painting hung high on the wall across from the throne. It was a portrait, rendered in bold contrasts of light and shadow, that depicted a dark-haired man of powerful countenance garbed in a white cloak, his hand resting on the gem-encrusted hilt of a scimitar. Rylan stared hard at the portrait, captivated by the unnerving intensity of the subject’s gaze. Slowly, a tingling sensation came over him, starting behind his neck and spreading downward to his gut. He let his gaze trail down the wall, coming to rest on the sword the Sultan carried at his side.

  It was the sword from the painting. Contained in the same bejeweled scabbard attached to the same belt. The buckle of the belt was gold, wrought with the image of a horse bent over backwards, as though eating its own tail. The workmanship of the buckle, like that of the sword, appeared ancient.

  Rylan’s eyes darted back to the portrait, his thoughts freezing to ice. “That’s him, isn’t
it?”

  The Sultan nodded. “It is.”

  As if compelled, Rylan took a step forward, scrutinizing the face above him. A face that, in all ways, was utterly familiar.

  “He looks just like me,” he whispered.

  Sayeed shook his head. “You look like him.”

  Suddenly, Rylan felt his initial sense of awe darken and twist into something else. He reminded himself of who that man was, and what he was. He forced himself to stare into Darien Lauchlin’s eyes until he felt the proper amount of revulsion. Until all he saw in that portrait was a thing of evil. Comfortably cold again, Rylan turned his back on the demon who had fathered him.

  And then he remembered the oath he had pledged in the cornfield. Was it the same oath his father had sworn? Was he destined to follow in that hellish man’s footsteps? No. He would never do that. But then he was reminded of his dream, of his wife assuring him that the harder he tried, the worse he would fail. He shivered with dread.

  “I’m tired,” he said. “I should find my bed.”

  “Of course.” But the Sultan hesitated. Softly, he said, “Gerald. You cannot run from who you are.”

  The words provoked a burning slap of anger.

  “My name’s not Gerald,” Rylan snapped, then fled the room.

  9

  Sharp Words

  Gil snapped closed a dusty text with yellowed pages and a frayed cloth cover. He shoved it aside and drew another from the stack of books sitting next to him on the table. Holding it up, he saw it was an exhausted-looking tome with a sagging leather cover that had cracked along the spine. Gil opened the book carefully and, wetting his finger on his tongue, flipped quickly through the first few pages before shoving it aside.

  “I should have let him die,” he grumbled, referring to Rylan.