Rylan drew in a long, frustrated breath, then stood and turned toward her. As he did, he noticed a bowl of rice pushed just inside the bars of his cage. He considered the woman, wondering what her intentions were.
“What do you want?”
She stared at him in silence.
Furious, Rylan kicked the bowl out of the cage, showering the floor with rice and shattering the bowl. “I don’t want your damn food! Bring me my daughter, you gods-fondling whore!”
The woman stared at him a moment longer and then rose. Without a word, she stepped forward, bending to gather the broken bowl and the shards of ceramic that lay scattered across the floor. When she had collected all the fragments in her hand, she righted herself and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. Rylan watched the woman exit with an acute sense of desperation. He had to get out of the cage. He had to find Amina.
He screamed his frustration at the door and shook the cage bars furiously. Neither helped to dispel his rage. He turned around and leaned with his back up against the bars, then slid slowly to the ground.
Another hour slid slowly by. Then another. Rylan lay on the mat, his mouth dry with thirst. He rolled over.
And found the woman staring at him.
She had returned and was kneeling on the floor outside his cage. Beside her sat a lacquered tray that held a steaming wooden cup. She removed the cup from the tray, setting it on the floor. With both hands, she pushed it toward him between the bars of his cage. Rylan slid over and scooped it up, raising the cup to his lips.
“It’s poison.”
He almost dropped the cup. Rylan lowered it from his mouth and stared down at the contents. The wooden cup was filled with a hot, clear liquid. He brought it up to his nose. There was no odor to it.
He frowned at the woman. “So, after all this, you’re just going to poison me?”
It seemed unfathomable that she would have gone through the trouble of bringing him there and locking him in a cage just to serve him a cup of poison. He was about ready to throw it at her when she spoke again:
“It’s been decided that you are too dangerous to let live. You will be put to death in the morning. Or you can drink the chiri and take your own life. Whichever you decide.”
Rylan felt a hot wave of contempt wash over him. He thought again about dousing her with the poison, but he didn’t want to limit his options. There were many ways to die. He shuddered, thinking of the agony the Word had inflicted on him. He didn’t want to die that way.
Gazing into the cup, he asked, “What about my daughter? Are you going to poison her too?”
“We don’t have your daughter.”
His gaze snapped up to lock on hers. He stood there for a moment, searching her eyes deeply for confirmation she was lying. But the woman’s face was stern and dispassionate. He couldn’t tell whether or not she spoke the truth.
“If you don’t have Amina, then who does?”
She clutched her hands together in front of her. “The Turan Khar.”
Cold panic clenched his throat as he thought of the army assaulting Karikesh. “Who are they?”
“They are our enemy.”
That made no sense. He frowned at the woman harder, wondering who her people were. Her skin was a creamy gold, soft and without blemish, her hair light brown, falling in tight spirals past her shoulders. She wasn’t Rhenic or even Malikari. In fact, he had never seen anyone like her before.
“Why would they take my daughter?” he asked in frustration.
The woman shrugged. “They want you. It’s likely they sought to lure you with your daughter.”
He wanted to hit his head against the bars. “You’ve got to let me go,” he whispered. “I’ve got to find her. Now that I know where to look for her—”
“No,” the woman stated firmly. “Your fate has been decided. Drink the poison or wait to be executed. Whichever you prefer.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
Rylan called after her, “Please! My daughter doesn’t deserve this! I’m her only chance—you’ve got to let me go!”
The woman paused in her stride, glancing back over her shoulder at him with a look of sympathy. “I suggest you drink the chiri, Gerald Lauchlin,” she said. Then she left, closing the door and leaving him standing there with the cup of poison in his hand.
Hours drug by.
He’d placed the cup in the corner of the cage near the door, protected by the bars. He didn’t want to accidentally knock it over. He hadn’t decided to drink it, but he hadn’t decided not to. He sat staring at the cup, trying to use it as a focus to clear his thoughts. But it was just as much a poison to his mind as it was to his body. So instead, Rylan gave in to despair and let his thoughts wander where they liked, not caring how they savaged him. There was no point in fighting them any longer.
He sighed. The cup of poison was starting to look more and more like a viable option. At least he could slake his thirst. The one thing that stopped him from drinking it down was the knowledge that giving up on his own life would also be giving up on his daughter. He couldn’t do that. So he lay down and closed his eyes.
When he awoke again, the bright light of morning glared red at him through his eyelids. He was lying on his side, his face pillowed on his outstretched arm. His head throbbed fiercely. Groggily, he sat up and turned toward the door.
And saw a dead rat lying on its side, inches away from the cup of poison.
Revolted, Rylan scrambled back against the bars. He stared hard at the dead rat. It must have drunk from the cup and died almost immediately, only steps away. He had never heard of poison that strong—strong enough to kill an animal in seconds. He wondered how long it would take the poison to work on him.
He sat on the pallet, staring at the rat. The morning was wearing on. He didn’t have much time. His eyes went again to the wooden cup. He sat pondering it for a long while, wondering what manner of death they had in mind for him. Amina’s face filled his thoughts. The image of the dead rat blurred and diminished in his mind.
He wouldn’t drink the poison. He would fight these people until the moment his heart stopped beating. His daughter deserved no less. Miserable, he leaned with his back up against the cage bars, a knot of despair choking his throat.
He sat there for another hour. Perhaps two. Then the woman returned.
He looked up at her and asked, “What if I help you?”
The woman knelt on the floor just outside his cage, hands on her thighs. She was wearing a new mint-green robe. She stared at him without responding, her expression flat.
Feeling weak, Rylan pushed himself from the floor and stood gripping the bars. “You called me Gerald Lauchlin. That means you know who I am—who I really am. You brought me here for a reason. You must want me to help you. So what if I agree to help you?” Desperate, he shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “Look. I just want to find my daughter. After that, you can do anything you want with me.”
The woman lowered her eyes, a saddened expression on her face. For long seconds, she said nothing. Then, staring at the floor, she responded, “We brought you here hoping you would be different. But you are not different; you’re just like your father. There is no hope for you.” Her eyes met his. “You should have drunk the chiri. Now your death will not be painless.”
She sounded regretful.
That surprised him. “Does killing me bother you?”
“Death walks hand and hand with life.”
Rylan scowled; he was getting frustrated again. “Then you’ll have to execute me. Because I’m not going to drink poison just to spare you getting your hands bloody.” He struck out with his foot, kicking the wooden cup across the floor. It collided with the bars, spraying poison everywhere.
The woman flinched and brought her hands up to shield her face. She sprang to her feet and staggered back, looking unsettled for once. She cast him a long, disdainful glare. Then she turned and walked toward the door.
�
�Please!” he called after her. “Help me find my daughter! I give you my word—I’ll come back and then you can kill me a thousand times! Please! I beg you! She doesn’t deserve this!”
The woman kept walking. As she reached the door, cold despair kicked Rylan in the face.
“Amina’s blood will be on your hands too!” he shouted after her.
The woman paused, one hand lingering on the doorframe. She glanced back at him.
Then she left.
This time, it was only minutes before she returned. And this time, the woman wasn’t alone. Six men with swords entered the room with her, hands on the hilts of their weapons. Each man had closely shorn hair and white cotton robes that hung just past their knees. The woman stopped, but the men came forward, one holding the key to his prison.
“Move back,” the guard commanded.
Rylan obeyed, edging back against the bars as the man unlocked his cage. The door swayed open with a groan, and four of the guards spilled inside. Before Rylan could react, they swung him around and pinned him against the bars. While three men held him, the other tied his hands behind his back and hobbled his legs with a rope. When they had him bound, the men jerked him around and shoved him forward, holding him up as he staggered between them. When they dragged him past the woman, she raised her hand, and the men holding Rylan halted.
“The Sensho has decided to look upon you,” she informed him, gazing deeply into his face. For a long moment, her eyes searched his. Then, looking satisfied, she smiled. “Speak to the Sensho just as you spoke to me. Let him hear the love you bear for your daughter. If he deems you human, you will live. Otherwise, you will die.”
Rylan slumped in relief. He still had a chance—which meant Amina had a chance. Whoever this Sensho was, he would promise the man anything he wanted. Anything. Whatever it was. Just so long as he could live to find his daughter.
That was all that mattered.
16
Aftermath
Gil turned away from the fires consuming the North City, not wanting to look at them any longer. Across the canal, the Promenade was filling with soldiers of the Turan Khar. So far, they hadn’t attempted to cross the water. But the respite wouldn’t last forever. Soon, they would be coming. It was inevitable.
He strode back toward where the Sultan stood giving orders and taking reports from the score of officers standing around him. By their dark blue uniforms, they were Zakai, the upper echelon of the Malikari officer corps. Maneuvering through the crowd, Gil drew up at the Sultan’s side, looking around the circle from one grim face to the next. It was who he didn’t see that struck him.
“Where’s Rylan?” he asked.
Sayeed glanced at him with weary eyes. “He is lost.”
And that was that. No explanation. Blowing out a sigh, Gil ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. There’d been enough casualties that night already. One more shouldn’t matter. But for some reason it did. He couldn’t tell if the emotion he felt was sorrow or relief. In the end, it didn’t matter.
The Sultan told his officers, “Whatever it takes, we cannot let them cross the water. If they cross the canal, we will lose the Lower City. So we will draw our line here and hold the Waterfront, no matter the cost.”
He turned to his second-in-command, a slender, gray-haired man in an elaborate uniform and a tall hat. “Erect barricades all along the Waterfront. Put every man you have along this line. Establish a command center in Murkaq Square and send criers through the city. Every man of fighting age should bring his arms and armor and join his brothers in this battle. Now go! See it done!”
The officers scattered to be about their duties, leaving Gil alone with the Sultan and his daughter. He turned and strode back toward the edge of the canal. A breeze came up, blowing sooty smoke across the water. The canal stretched broad and flat before him, its waters dark. Burning debris rode its currents, floating downstream toward the bay. To the north, fires still gnawed on the bones of the North City, casting an eerie orange glow against the low-hanging clouds that obscured the rising sun.
Not clouds, he reminded himself. Not natural clouds, at any rate.
At least the bombardment of streaking fireballs had stopped. Perhaps the Turan Khar were satisfied with capturing a large part of the city. More likely, they were just giving their mages a chance to rest before resuming their assault. Whichever, it was hard not knowing the nature of the enemy they fought or what their motivations were. Or, most importantly, their objective.
The wind rippling his cloak, Gil paced along the edge of the bank, watching the Sultan’s men laboring to fortify their perimeter.
The morning wore painfully on.
The barricades grew in number and complexity, made of anything the soldiers could drag up to the Waterfront: overturned carriages, furniture, pieces of buildings; there was even a chicken coop and a dead horse piled up on one of the mounds. Gil hunkered down behind the gutted remains of a vendor’s kiosk. There, a few of the Sultan’s men had built a small fire, which felt good. The morning was frigid, and wisps of fog roved over the dark waters of the canal.
Quiet clung like a pall over the north side of the city, broken by the occasional nerve-chilling shriek. There was also a constant grating noise borne toward them by the wind. Gil had no idea what the sound was, but it was unsettling. He tugged his cloak around him and soon found himself nodding off.
A high-pitched screech startled him awake.
Jerking upright, Gil craned his neck and stared up into the clouds, his eyes wandering the overcast sky. A streak of motion caught his attention. He stood up, eyes tracking the small object gliding just below the clouds. At first he thought it was a bat. Only, bats didn’t glide. The body of the creature was narrow and elongated, like that of a snake. It seemed to slither through the air. Another piercing shriek tensed his nerves.
His mind went immediately to the night they had left Farlow with Rylan. Some winged creature had tracked their progress from the sky, hidden in the fog. It had made a similar cry. Unnerved, he settled back down beside the fire and leaned his head against a barricade made of piled sacks of rice. He gazed up into the sky, his eyes following the creature as it crisscrossed the city in what looked like a search pattern. Perhaps it was surveilling. But that would mean it was capable of intelligent thought, which was an altogether worrisome idea.
Close to noon, Gil was startled by a shout from one of the soldiers nearby. He stood up and walked toward the edge of the canal. There, he caught sight of the body of a woman drifting by, face down, long, brown hair trailing behind. Repulsed, Gil jerked back away from the bank. But then his eyes fell on another body following the first downstream, turning slowly on the current. A few more corpses floated by. Then more. Within minutes, the waters of the Grand Canal were filled with floating human remains. Hundreds of people, murdered in the night. Dumped upstream into the canal. A warning?
No. The corpses were there to inflict terror.
The Sultan drew up beside Gil, his face frozen, his gaze moving slowly over the carnage delivered to them by the river. He stood there still for long minutes, his expression slowly hardening. At last he clenched a fist and held it up before him.
“They will pay,” he growled softly. “By the gods, they will pay.”
The slow procession of corpses continued as the day wore slowly on. Even after the sun had reached its zenith, the dead continue to float by: men and women alike. Children. The occasional dog.
And the afternoon brought new horrors. Across the water, thousands of enemy soldiers now milled along the bank, a writhing, disorderly mass. They carried every manner of weapon and wore a mix-matched array of armor, ranging from rags to leather to plate. It hardly seemed possible that they were part of one fighting force. He wondered if they were conscripts, dredged up from whatever far-off lands the Turan Khar had already conquered.
The sound of commotion caught Gil’s attention. Across the water, a gap had opened in the mass of soldiers. Through that opening, pris
oners were being led forward, struggling and screaming, perhaps a dozen in all. They were forced to their knees in a line, each with a soldier standing behind them with daggers bared. Gil wondered what kind of demands would be made for their lives.
There was a sharp, strangled cry as the first throat was slit. Gil reached for the magic field, tugging it inside and holding it ready. But there was nothing he could do. The prisoners were beyond his range. He might be able to start a fire in their midst, but that would just kill the captives along with their assailants.
Another piteous cry, and another prisoner collapsed. A woman, this time. Gil swung away, swiping a fist out in anger. There was another nerve-shredding cry. And another. Soon all the hostages lay dead, sprawled in pools of blood. Their executioners wiped their blades clean on the backs of the people they had just murdered, then disappeared into the disorderly throng.
Minutes passed. And then the ranks of the crowd opened again. A pair of mages, a man and a woman, walked forward and stood over the remains of the dead prisoners. At their feet glowed a warm mist of magelight. They were linked together by a chain that was anchored to bands on their wrists. Even from a distance, Gil could sense the might of their combined power.
Just looking at them made him shiver. The woman had long white hair that reached to her waist. Because of her hair, at first he thought she was old. But then he realized her face was youthful, even beautiful, despite the gray pallor of her complexion. The man with her was young, with rich brown hair and golden skin. He was clothed in tattered robes made of filthy linen that looked pieced together.
For some reason, Gil thought both mages were staring at him. It was impossible to tell from that distance what the pair were actually looking at. Nevertheless, his skin prickled as he became more certain by the second that he was the object of their focus.
When the mages raised their arms, he knew they were about to strike.
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