His own father, Kyel Archer, had fought for the Kingdoms, and had countered Lauchlin’s assaults in every battle for the North. Had he known Rylan Marshall was that demon’s son, Gil would have slid his own knife between the farmer’s ribs.
Ashra smiled at him from across the table, where she sat with her chin cradled in her hand, ink-black hair spilling forward. “Then why are you still searching for a way to keep him alive?”
“Because someone told me I had to.” Gil shoved another leather-bound book aside and grabbed the next one, flipping the cover open. He ran his finger along the first few lines of text before relegating the book to the discard pile.
“Well? Have you found anything?”
Ignoring her on purpose, he pushed the remainder of the books aside, then pulled the next stack toward him. He took the first book off the top and opened it without bothering to read the title. He flipped through the first couple of pages before deciding the book contained nothing pertinent.
Ashra cocked an eyebrow. “So you’ve found nothing.”
Conceding, Gil gave a quick nod. “I’ve found too much of everything I don’t need. One more book on symbology, lexicology, glyphology, or arcanology, and I’m going to jump out a window.”
“I doubt defenestrating yourself is the answer,” Ashra said, sliding a thin text toward herself with a finger. “This looks interesting.”
Gil selected a much thicker tome and set it down in front of her. “Here. Try to stay occupied, so I can concentrate.”
Flipping open the book, she asked mildly, “Are you ever going to actually teach me anything?”
“I am.” Gil shuffled through a small pile of books before choosing one. “I’m teaching you how to sit and be quiet. If you ever get that lesson straight, we’ll go from there.”
The book opened to a page about a quarter of the way through, a page containing four diagrams drawn in black ink with crosshatched shading. Below the diagrams was penned a flowing inscription in strange characters. Cradling the text in his hands, Gil paced away from the table. “This is interesting. These markings look a lot like the ones on the knife.”
He turned the page, then flipped back again. Behind him, Ashra rose from her seat and moved around the table, drawing up at his side. He pointed out a line of strange markings that seemed to swirl across the page. “They’re similar,” he said. “But I don’t think they’re the same.”
“Are those artifacts?” Ashra asked, indicating the eight diagrams of cylindrical objects arranged in rows across the page. Each was decorated with various pictures of men and beasts, mostly battle imagery.
“I think they are,” Gil said. “It says here they’re relics from the lost Kingdom of Shira. What’s Shira? I’ve never heard of it.”
Ashra shrugged. Gil hadn’t expected her to know; the question had been rhetorical. He looked again at the elegant script. “This isn’t good news,” he said slowly. “Whoever attacked Rylan had access to knowledge and artifacts we haven’t even heard of. We have to show this to Naia.”
He closed the book, keeping the page marked with his index finger, and headed out of the library. He heard Ashra’s footsteps following behind, hurrying to catch up. They took the steps down to the ground floor and followed the tiled hallway to the end. There, the Prime Warden’s secretary stopped them before they reached the door. The woman stood and slid her spectacles off her face.
Gil said, “We need to speak to the Prime Warden. It’s urgent.”
“Isn’t it rather late?” the woman asked with an irritated look, stepping in front of them. “I’m sorry, but the Prime Warden has stepped out.”
Gil drew up, frustrated. “When will she return?”
The woman retreated back behind her desk and donned her spectacles. “I wouldn’t presume to know.”
“Would you presume to know where she went?”
She picked up a stack of parchment and tapped it twice against the desk, straightening the papers. “The Prime Warden and her husband accepted an invitation to the palace.”
“Thank you for being such a help,” Gil snapped, then turned and walked back down the hallway, Ashra hurrying after him.
“Where are you going?” she gasped, catching up.
“To the palace,” Gil answered, quickening his pace.
Rylan jerked bolt upright in bed. Chest heaving, he strangled a sob and glanced around frantically at the darkness. In his mind, the image of his son’s charred face continued to haunt him. It wasn’t fading like it normally did upon waking. He tried hard to picture Korey’s face as it had been in life, giggling and happy. His son had been blessed with such an enormous heart, a capacity for love and joy that seemed boundless.
All erased. Reduced to char and ash.
He sat there in bed, trembling, shoulders shaking, until his pulse finally slowed its ragged pace. He squeezed his eyes shut, stemming the flow of tears.
He noticed he’d been unconsciously flexing his fingers, opening and closing his fist. And every time he did, the dimmest, thinnest filament of light glowed above his hand. Rylan stared down at it, uncertain what to think. At first, he couldn’t make out the color of the light. For a moment, he thought it looked blue. Then red. As he flexed his hand a few more times, the light became more substantial. Purple, he decided. Like a bruise. And it was part of him.
A new and terrible part.
He held his hand open. This time, the light stayed, glowing softly. He sat scowling down at it. He knew what it was and was disgusted by it. It was mage-power. The kind of power that could cure the dying, level cities, bring down mountains, vanquish armies….
All worthless.
It hadn’t helped him save his son.
It couldn’t bring his daughter back.
Rylan swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there for long minutes, cradling his head in his hands. He sat that way until he got his breathing under control. He brought his hands up and scrubbed his eyes, then rose from the bed.
He crossed the dark room, feeling his way along, until he reached a door that led out onto a balcony. Leaving the door open, he stepped out into the cool night air and walked forward to the railing. Below was an intimate courtyard ringed by columned walkways and four high walls. A fountain gurgled in the center. A slight breeze came up, ruffling his hair, scented with jasmine. From somewhere below came the sound of distant laughter. He moved to the other side of the balcony, where there was a view of the city, visible over the walls of the palace. He stood there for minutes, his eyes wandering over the innumerable rolling domes and tall minarets.
On impulse, he raised his hand and spread his fingers in front of him. Above his palm glowed a diffuse, violet orb. Curious, he swept his hand through the air, producing an arcing trail of sparkling light. Wondering what else he could do with the light, he turned around and stared back into the bedchamber, his eyes fixated on the shadows of the floor. Concentrating, he willed them to yield.
And they did.
A thin, purple mist spread before him across the floor, casting back the shadows with a soft, ethereal light, revealing the bedchamber within. Rylan stood in the doorway, staring in fascination at his creation. He took a step forward, his feet disturbing the glowing mist. He glanced up.
Something plowed into him and hurled him sideways against the wall, knocking the wind from his lungs. Before he could react, the dark figure was already in front of him. It grabbed a fistful of his hair and cracked his head back against the tiles.
Dazed and breathless, Rylan slid down the wall. His assailant sank with him. A hand closed around his throat. A woman’s voice whispered through the darkness:
“You will do as I say, or I’ll speak the Word that will pierce your heart. Now. Stand up.”
A focused calm washed over him. He didn’t think. He just reacted. He shot his hands out, and the woman flew backward with a cry.
Rylan hadn’t touched her.
He shoved himself to his feet, but the woman was already up. He caug
ht the glint of a blade as she lunged at him. He dodged sideways, jerking the rope that held the drapes out of the wall.
The blade sliced toward him.
Rylan snapped the rope taut, deflecting the blade. He twisted the cord, catching the woman’s wrist and pinning her arm behind her back. The knife dropped from her grip.
She screamed and bucked, fighting with all her might to slip the rope. He let her. When she moved to duck out of it, he tightened the cord around her neck.
The woman thrashed against him, making awful, strangling noises. The harder she fought, the tighter Rylan twisted the rope. He swung his leg over her and gripped her body between his thighs. He held her there, pinned, until her struggles weakened. The grunting became wheezing.
The chamber door crashed open. A stream of guards poured into the room.
Rylan was knocked away from the woman, the cord jerked from his hand. More guards piled in front of him, while others pinned his assailant to the floor. Panicked, Rylan scrambled forward, searching for the rope, the only weapon he could use to defend himself.
The woman lay on the floor, subdued but still breathing. She looked up at him, and for a second their eyes met. Her lips moved, and she whispered a word.
The Word that would kill him.
The impact of the spell carved through his ribcage like an axe.
Rylan’s knees buckled. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his side, moaning in agony and clutching his chest. The pain was incapacitating. Hot blood ran through his fingers, pooling beneath him on the carpet. A terrible pressure constricted his lungs. He fought a losing battle for every breath.
“Stand aside!” someone bellowed.
He was vaguely aware of hands on him, rolling him over. Through bleary eyes, he made out the face of the Sultan, leaning over him.
“Do something,” the man growled. “Anything!”
“There’s nothing I can do,” said a sad and gentle voice.
The voices were fading. The world was fading. Hands cupped his face. Then a different voice:
“Stand away from him.”
A wave of anguish washed over him, and he knew no more.
10
A Black Day
Gil pushed past a nervous barrier of palace guards who, noticing the color of his cloak, dared not block his passage. The noises up ahead sent alarm bells ringing through his mind. The sounds of shouts and mayhem echoed through the maze of corridors, growing louder and closer with every step he took. Gil knew with a sinking feeling what he was walking into. And this deep within the reclusive layers of Andarapi Palace—in the Sultan’s personal apartments—there was only one type of disturbance it could possibly be.
There had been another attack.
At the sight of a dozen or so guards collected in the hallway outside the Sultan’s personal chambers, Ashra surged forward, panic on her face. Gil followed, rushing after her. The guards parted before him, obeying the silent authority conveyed by his black cloak. Once inside the room, he halted as if walking into a wall. Or walking into a murder.
The Prime Warden and her husband stood on opposite sides of a large dining table, where the body of Rylan Marshall was laid out, covered in blood. For long moments, all Gil could do was stand frozen, his jaw going slack. He didn’t have to be told the man was dead. It was written on the faces of all the people surrounding him. Gil forced himself to walk forward, compelled by the need to confirm that knowledge with his eyes.
He moved to stand beside Quinlan Reis and looked down solemnly. Rylan’s eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling, his chest still. Blood pooled on the table, pattering slowly to the floor. The Prime Warden stood with her hands clasped, her face somber. Ashra moved immediately to the Sultan’s side, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
“Father,” she whispered. She stared at the body on the table with vast sadness in her eyes. In response, the Sultan put his arm around her.
Gil probed his own feelings, unsure how he felt. Sadness, certainly. He hadn’t known Rylan long, but he’d seemed a decent fellow. Yet deep down in some callous place inside, Gil discovered he also felt relief. He no longer had to worry about whether Rylan would choose to follow the path his demonic father had taken. At least he had lived and died a free man, and not a servant shackled to darkness. Gil was happy for that.
“Who killed him?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tense quiet.
“He’s not dead,” the Prime Warden responded, her voice low and hoarse.
Gil blinked. At first, he didn’t believe her. He stared harder at the body on the table. There was no sign of life in it. He moved his hand to touch Rylan’s arm, to feel inside him for a heartbeat. But Naia’s voice stopped his motion.
“I slowed time for him,” she explained softly. “He persists as he did the moment I found him. But he is only heartbeats from death. And he will die as soon as I lift the ward from him.”
Gil stared at her, blinking in shock. He’d never heard of such a practice. Slowing time was something he had never considered, never knew possible; it was not anything taught at the Lyceum. He wondered where the Prime Warden had learned such a skill, but then he remembered that Naia was a former priestess of Death. Perhaps the temple was privy to secrets not widely known.
Sultan Sayeed moved forward with Ashra on his arm. “What does that mean, you slowed time?”
The Prime Warden explained in gentle tones, “It is a type of ward. Death’s temple uses it to preserve the deceased before interment. Time still passes for Rylan, but very slowly. It could be years before he draws his final breath. But we cannot leave him in this state. That would not be compassionate. All I did was buy us time. No more.”
Gil had always wondered about the temple’s methods, how they could keep the dead preserved for the time required for a body to lie in repose. For royalty, that period could extend to months. He’d always suspected the temple used artifacts created by mages for the purpose. He just never knew how such a spell would work. Apparently, Naia did.
He asked, “Was his attacker caught?”
It was the Sultan who answered him. “She was apprehended.”
Hearing that, Quin turned and addressed the guards stationed in the doorway: “Bring the prisoner here.” Then he explained quickly, “Without knowing the Word, there is nothing we can do for him. We need to get it out of her. Whatever that takes.”
Gil took his meaning. The Prime Warden nodded slightly. Gil was surprised Naia would agree so quickly to the notion of torture. It seemed out of character.
He glanced a question at Ashra. But she ignored him, looking quickly away. They stood silent after that; there wasn’t anything more that could be done. Gil focused on the blood congealing on the table, watching it thicken and darken as the seconds wore by. Minutes later, the sound of running footsteps announced the return of the guards. Two breathless officers rushed into the room and fell upon the floor, prostrating themselves before their sovereign.
“Your Majesty, the woman is gone,” the first man reported.
The Sultan’s face warped into a mask of outrage. “What do you mean, gone?”
The officer remained bent over his knees, staring at the floor. “She is not in the dungeon—the cell door is still locked. It was never opened, this I swear. I have failed you, Your Majesty. Please take my life.”
Sayeed growled like an enraged wolf. “Leave,” he commanded.
Both men leapt to their feet and retreated in haste, bowing as they backed out of the room. In a broken voice, the Sultan whispered, “I failed my brother.” He reached down and closed Rylan’s eyes, a compassionate gesture that Gil felt strange, considering he’d only known the man for half a day.
“Magic, then,” the Grand Master whispered. He shook his head in obvious frustration. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through his hair before settling it back on and adjusting the brim. Then he paced away, face etched in deeply troubled lines, his shoulders hunched.
The Sultan gazed down at the body on the ta
ble. “Is he in pain?”
The Prime Warden nodded. She reached down and stroked Rylan’s damp hair back from his face. “Yes. He lingers in his final moments, somewhere between death and awareness.”
“Then end it.”
Naia hesitated only a moment before nodding. She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration.
A spark of insight slammed into Gil, hard enough to make him flinch. “Stop!” he gasped.
The Prime Warden glanced up at him in surprise. Gil scrambled to collect his thoughts. They fluttered about in his head like butterflies, scattering in all directions. It was moments before he could gather them into words. Moments while everyone in the room pinned their stares and hopes on him.
“The Word is empowered by magic, by his Gift,” Gil said quickly. “So, what if we remove the Gift from him? Wouldn’t that deactivate the Word?”
Naia looked at him flatly. “That would kill him.” The tone of her voice betrayed her irritation. A mage’s magical legacy was inseparable from their life force. No mage could survive the removal of that Gift. But Gil hadn’t meant that, at least not in the way Naia thought he did. He groped to find better words.
Quin cocked an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t the whole point of this exercise to keep him alive?”
Gil scowled. He hated being the object of sarcasm. And the Grand Master’s wit was sharper than most, honed to a razor’s edge by a thousand years of indifference.
Gil gestured at Quin’s side, where an elegant scimitar hung strapped to his waist. The sword was legendary, a magical artifact created by Quin himself. Zanikar was the only one of its kind, the only weapon capable of dampening a mage’s ability. The blade had never been duplicated, not even by its own creator.
“Your sword is a field dampener,” Gil said. “If we use it on Rylan, it would cut him off from the magic field—and maybe cut the Word off too.”
Quin’s face hardened. His gaze flicked down to Rylan, then slid back up to lock on Gil. His jaw worked, chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally, he nodded. “We could give it a try,” he allowed. “But if we dampen him, Naia’s time-slip will also stop working. We’ll have only seconds to act.”
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