The guard bowed low, until his back was parallel to the floor. “It shall be done,” he said, then turned and departed. The other guards shifted along the walls, spacing themselves out and closing the gap that had been left by their companion’s disappearance.
Rylan stood waiting, staring at the vine-like pattern of the rug at his feet, his eyes trailing over it. Long minutes passed, and still the guard hadn’t returned. Vexed, he breathed out a heavy sigh and paced toward the balcony, just wanting to be away from the burden of staring eyes.
As he turned his back to the door, Rylan heard the latch click.
He whirled to find a man with a thick white mustache standing in the doorway, wearing a long robe and a tall red hat. The man bowed low, not quite so low as the guard had, and stood with his gaze on the floor, hands clasped in front of him.
“His Royal Majesty, Sayeed Sultan, requests the honor of your presence,” he said. He motioned toward the door.
Rylan sagged in relief, moving forward to follow the old man through the doorway. But once in the corridor, he was immediately discouraged by the sight of a dozen more guards clogging the passage. Frustration tightened his gut. Jaw clenched, he followed the old man down the wide corridor to the royal chambers. The man led him to the door with the gilt grate, beckoning him through. Rylan entered and then halted at the sight of the Sultan standing in the center of the room, a golden chalice in his hand. He nodded at the old man.
“Thank you, Timur Pasha.”
The old man bowed low, far lower than he had for Rylan, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Sayeed smiled warmly, perhaps even fondly. “It is good to see you hale.” He motioned to two low, bench-like seats arranged on rugs before the hearth. He took the furthest one, sitting down cross-legged upon it.
Angry, Rylan stood where he was and gazed at the man harshly. “There are guards in my bedchamber, in the corridors… They follow me everywhere.”
The Sultan raised his hand, indicating the long seat across from him. “Please,” he insisted. He reached down at his side, lifting a bottle of wine.
Rylan hesitated a moment before complying. His eyes found the gilt poker before the fireplace. For the second time in two days, he considered using it. But if he killed Sayeed, he would never make it out of the palace alive. There would be no one to rescue his daughter. You lucky bastard, he thought, glaring his anger at the monarch as he took the seat across from him. If it wasn’t for Amina, the man wouldn’t be so lucky.
Rylan discovered that sitting on the bench-like sofa was like sitting on the floor. He sat with his legs sprawled outward but realized quickly how awkward he must look. Grudgingly, he drew his feet up under him, mirroring his host’s posture.
The Sultan nodded his approval. “Surely, you understand the necessity of the guards?” he asked in his melodic baritone. Leaning forward, he poured Rylan a glass of wine.
Rylan took the glass from him, silently fuming. “What I don’t understand is why any of this is happening to me. And to my son. And my daughter.”
The Sultan scowled. Looking sympathetic, he said, “If I understood the source of the threat to you, then I would eliminate it. Unfortunately, I do not. All I can do is protect you. Thus, the guards.”
Rylan set the wine glass down on the rug, untouched. “I can’t stay here. I need to find my daughter.”
The Sultan appeared to consider his words carefully before asking, “Where would you look for her?”
Rylan grimaced in frustration. “I don’t know. But I’ll never find her sitting here.”
Stroking his beard calmly, Sayeed informed him, “I’ve already dispatched some of my men to Farlow, to look there for answers. They are intelligent men. I know it is difficult, but try to find peace and patience. Give my men time to investigate.”
Rylan stared at him, his insides boiling with resentment. “If it was your daughter, would you have peace and patience?”
The man drew in a deep breath, then let it out again with a long sigh. His eyebrows flicked upward. After a moment’s hesitation, he admitted, “No. I would not.” He set his glass down and clasped his fingers together in front of him. “But I am not in your situation. You have enemies who claim they want you ‘because of who you are.’ Was that not their words? And why do they want you? I will tell you why: because if you have even the dimmest spark of your father in you, you have the potential to scorch the world. Do you understand what I am saying? We cannot risk your enemies gaining control of you.”
His words served to fan Rylan’s ire. They confirmed what he’d suspected all along—the guards were more than just protection. He was a prisoner.
“I’m not my father,” he growled. “I’m not a threat to anyone. I don’t know anything.”
“But you could be taught,” the Sultan responded firmly.
Rylan’s frustration finally overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation. He surged to his feet. “So what am I supposed to do? Sit here under guard for the rest of my life? While my daughter is imprisoned somewhere? They could be torturing her! They could be defiling her! She could be dead already!”
The Sultan stared up at him, the intensity of his expression dominating even Rylan’s anger. “And if she is, there is nothing you can do about it,” he said forcefully.
He was right, Rylan realized. He sagged back down on the sofa, bowing his head. Despair gripped his heart. He was hardly aware of the Sultan refilling the wine glass he had spilled unknowingly. There was a long and heavy pause.
“Give my men time to work,” Sayeed said more gently. “Trust me—they are the best chance your daughter has.”
Rylan looked up at the man with contempt in his eyes. “Why should I trust you? Tell me that. The last attack happened within your own walls. How do I know it wasn’t you who ordered it?”
The Sultan did not respond immediately. He sat with his eyes fixed on Rylan’s own, holding him captive with a cold-as-steel glare. His face hardened to stone, and he sat still, as if locked rigidly in place.
“You are truly your father’s son,” he said, his voice cool and carefully controlled. “My brother was a very shrewd man. But he could also be very rash. And very arrogant.”
He set his goblet down on the rug. He sat for long moments in silence, completely still, except for one finger, which he tapped absently against his cheek. After a while, he nodded as if in answer to a question, then said with a deep frown, “I will offer a compromise. From what my guards have told me, you handle yourself well in combat. They reported you had the woman subdued before they arrived, and it was only their own interference that freed her to speak the Word. This goes against my better judgment. But so long as you remain armed, you are free to come and go as you please. Do what you will with the guards who have been assigned you; henceforth, they are yours to command. I do ask, however, that you exercise great prudence and do not idly dismiss their protection.”
Rylan bowed his head, feeling relieved. The Sultan was a hard man to deny and, he was discovering, a harder man to dislike. Rylan wanted to resent him, wanted that badly. But the more Sayeed spoke, the more he found himself respecting him. He seemed a man of honor, and his intentions seemed genuine. Despite every reservation, Rylan couldn’t bring himself to hate him.
“My thanks, Your Majesty,” he said with a feeling of relief. “I’ll be prudent. But I don’t have a weapon. Your men took my only dagger.”
Sayeed stared down at the rug with a deep frown. Then he rose with a smile. “I think I have something.” He crossed the floor to a tall cabinet and opened a drawer. From within, he withdrew a curving scimitar contained in a metal scabbard. He turned back to Rylan, proffering the sword in both hands.
Rylan stood and accepted the weapon, baring the blade. It was deceptively light, even though he had no doubt it was strong and deadly. The blade was single-edged and made of folded steel, with a dull patina of age and heavy use. It had an elegant, subtle curve that flared out toward the tip.
Reaching down, he unfastened the wide belt that girthed his tunic, unhooking the jeweled sword and matching dagger. Those he retained, setting the dagger on a table and leaning the sword against the wall. The leather belt with its wide gold buckle, he offered to Rylan. It was heavy, weighted with many iron rings from which different implements could be hung. Worn straps dangled from two of the rings, ready to affix to his sword’s suspension. The belt looked old, although the leather was still supple.
“This was your father’s war belt,” Sayeed said.
Rylan stared down at the belt with a cold and ominous feeling. He bowed slightly, in a crude facsimile of the way he had seen the palace servants defer to Sayeed. “You have my thanks, Your Majesty. These are fine gifts.”
The Sultan put his hand up. “Stop,” he said firmly. “Do not call me ‘Your Majesty.’ You are family now.”
An acute feeling of humility made Rylan bow his head. His eyes darted to the gilt poker leaning against the tiles of the hearth. Then he looked down at the sword and belt in his hands and swallowed heavily. Not for the first time in his adult life, he felt a profound sense of shame.
“Thank you… Sayeed,” he whispered.
The Sultan reached out and firmly lifted Rylan’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Never lower your gaze,” the man instructed. “Not to anyone.”
Rylan nodded slowly. It was hard, keeping his eyes level when he felt so overwhelmed.
Sayeed smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Gird your weapon. There is an event we must attend together. I regret it will not be pleasant.”
Rylan did as the man asked, wrapping the soft leather belt around his hips. It took him longer to buckle on the scabbard. “What’s the event?”
The Sultan picked up his sheathed dagger and thrust it under the sash at his waist. “The execution of the guards who failed you.”
12
The Absence of Shadow
Gil sat with his elbows on the table, blond hair clutched in his fists, bent over a cloth-bound text that smelled of lamp oil and decades of dust. His eyes waded blearily across a relentless sea of words. The text was an essay on early Aeridorian languages. He flipped a tattered page and continued reading, tracking the motion of his gaze with his finger.
Until the book slid out from beneath him. A bowl of something hot slid in from his left, taking the book’s place. Gil flinched as the smell of curry hit him square in the face. Across the table, Ashra cast herself down in a chair and leaned forward with her arms folded in front of her.
Gil glanced down at the bowl, then back up at Ashra. “What’s this?”
“It’s called food.”
Gil blinked. The smell of the curry made his mouth water. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you bringing me food?”
She smiled slyly. “It’s called bribery.”
“And why are you trying to bribe me?” A piece of flatbread lay across the top of the bowl. Gil’s hand slid toward it. He had to stop himself. He looked back up at Ashra and stared at her hard, waiting for a response.
The woman unfolded her arms and sat back in her seat. “Because you’ve been my mentor for nearly a week, and I’ve yet to learn one damn thing from you.”
That wasn’t quite true. Nevertheless, it was no reason to abstain from eating. With a grunt, Gil tore off a piece of flatbread and used it to shovel a bite of curried eggplant into his face. He hadn’t swallowed the first mouthful before following it up with a second, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Still chewing, he remarked, “Well, this is the first time you’ve brought me food.”
He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He’d unintentionally skipped both breakfast and lunch. The curry was delicious, but spicy. His gaze roamed the table, looking for something to drink. He didn’t see anything. Either accidently or on purpose, Ashra had forgotten a very necessary part of the meal.
“So, what do you want to learn from me?” he asked, scooping another bite into his mouth.
“I want you to teach me how to be a battlemage.”
He almost choked. Gil paused with a piece of flatbread halfway to his mouth, his face frozen in a look of disbelief. “What?”
Ashra regarded him with a snide expression. “I want to be a battlemage. Why else do you think I asked for you to be my mentor?”
“You… asked…?” The bread in Gil’s hand sank slowly to the table.
“The Prime Warden didn’t tell you?”
He shook his head, struggling to recall his conversation with Naia in her office. He was quite sure the woman hadn’t mentioned anything about it. He admitted, “I just assumed it was her idea.”
“Never assume.” Ashra reached across the table and plucked a piece of eggplant out of his bowl. She popped it into her mouth, then sucked her fingers clean with a wicked grin.
Gil stared at her for a long moment in silence, waiting for his brain to catch up with the conversation. He took another bite of curry, then stared deeply into the depths of the bowl as he chewed. The spices made his brow break out in a sweat. It had to be the spices.
Taking another bite, he said, “I don’t understand. You’re Malikari. Your father is the Sultan. Why in the world would you want to become a battlemage?” The charter of his Order was to defend the land and its people. But Ashra came from a family of invaders, a people foreign to the land they had ravaged and conquered. He lifted his gaze, studying her face intently. The look in her eyes hardened. There was a lot of anger there, he observed. And something else as well. Was that hurt?
“This land is my home too,” she said tightly. “And I want to spend my life serving it.”
Gil fought the urge not to chortle. “Well, that’s just bloody brilliant,” he remarked, making a broad gesture with the bread. “So your father butchers half the continent, and now you just—”
Ashra raised her hand, looking furious. “Stop,” she commanded, her eyes scalding pools of resentment. “Are you going to teach me? Or not? Because if not, let me know, and I’ll ask for someone else.”
The curry was almost gone. There really hadn’t been all that much there to begin with, Gil realized with a feeling of disappointment. He scraped the bread along the bottom of the bowl, chasing around the last few bits of eggplant. When they refused to cooperate, he abandoned his manners and used his fingers.
“If I have a choice about it, then I’d rather not,” he said, sitting back and savoring his last bite. He doubted ridding himself of Ashra would be that easy. Regardless of who had come up with the idea, the Prime Warden had seemed very insistent that they work together. Gil couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever seen Naia back down from anything.
Ashra stared at him for a moment with dead-cold eyes. Slowly, she slid out of her chair. “Then thank you for your time, Grand Master Archer,” she said. She pushed her chair in with a scraping noise and started walking away.
“Wait,” Gil called after her.
Ashra halted and turned back. She said nothing, just stood staring at him with a molten-lead gaze.
“Why me?” Gil asked. He was genuinely curious.
Ashra walked back to the table. She leaned forward, planting both hands on the table’s surface. Staring at him hard, she said, “I told you. I want to serve this land and its people. I thought the best way to start would be to begin repairing the damage caused by our fathers. That’s why I asked for you. If you and I can’t learn to live with each other, then what hope do our nations have?”
Gil met her gaze and held it, looking deeply into her eyes as he considered her words carefully. Perhaps she had something, there. The war had to end at some point, and that would require reconciliation on both sides. He sucked in a cheek.
“Meet me down in the courtyard an hour before sunset,” he decided, pushing b
ack his bowl. “Bring your shadow with you.”
Ashra stared at him a moment longer before a slight smile curled her lips. “It doesn’t detach.”
Gil returned her smile. “It will if I want it to.”
Rylan squinted as he strode beside the Sultan into the glaring sunlight of the Inner Court. To his right marched an arcaded walkway that ran along the wing that enclosed the palace kitchens, evidenced by dozens of stone chimneys that protruded from the rooftops in long rows. Smoke rolled out of several of the stacks, scenting the air with smells of roasting meat and pastries.
The courtyard was full of people, all motionless. They stood in clusters beneath an oak tree of enormous girth that grew in the middle of the garden, just to the right of a three-tiered fountain. Beneath the tree was a square block made of solid marble approached by a footpath. Many men were gathered around the block to either side, heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them. Not a soul moved or uttered a sound. Only the trickling patter of the fountain disturbed the silence.
It took Rylan a moment to realize what he was looking at. He glanced at the marble slab, at last recognizing it for what it was: a headsman’s block. The enormous man standing shirtless beside the tree, looming head and shoulders above the others, had to be the executioner. The eight men who formed a line along the court’s brick wall were the guards who had attempted to save him from the woman’s assault. They stood at attention, their faces stern but calm. They did not appear to be bound.
It was a harrowing scene, one far more disturbing than Rylan had anticipated. As their party drew to a halt under the oak tree, a shiver ran through him, making his skin crawl. It was all so eerie. The unnatural silence magnified the tension in the air a thousand-fold. A breeze came up, stirring the leaves of the tree with a rushing noise that would have gone unnoticed in any other context. Here, within the iron-clad grip of stillness, the sound of the rustling leaves took a nerve-grating toll.
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