Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  “Your acolyte, Ashra,” Naia began. “How far away from her Raising would you say she is?”

  Gil frowned, wondering where she was going with the question. He reached up and scratched the unkept whiskers on his chin. “She has the foundations,” he responded slowly. “But she hasn’t received any of the specialized training necessary to take an Order.”

  “But does she know enough to get by?” Naia pressed.

  “To get by?” Gil was confused by the question. “I’m not sure what that means.”

  Naia reached across her desk and lifted a feathered quill, dipping the sharpened point into an ink pot. Without looking at Gil, she applied her signature to a page of parchment set in front of her, saying conversationally, “I want her Raised to a full Master immediately. We need every mage we can possibly field.”

  Gil almost choked. “Ashra’s not ready for a war— or even a battle!”

  Naia set the parchment aside and replaced it with another. Her hand skimmed the line of cursive on the page before applying her signature with a scratching noise. “Maybe not. I wish we had the luxury of letting her develop at her own pace. But we don’t.” She slid another paper beneath her quill.

  Gil collapsed back in his seat, all but throwing up his hands in frustration. “Can’t you find her another mentor? I’m going to be too busy—”

  “No, Gil.” Naia set the quill down on her desk. “Ashra doesn’t need another mentor. I could pick no one better suited to teach her.”

  She wasn’t going to budge. He wanted to groan. Gil squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, collecting the scattered remains of his patience. He hadn’t wanted to be saddled with Ashra in the first place, and that was before he knew he was going to be in charge of a war. He had enough to think about without having to attend to the safety of an acolyte.

  But, looking at Naia’s face, he realized that was simply the way it was going to be. “Then I’ll do what I can,” he said with a sigh.

  The Prime Warden nodded. “Then it’s settled. Have Ashra prepare for the Rite of Transference. We will Raise her immediately.”

  Gil took that as his dismissal. He started to rise from his chair, but then stopped himself and settled back down again.

  “Thank you. And again… I’m very sorry about Quin.”

  Naia gave him a sad smile. “Thank you. He was always fond of you, you know.” Her smile disappeared. “Now, please go prepare Ashra.”

  He rose from his seat and, offering a curt bow, turned and left the room. He glanced sideways at the Prime Warden’s secretary as he passed by her desk, noticing the woman staring after him with a look of resentment. He had no idea what he’d done to earn it. He took the stairs up two levels to the Acolytes’ Residence, then wound his way through the hallways to Ashra’s room. He knocked on the door and then waited. After a moment, the door cracked open and Ashra’s face peered out at him. Her hair was in disarray, and she looked like she had just woken up from sleep.

  “I want you to come with me,” he said without preamble and stood back from the doorway, opening a path for her.

  She gave him a confused look. “One moment,” she said and closed the door, leaving him alone in the hallway. She emerged a minute later, tugging her cloak on over her shoulders, her hair in a messy braid.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, Gil started walking down the hallway, listening to the sound of her feet as she hurried to catch up with him. He’d been thinking about the Prime Warden’s question, about whether Ashra was truly ready for the amount of responsibility that was about to be thrust upon her. Despite his own reservations, he finally had to admit she was.

  But there was something he wanted to teach her first. Maybe it was the last thing he would ever teach her; he couldn’t be certain either of them would even be alive in another hour. He led her up the stairs to the fourth-floor entrance of the library. Ashra stopped at the door and cast him a questioning look. But Gil didn’t pause. He walked into the library ahead of her and led her deep into the warren of bookshelves and study tables, past the chess board Nat and Payden always favored, to a small alcove that housed only three rows of bookshelves.

  As he led her between rows of shelves, Gil watched Ashra’s eyes roving over the spines of books to either side. There were various texts of different sizes and covers: some cloth-bound, some leather. Some, too tall to be set neatly upon the shelf, were instead stacked one atop the other.

  Gil stopped about halfway down and turned to her. He held out his hand, indicating the spread of books that surrounded them. “This used to be my favorite aisle in the library,” he said, running his hands over the spines. “These texts have a lot to say about the philosophy and ethics of the craft. There’s a lot of wisdom here. Thousands of years of thought. Thousands of words, all attempting to parse right from wrong, good from evil. And yet, if you study these books for a while, you realize that not one of them has a definitive answer. That’s because there is none.”

  Ashra’s brow pinched into lines of confusion. “What are you trying to tell me, Gil?”

  It was a good question. He wasn’t sure himself.

  He said carefully, “I’m trying to tell you that being a mage isn’t easy, and it will eat your soul if you let it. People will try to tell you there’s a right and a wrong way to go about being one, but there’s not. Everything is situational, and even then, half the time you’ll never know if what you’re doing is really the right thing.”

  He drew in a deep breath and fixed his stare on a lone stack of books sitting on a desk between shelves. “You’re to receive the Rite of Transference today.”

  The expression on Ashra’s face collapsed into panic. “Today?” She gasped, reaching out to clutch his arm. “I’m not ready!”

  Without looking at her, Gil said, “The Prime Warden thinks you are.”

  Ashra shook her head, her eyes wide and alarmed. “Why would she think that?”

  Gil shrugged. “You know everything you need to know to be successful. Anything else I could teach you is merely supplemental. Everyone thinks that the moment you become a Master, you know all you will ever need to know. But that’s not true. You continue to grow and learn throughout your entire life. Magic is a journey. Tonight you start yours.”

  As he talked, he ran his fingers over the uneven spines of the books. When he got to the end of the shelf, he looked back at her, studying the expression on her face.

  “You don’t think I’m ready, do you?” Ashra asked.

  Was that hurt in her eyes? Or fear? He couldn’t tell. Either or both would be appropriate, he supposed. Gil felt his stomach tighten. He owed her the truth.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think you’re ready. But I’m not sure we’re going to win this war. I suppose it’s better to die fighting than to die running.” He did his best to smile.

  Ashra drew a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “I suppose it is,” she whispered.

  Gil glanced at the shelf next to him, his gaze coming to rest on a familiar text. He took the book down from the shelf and cradled it in his hands. Staring down at the leather cover, he felt a warm pang of sentiment role over him.

  “I think this one is my favorite,” he said with a faint smile.

  “What is it?”

  “The Folly of Wisdom,” he said, offering the book to her. “After my father died, I was raised by the priests of the Temple of Wisdom. They saw to it that I knew my letters and was ‘properly educated,’ which basically amounted to studying a bunch of old books that talked about ‘classical thought.’ I ate it up at the time. I thought the secret to every facet of life was contained in those books. That there was no question they couldn’t answer. But looking back on it, I know now that it was all horseshit. Most of the time, there is no right answer. Just different degrees of wrong.”

  He watched as Ashra leafed slowly through the text. Eventually, she closed the cover and looked up at him. He removed the book from her hand and replaced it o
n the shelf.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Gil smiled. “Then it sounds like you are.” He took her by the hand. “Come on. “Let’s go get you ready to fight.”

  He led her out of the library and back downstairs to Naia’s office. This time, the Prime Warden’s secretary didn’t even look up at him as he passed. He supposed there might be some perks to his new office. Smiling smugly, he opened the door for Ashra. The Prime Warden rose to her feet as they entered. Beneath her long white cloak, she was wearing a formal blue robe. A warm smile brightened her face at the sight of Ashra.

  “Please come in,” she said, motioning her forward. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  Ashra stopped in front of the desk but didn’t take a seat.

  “I do, Prime Warden.”

  Naia spread her hands. “Do you have any questions?”

  Ashra glanced to Gil, looking at him for a moment before responding, “No.”

  “Do you know the words?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well.”

  Pushing her chair back, Naia moved out from behind her desk and drew up to stand in front of Ashra. For the first time, Gil noticed she held a familiar necklace in her hands: a medallion set with a brilliant red stone that shimmered with radiant light, held by two wide silver bands that formed a collar when clasped. It was much more than just a necklace, he knew. The medallion was called the Soulstone, and it was the most precious artifact the Lyceum possessed.

  Vitrus—the Gift that allowed a person to touch the magic field—could only be Transferred upon the death of a mage to their successor. For millennia, that had been the only way magic could persist. The Gift was passed from one generation to the next in discrete magical legacies that became fewer and fewer over time, until there were only a handful of mages left in the entire world.

  Until Quin had created the Soulstone. The artifact was one-of-a-kind; there was no other like it. The stone harvested vitrus directly from the magic field itself and could Transfer it into a person. No longer did one mage have to die for another to be born. With it, Quin and Naia had managed to grow their numbers significantly. It was the one artifact Gil would never want to see in the hands of the Turan Khar.

  Naia lifted the Soulstone, holding it by its silver bands. “Kneel.”

  Ashra dropped to her knees, bowing her head.

  Moving to stand over her, Naia recited formally, “Ashra ni Sayeed, are you willing and prepared to spend your life as a guardian of the land and of its people?”

  Staring at the floor, Ashra answered in a steady voice, “I am.”

  “And are you also prepared to accept accountability for your every action, so that your decisions be always tempered by wisdom, compassion, and humility?”

  “I am, Prime Warden.” There was no hesitation in her voice.

  “Then stand and speak the words.”

  Ashra rose gracefully to her feet and, lifting her head, looked Gil in the eyes as she recited the ancient pledge, “I swear to exist only to serve the land and its people. With my life, if possible. If not, then by death.”

  Naia stepped behind her and drew the silver bands of the Soulstone’s collar around her neck. Ashra drew in a deep breath and held it as Naia seemed to be fumbling with the clasp. It didn’t take her long to get it. After only a moment, Gil heard a slight click.

  Brilliant white light, brighter than the sun, erupted from the stone, forcing him backward against the wall. Ashra cried out and fell to her knees, ribbons of charged power clawing over her body like forked tongues of lightning. She collapsed to the floor, moaning and writhing as her body drank in the torrent of power delivered by the Soulstone. The light swelled, became dazzling, so brilliant that Gil had to bring his hands up to shield his eyes.

  And then, suddenly, the stone went dark.

  Ashra lay panting on the ground, shivering and shaking. Naia moved forward at once, kneeling beside her and removing the medallion from her neck before it could steal back the vitrus it had just relinquished. The Prime Warden knelt at Ashra’s side and placed a hand on her comfortingly. She stroked her hair back from her face with the compassion of a mother, watching over her until Ashra’s breathing slowed and her eyes fluttered open.

  Naia smiled and, pulling back, said, “Rise, Master Ashra, and welcome.”

  Her eyes wide and watery, Ashra sat upright, still too shaken to stand on her own. Gil helped her to her feet, steadying her. Her body was covered in sweat, her hair drenched and hanging down her back, escaping her braid. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

  Naia turned to smile at Gil, looking pleased. “Warden Archer, would you please excuse us? Ashra and I have some things to talk about. You’re in charge of the war now, gods help us all. Please see to it that we don’t lose.”

  Gil bowed, not knowing what to think about that.

  “I’ll make it a priority,” he said. Turning toward the door, he managed to conjure a brief smile for Ashra. “Congratulations,” he said. He waited just a moment to see if she would respond. When she didn’t, he let himself out.

  23

  The Desolation

  Rylan put his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the mule’s back. Immediately, he found himself detesting the saddle. It was made of a hard wood frame covered in bright fabric, with a high cantle and pommel. The saddle was held together by metal fittings and knobs that dug painfully into his thighs. He glanced at Xiana, wondering how the woman showed no sign of discomfort. She gave him a quick nod, then kicked her mule forward.

  The trail they took led through the village streets and onto the cliffs, transitioning from hard-packed dirt onto painted wood bridges and ramps, then again to a steep path barely wide enough for the mules to walk single file. The view of the valley was obstructed by the ever-present haze that hovered over it; he couldn’t tell how far up they were or how much of the trail they had yet to traverse. After an hour of plodding downhill, his back hurt from leaning back in the saddle against the hard cantle. Although it took him a while to get used to its lurching gait, in the end, he was grateful for the mule. The animal took short, steady strides, always careful where it placed its feet.

  The trail switchbacked many times, and it took them hours to finally reach the elevation of the haze. It was actually a fogbank, though it was much more brown than gray. Despite the cold, Rylan’s forehead broke out into an icy sweat. In the darkness of the fog, his mind started churning, worrying that his mule would stumble or miss a step. Fortunately, the muddy fog didn’t last long. The mist parted to reveal the plain below, much further away than he’d been expecting.

  And much more sinister.

  It took him a moment to realize what was wrong with the view. Then it came to him: there was not one hint of green in the entire landscape. Below them unfolded a flat expanse of unrelieved brown covered by more of the same filthy haze. There were scant landmarks, just a few conical hills poking up every so often from the desert’s mottled complexion. The heat of the air above the plain made the view of the landscape shimmer and distort.

  “What’s down there?” Rylan called ahead to Xiana, not liking the looks of the terrain.

  She glanced back at him with a grave expression. “I told you. Hell. Or at least as close as you’ll probably ever come.”

  Her words made Rylan think of the oath to Chaos he had sworn, and he shuddered. The mules plodded along another two hours as the trail wound down into the foothills and the air warmed around them. Every so often, the trail became infested by chunks of crumbled rock fallen from the cliffs, sometimes caused by the passage of their own mounts. Eventually, the path widened onto an alluvial plain that sloped gradually downward between two sprawling ridges. Where the dirt began, the trail ended. Before them stretched only an infinite expanse of smooth, barren earth broken by dark chunks of lava rock that looked strewn haphazardly across the soil, giving the vast landscape a speckled appearance. There were no plants, not even one de
ad blade of grass.

  Rylan glanced about in dismay, shocked by the sheer bleakness of the terrain. An abandoned waystation tucked up against the foothills was the only object within sight that suggested humanity had ever existed in this place.

  “Where are we?” he wondered aloud.

  “The Mokona Desolation.” Xiana reined in her mule, falling back to ride at his side as they angled toward the waystation.

  Rylan grimaced. “It’s desolate, all right. How can a landscape be so barren?”

  “It’s worse than barren,” Xiana corrected him. “It’s sterile.”

  “Sterile? How so?”

  She waved her hand, gesturing around at the bleak expanse. “The Curse your father helped lift covered this land for a thousand years—a thousand years of darkness, without one ray of sunlight. This is what remains. In the Desolation, nothing can grow. The soil is no longer fertile. It lacks seed, and any nutrients that were ever in the dirt have long since washed away. Only the Lonesome Ghosts wander these wastes.”

  Her words made Rylan shiver despite the heat. Glancing across the hostile terrain, he asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

  She gave him a small, sad grin. “Together, we’ll journey into the waste, to a place called Suheylu Ra. There, you will learn all you need to know.”

  “How do we get there?” he asked dismally. “I don’t see any roads.”

  “There is no road to Suheylu Ra,” Xiana answered, reining in. “Dunes and dust wander the waste and swallow any trail. There is only one way to cross the Desolation: you must learn to see and follow the lines of the magic field.”