Gil steadied himself, conjuring an absorption web about his body. They could still see him through it, and he them, but the web would take the brunt of any magical attack they decided to level at him. At the same time, he drew on the magic field and honed it into a weapon to attack: a two-prong spear of magic that would lance across the water and impale them both.
The pair stepped forward, lowered their arms, and peered at him intently.
Looking at them, Gil suddenly realized how beautiful they both were. He had never seen two more exquisitely made people in his life. There was a kindness to them, something tangible that he could sense even across the distance between them. A strong, enduring connection they shared with each other. They longed for others like them to include in that bond.
That’s why they were looking at him, Gil realized. They wanted him to join their union. It was a lonely, achy kind of yearning, one that ignited in him a similar craving. He found himself longing for their company, wanting desperately to be with them. He knew that, beside them, he would never again know animosity or rejection. His life would be filled with the warmth of enduring love and unwavering acceptance. He would never again be alone.
He thought of how he had almost attacked them and felt instantly ashamed.
Immediately, Gil dropped his absorption web and let go of the magic field entirely. He gasped, frozen in the cold grip of dismay. Bringing a hand up to his brow, he wiped away a sheen of cold sweat. He felt flushed. Revolted. He was terrible. Despicable. There was only one thing important in the entire world, and that was protecting the two people across the water from him. He had to go to them. They needed him at their side.
He took a step toward the edge of the bank, ready to throw himself in.
And then he realized what he was doing.
“Get out of my mind!” he gasped.
He brought his hands up and clutched his head, struggling to rid himself of emotions that weren’t his own, that had been placed there deliberately to sabotage his will. He grappled for command of his own mind, wrenching it back by brute force of will.
Drawing hard on the magic field, he lashed out at the two mages with all his might, striking out with a whip-crack of solid air that shot over the water, impacting with their bodies with the fury of a cyclone. The two mages were hurled backward into the crowd of soldiers behind them, mowing them down.
Instantly, Gil felt a terrible, crushing sense of guilt. He’d killed them. Two people who only desired his company, who had wanted to become his friends, perhaps even his family. Two people who would have loved him unconditionally, despite his flaws. He had murdered them….
“Are you trying to commit suicide, or are you just that stupid?”
Gil whirled to find himself staring into Quinlan Reis’s face. He took a step back and stumbled, gasping in dismay as he realized where he stood. At the edge of the canal, ready to cast himself in and swim for the other side. His entire body was shaking. Aghast, he reached up and touched his face, shocked to find his cheeks wet with tears. He looked at Quin, shaking his head in confusion and shock.
“I’m just stupid,” he whispered, fumbling to gather his wits about him. “They’re in my mind.”
The Grand Master frowned. “In your mind? How?”
“I don’t know.” Gil shook his head, grappling with his muddled thoughts. “But I damn near killed myself.” He glanced back across the canal.
Quin led him away from the water’s edge. He carried a mage’s staff, a knotted piece of wood about his own height. His black coat was dusted with ash, his face smeared with grime. He walked Gil back toward the barricade the Sultan’s men were still laboring to construct.
“Did you see what they did to those people?” Gil asked, his voice shaking.
Quin nodded. “I did. How an army treats its prisoners says a lot.” He shook his head, biting his lip. “Expect no mercy from them. Now we know for certain that surrender is not an option.”
“Surrender was never an option.”
Gil turned at the sound of the Sultan’s voice. Sayeed stepped between them and embraced Quin hard, clapping him on the back. He said, “We have made this city our home, and no army of man will take it from us.”
Quin grimaced. “I have a feeling your resolve will be sorely tested before this is done.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you happen to have anything to drink?”
“Come,” the Sultan said to Quin.
Taking the Grand Master by the arm, he beckoned for Gil to follow. He led them back toward a tent, where he cast himself down on a rug next to Ashra, who sat leaning back against the rough wall of a building. Quin followed him to the ground, sitting cross-legged. Gil lingered on his feet, staring wearily back over his shoulder in the direction of the canal. His gaze roamed the long Promenade across the water. He wondered what had become of the mages he had attacked, if his strike had truly killed them. Part of him hoped they were dead. But another part of him hoped they weren’t.
The Sultan lifted a water jug. Tilting his head back, he took thirsty gulps of the contents. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then handed the jug to Quin. The Grand Master took a few swallows from the container then, grimacing, handed it back.
“I need something much stronger than that to quench my thirst,” he grumbled.
“If we survive this, I will treat you to all the liquor you can swallow,” the Sultan replied. “Tell me, how fairs the Lyceum? Where do we stand?”
“The Lyceum hasn’t been directly threatened,” Quin assured him. “But we lost fourteen Battlemages in the night.”
The Sultan grimaced, then muttered under his breath, “May the gods ease their souls.” There was a heavy pause. Then he said, “I’m sorry, my friend, but I need you to deploy every mage you have left along the canal.”
Quin reached up and scratched the whiskers on his face. He glanced along the length of the canal, his expression grim, then breathed a weary sigh. “Even stretched thin, I doubt we have enough mages to hold the Waterfront.”
The Sultan shrugged. “Then give me what you have. It will have to suffice.”
With that, the two men shook hands. Sayeed raised the water jug to his lips, taking a great gulp, then passed it to his daughter.
Ashra took a sip, her gaze traveling to Gil. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Gil said, not wanting to admit to the mental battle he was still wrestling with in his head. The fates of the mages he had attacked weighed heavily on him, and his thoughts kept sliding back to them. Balling his hand into a fist, he turned away.
“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath. Whatever they had done to his mind wasn’t going away very quickly.
“What is that?” Quin said, rising to his feet, his attention captured on something across the bank. Moving past Gil, he strode out into the street through a gap in the barricades, walking to the edge of the canal.
Gil followed his gaze. Across the water, four women stood linking hands. Each had long white hair and ragged gowns just as gray as their skin. They stood along the edge of the canal as if waiting for a signal.
“Your Majesty,” Quin called back over his shoulder. “Tell your men it’s time to earn their pay.” He adjusted his hat, then started forward down the street.
“Warden!” Gil exclaimed, guessing his intentions.
Quin paused and turned back, cocking an eyebrow. “Do you have a better plan?”
Gil’s mouth went dry when he saw the reckless glint in Quin’s eyes. He licked his lips. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”
17
Shackles of Identity
They emerged from the building into a gray and dreary day. Rylan winced as a breeze full of chill moisture brushed his face. He stood on a balcony overlooking a wide valley covered in fog like a gray and frothy sea. The balcony clung to the side of a precipitous slope. The structure was connected by a wide suspension bridge to a building on an adjacent ridge, its planks painted green. Just looking at the gently swaying bridge made
Rylan dizzy.
Most of the guards moved ahead of him onto the bridge, which was wide enough for two men to walk abreast. He stumbled, his stride compromised by the short rope that bound his legs. Thankfully, the bridge was much more stable than it appeared, swaying languorously beneath his feet. The planks were solid, the rope handrails fibrous and sturdy. Beneath them was only a choking sea of fog. Foliage-laden cliffs thrust upward from the mist, ringing the area like a wide bowl. Layers of buildings clung to the slopes, built on stilts that anchored them to the rocks, the structures connected to each other by protruding walkways and ambling flights of stairs.
A damp breeze came up, making Rylan shiver. Thankfully, it wasn’t strong enough to affect the rhythmic rocking of the bridge. He glanced back and saw the woman following behind, her robe rippling around her, her hair ruffled by the breeze.
They stepped off the bridge onto a walkway made of green planks. The motion of the guards’ boots jarred the walkway, making it tremble beneath them. The span made him nervous—more nervous than the bridge had. There was no outside rail, nothing to prevent a tumble. Tree branches rose up from below and invaded their path. His guards simply skirted such obstacles. It seemed odd to Rylan. The walkway was dangerous enough; the least they could do was keep it clear of overgrowth.
They came to a set of stairs that climbed up to the balcony of a long building that clung to the side of the mountain. As they crested the rise of steps, the wind gusted eagerly. Rylan’s guards maneuvered him through a wide door that slid open like a screen.
Within, he stood dazed, gazing around at the dim interior of the building, which was one wide-open space. Tall posts marched up and down the length of the room, carrying the weight of the second floor. The walls were made of light-colored hardwood embellished by contrasting mahogany grills and panels carved with sinuous designs. Around the edges of the room, a variety of artwork was displayed: pottery, wood and stone carvings, as well as sculptures made of a material he’d never seen before. The collection was visually stunning, set against a backdrop of opaque windows that let in the sunlight but admitted nothing of the view.
His guards led Rylan to the far end of the room, to an area defined by colorful rush mats that had been laid out in neat patterns. There, he was made to sit facing a raised section of the floor. His guards seated themselves around him on the mats, while the woman came forward to lower herself at his side.
They sat there in silence after that. No one spoke or even moved. The guards knelt with their hands gripping the hilts of their swords, as if frozen in that position. Eventually, a door in the wall slid open to admit a lone man who moved up onto the dais and, positioning himself in the center of the floor, sat cross-legged upon a thick mat. He sat still, his eyes locked on Rylan’s face. For long moments, the man did nothing more than stare, his gaze never wavering.
At last, he nodded.
The woman turned to Rylan and smiled. “My name is Xiana. I am deizu, a mage of my people. This man is Sensho Kirwan Domeda.” She motioned gracefully toward the man seated on the dais.
The man had the same milky-gold skin as Xiana. His hair and beard were gray, worn closely cropped. He had on a shimmering robe of light blue silk with gold-embroidered buttons. His frame was powerful, and he wore the hardened look of an old warrior.
“What is a Sensho?” Rylan asked, returning the man’s gaze.
The woman smiled. “Sensho is what you call ‘lord.’ Sensho Domeda is the ruler of this region, which we call Daru.” As she talked, her hands moved in flowing gestures, as though they were speaking their own language.
Rylan reminded himself that this was the same woman who had stabbed him in the chest. Keeping his eyes averted from her, he said to the man sitting cross-legged on the dais, “I’m Rylan Marshall.”
Abruptly, the man slammed his fist down onto the floor, making Rylan flinch.
Xiana’s eyes grew wide and her complexion paled visibly. She cast a sideways glance at Rylan, looking appalled. “Don’t speak untruths in the Sensho’s presence!” she gasped. “We know who you are, Gerald Lauchlin!”
Rylan gritted his teeth, reining in his anger. He stated firmly, “I was born Gerald Lauchlin. But that’s not my name.”
The Sensho grunted, then conferred with Xiana in their native language. Rylan didn’t understand a word of it, but the look in the man’s eyes needed no translation. He saw the promise of his own death written there. He could make no further missteps.
Xiana broke off her conversation and turned to Rylan. “The Sensho wants you to explain yourself.”
Rylan adjusted his posture and considered the man on the dais. The Sensho obviously understood his language. Rylan wondered why he insisted on using a translator. Looking up at him, he said, “I was separated from my parents at birth. The people who raised me named me Rylan Marshall. It’s the name I grew up with. It’s the only name I’ve ever known.”
The man’s gaze narrowed, and he appeared to be considering Rylan’s words. After a moment, he nodded and uttered a few words to Xiana.
Brightening, the woman said, “Sensho Domeda understands. From here forward, you will be known as Rylan.”
Rylan nodded his gratitude.
Smoothing her silk robe over her legs, Xiana lowered her eyes and continued, her hands flowing in graceful gestures. “But Sensho Domeda also insists that you cannot take the name Marshall. That may be the name of the people who raised you, but you are not of their lineage. To deny the name of your father is to deny yourself. And that is something that is simply not possible. From here forward, your name will be Rylan Lauchlin.”
A cold and eerie feeling crept over his shoulders and shivered down his spine. Rylan dropped his gaze, unable to look at the Sensho’s merciless eyes. He wanted to deny the man, to reject his logic and tell him he was wrong. That it was possible to be someone other than the man he was born. But inside, he knew the Sensho was right. He could not run from his father’s legacy, however corrupt it might be.
“Call me what you like,” Rylan said. “I don’t care, so long as you let me go find my daughter.” He looked at Xiana. “I want to know why you brought me here. And why you put that curse on me.”
The old man raised his hand, commanding Rylan to silence. He shared a few brief words with Xiana. After a moment, she nodded and turned back to Rylan.
“Your name came to our attention as someone of great importance to the Turan Khar,” she explained, her hands making flowing gestures as she spoke. “At first, we didn’t understand why. Then we became aware of your parentage, and of the Khar’s intentions for you.”
“What are their intentions for me?” Rylan asked.
Spreading her hands, Xiana explained in her ever-patient voice, “The Turan Khar seek always to expand their empire. They use enslaved mages to suppress all opposition. But their last foe proved far worthier than they expected, and this defeat cost them their most powerful deizu.”
Rylan frowned. He glanced at Domeda, then back to Xiana. “What does that have to do with me?”
Her smile broadened. “You are the son of the greatest battlemage to ever walk the earth. The Turan Khar would see you as an exquisite acquisition.”
The way she said it, and with that smile, made Rylan feel sick. The coldness that already infected him started to wear away at his nerves. He began to doubt himself. To wonder if the Sensho was right: perhaps he really was too dangerous to live.
“I’m not my father,” he whispered.
Xiana gifted him with another hopeful smile. “No. You could be greater.”
He stared down at the worn fibers of the mat. They were soft, almost like animal hair.
“So that’s why they took Amina?” he asked.
Xiana’s smile faltered. “They would need a way to control you. Your love for your daughter is beautiful and human. But it’s also your greatest weakness.”
He had been afraid of that. Yet somehow, his desperate mind latched onto that knowledge with hope. It meant Ami
na was still alive. They would need her to lure him.
“You were going to kill me,” he said. “What changed your mind?”
Xiana frowned and glanced nervously up at the man on the dais. “The Sensho’s mind hasn’t changed. As of this moment, you still stand condemned.”
Rylan nodded slowly. “Then, why are we having this conversation?”
“Because Sensho Domeda might decide to commute your sentence.” Xiana’s expression was compassionate. “The decision to end a life should never be made in haste, and should be only a last resort, once all other options have been exhausted.” She let her hands sink to her sides.
Rylan looked at her hands, then let his gaze wander around the room. The guards who had shepherded him still surrounded them, kneeling on the floor, hands on the hilts of their swords. They had remained in that position, unmoving, throughout the entire interview. He looked past them to the long line of artwork displayed along the far wall. His attention was pulled toward the piece nearest him: a chunk of tawny, wind-sculpted stone. Not unlike the one he had brought back with him from the front, a gift from one of the men who had fought at his side.
He turned back to Xiana. “What do you want from me?”
Xiana looked away from him, her eyes going to Domeda. Their stares locked for a long moment. At last, the Sensho nodded.
Xiana turned back to Rylan and said, “We want you to assassinate the Warlord of the Turan Khar.”
Rylan’s breath hitched. He gazed at her in disbelief. His brain tried in vain to sort through all the vast layers of absurdity inherent in that statement. The way she sat looking at him, face eager and expectant, made it obvious she believed he could accomplish such a feat. It was ludicrous.
Rylan asked slowly, “You realize I’m a farmer? With no knowledge of magic?”
Her optimistic smile returned. “You are the son of Darien Lauchlin. You can be taught.”
Rylan shook his head. These people were crazy. There was far more to magecraft than just having the talent for it in your blood. Even he knew that. And this woman claimed she was a mage… she should know better.
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