Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  He turned around and saw the stone figure was gone. The focus star was now covered in sand, enough sand for two such figures. A sob choked his throat. He fell to his knees and ran his fingers through the dusty grains.

  He looked up at Xiana. “You’ve been here before,” he realized. “You merged with Ilia.” The words trembled in his throat. “But you said no one could come here twice. The poison in the air…”

  She sank to the floor and, kneeling beside him, took his hand in hers. “This was my pilgrimage,” she said, her eyes pleading his forgiveness. Reaching down, she scooped up a handful of sand. “I merged with Ilia. She gave me all of her memories and all of her knowledge. But the one thing I needed most she couldn’t give me.”

  “What was that?”

  “You. I needed you to become Keio Matu. Don’t you see? Keio and Ilia were far more powerful together than they were apart—that was their true strength: their completed union. Now that you have Keio’s knowledge, we can both be far greater together than we could ever be alone.”

  As she spoke, a terrible panic grew within him. Every second they stood there, more contamination from the air seeped through their pores. Xiana had already been to Suheylu Ra once. Rylan surged to his feet, pulling her up after him, gasping, “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  She lifted her hand to her necklace. The same necklace he had given her all those years ago. “I’m fine, Rylan,” she assured him. “I have come here twice—but I never walked back out again. I used the opal to transfer me back the last time I was here. And I’ll do the same again. It will be like I only came and left once. Here, Rylan. Take my hand.”

  He stared at the necklace, taking in the sight of the fiery opal that shimmered with colorful iridescent. Then he looked at her face and searched her eyes deeply, desperately trying to see the woman within.

  “Please, Rylan,” she urged. “Please. Take my hand.”

  He did as she asked.

  The world blurred and ran like tears.

  32

  The Temple of Death

  Gil gazed up at the sleek limestone building capped by a dome thick with verdigris. Its lustrous walls glistened under the bright light of the sun. Three rose windows graced the wall above the door, protected by a columned portico. Beside him, Naia stood with her arms wrapped around herself, her thick auburn hair blowing in the wind. She was gazing up at the temple with a whimsical expression on her face, like a person returning from a long journey taking in the first sight of home. He kept forgetting she had once been a priestess before becoming a mage. To Naia, perhaps returning to the temple was like coming home.

  “The Temple of Death?” Gil asked. “That’s where you hid Thar’gon?”

  Naia started forward without looking at him. “Not exactly.”

  Frowning, Gil followed her up the temple steps and through the wide, open doorway. As they entered the vestibule, the shadows of the roof fell over them. The interior was dim, lit by many tapers that glowed from iron sconces and massive chandeliers. Beyond the vestibule, the nave was thoroughly empty, save for two rows of scalloped columns. At the far end, the lights of hundreds of votive candles flickered from the altar: layer upon layer of shelves stacked full of them, each flame a prayer for a departed loved one. Gil felt his stomach squirm at the side of them. He tried to avoid temples whenever he could. Especially this temple.

  Naia paused, staring at the shrine ahead, and asked, “Would you please excuse me for a moment?”

  Following her gaze, Gil realized her intent. She wanted to offer a prayer for Quin.

  “Of course,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll wait right here.”

  Naia moved alone toward the shrine, walking slowly. Reaching the altar, she paused and bowed her head. She stood there for a long time, her lips moving silently, muttering the strains of a prayer. When she was done, she took an unlit candle into her hand and selected a striker from the ledge. Holding both striker and candle, she squeezed the mechanism. A spark flickered into being and went right to the candle. The wick flared briefly to life.

  And then it winked out.

  Naia closed her eyes and bit her lip, her face going rigid. She stood there for a moment, face scrunched in concentration. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she opened her eyes and squeezed the striker again. Once again, the candle remained unlit. This time, the look on Naia’s face was one of shock. She squeezed the striker again, to no avail. She tried again. And again. Sparks rained to the floor.

  Still, the little candle refused to light.

  Looking shaken, Naia replaced both candle and striker on the ledge, then walked back across the nave toward Gil, arms crossed, eyes damp and red.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, concerned.

  He wondered if Naia would take the unlit candle to mean the goddess had rejected her prayers for her husband’s soul. He was suddenly thankful he didn’t believe in the gods’ divinity. But Naia did. As she drew near him, her face brightened with a small, whimsical smile. Apparently, Naia had taken the candle’s reluctance for a good sign.

  “Everything is fine,” she said. “Shall we go?”

  Gil scratched the back of his head, motioning her forward. “Lead the way.”

  Smiling, Naia brushed past him and walked toward a transept that bisected the main sanctuary. The sound of Gil’s boots echoed sharply off the marble floor, magnified by the high walls and towering ceiling. A spill of colored light filtered down from the many stained-glass windows set high above, each depicting a different scene from the Book of the Dead. As they entered the transept, Naia paused and waited for him to catch up.

  At the far end of the room was a stairway graced with an elaborately carved railing and wide steps that sloped downward. Gil followed Naia down the staircase. Eventually, the steps ended at a long chamber with polished black walls. A stark, erratic light emanated from four large braziers placed along the margins of the room. On the far wall was a doorway with no door, just an opening into what looked like a solid curtain of darkness.

  Something about the doorway made Gil shiver. It looked ominous, unnatural. He didn’t like the feel of it; looking at the darkness beyond made his flesh prickle.

  “Is that where we’re going?” he asked, nodding toward the doorway.

  “Yes,” Naia answered. “This is an entrance to the Catacombs of Death.”

  Gil swallowed heavily. “And why are we going there?”

  “Because.” Naia stepped between him and the doorway, commanding his attention. “The Catacombs are where the talisman lies.”

  Gil peered around her at the dark opening. It looked like a gateway to the Netherworld; not exactly someplace he wanted to be going.

  “Why is it kept there?” he asked. “Why isn’t it back at the Lyceum, like every other artifact we’ve ever found?”

  Naia raised a hand to the broach that held her white cloak. “Quin and I agreed it would be safer here, kept locked away in secret, its location known only to a select few. Thar’gon is the most powerful artifact that exists in the world. In the wrong hands, it could be used to do great evil. But it can also be used to do great good.”

  Gil wondered why she hadn’t produced the weapon at the beginning of the war. It could have made all the difference. Perhaps she’d been afraid of it falling into the wrong hands.

  “Why would you hide it here?” he pressed. “Out of all the places in the world?”

  “Because the Catacombs aren’t in this world,” Naia responded. She strolled away a few steps before turning back to him. “After your father died, Thar’gon changed hands a few times. Your father used it to destroy the Well of Tears, but the Well was protected by powerful magic. It killed Kyel before he could finish the job. After he fell, Quin picked it up and finished what your father began.”

  She paced away a few more steps. “After the Well was destroyed, Quin passed Thar’gon to Darien, who used it to slay Xerys’ most powerful Servant. That was the last act Darien ever performed. He died shortly
after. We hid the talisman in his tomb.”

  “So we’re going grave robbing,” Gil surmised.

  Naia smiled. “Of a sort.”

  Gil stared uneasily at the dark passage. He didn’t want to walk through that doorway; just the thought made him shudder. He was no stranger to temple mysteries, but there was something about that opening that made his skin crawl. He’d always denied the existence of the gods. But the darkness ahead made him doubt his convictions. With a regretful sigh, he started forward.

  “Wait.”

  Gil halted, turning back.

  “Before we enter, I must caution you,” Naia said, approaching him. “The Catacombs exist partly in the Atrament. There is a chance we might encounter shades of the dead. If we do, you cannot interact with them in any way. That would break the Strictures of Death. Do you understand?”

  Gil nodded, licking his lips. “I understand.”

  “Good. There are things in the Catacombs that will unsettle you,” she warned. “I have power over most of them, so you need not fear.”

  “Most of them?” Gil asked skeptically. “That implies there are things in there you can’t control.”

  “There are,” Naia responded, her expression very serious. “That’s why we must proceed with caution. Are you ready?”

  He wasn’t; he doubted he’d ever be. Nevertheless, he nodded.

  “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  She placed a hand on his back and, with gentle pressure, urged him across the threshold of the doorway.

  33

  Duality

  Rylan blinked his eyes open and stared groggily upward at the ceiling. The dark beams of wood looked familiar, although it took him muddled seconds to realize where he was: in the hut Xiana had provided for him back in Daru. He turned over and discovered Xiana lying beside him on his pallet. Her eyes were closed, her chest moving in a slow and steady rhythm, one hand curled beside her face. She looked serene. Beautiful.

  Reaching out, he trailed a finger down her cheek. Then he stopped himself. He retracted his hand, mired in confusion. He didn’t have those kinds of feelings for her… at least, he hadn’t before. And now, he wasn’t certain they were his own feelings… or someone else’s.

  His gaze fell upon the opal pendant on its gold chain. The way his breath caught told him that, whether he wanted them or not, those feelings were there, and they were real. It didn’t matter how he’d come by them. Frustrated, he rolled away from her.

  He lay staring at the walls, which were just as dark and oppressive as he remembered. Only scant streams of sunlight managed to make it past the lattice screens covering the windows. The air was frigid, moving in through gaps in the wallboards. It smelled of wood smoke from the village cookfires.

  Throwing off his blanket, Rylan stood and looked down at himself. He was wearing a gray yori tied with a darker gray sash, though he didn’t remember putting it on. The leather belt that had been his father’s had been thrown carelessly in the corner. He stroked his hand down the oki-silk robe. His hand was filthy, the cracks and creases of his fingers etched in grime, his nails crusted with dirt. He rubbed his fingers together and watched dust rained down from them. Or was it dust? His thoughts returned to the figure that had once been Keio Matu, and suddenly the dust on his hands took on new significance.

  That man was in him, part of him… infesting him. His feelings were no longer his own, and his memories were a confused tangle. He tried sorting through his recollections and was comforted to find that most of the memories were his own. Keio’s seemed to have faded overnight, the way a dream fades upon wakening. Thinking of Keio made him think of Ilia. He turned to look at Xiana.

  And found her awake, staring up at him.

  Rylan drew back, renewed feelings stirring deep inside him, accompanied by a sharp stab of anxiety. He turned away from her, feeling betrayed by his own emotions.

  She moved to sit up. Reaching out, she caught his hand. “Are you angry, Rylan?”

  He pulled his hand away and scrubbed it over his whiskery face, his mind struggling to determine exactly which of the conflicting emotions in him dominated.

  “I’m confused,” he said at last.

  She looked at him with sympathy. “It gets easier with time. I promise.”

  That wasn’t good enough. That meant it was always going to be like this. That it was never going to change. He clenched his fist in frustration, wishing it was possible to hate her.

  “I don’t know which part of me is me… and which part is him,” he mumbled.

  Xiana patted the floor beside her, scooting over to make room for him. He settled down next to her, leaning back against the wall. She stroked a hand through his hair. A slight smile drifted to her lips.

  “I struggled with that too,” she said gently. “It took me a while to realize it didn’t matter. All these memories, all these feelings. They belong to me now, even if some once belonged to her. Every memory I have is precious to me. I wouldn’t want to forget any of it.” Looking down, she stroked his hand.

  He pulled it away from her. “So, for the rest of my life, I’m going to be living with a dead man trapped inside my head? Doesn’t that make me some kind of monster?”

  “You’re not a monster, Rylan,” she said, compassion in her eyes. “Keio Matu was a great man. One of the greatest men who has ever lived.”

  “He destroyed Suheylu Ra!”

  “He did it to protect the rest of the world!” she reminded him. “There was no hope for Suheylu Ra. He was in an impossible situation. He did the only thing he could.”

  Staring past her at the wall, Rylan said, “I want him out.”

  She gave him a look of sympathy. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead. “I don’t,” she said, and rose to her feet. He saw she was wearing a pink yori tied with a thin sash. She stood over him with her hands clasped in front of her.

  Looking down at him, she said, “Today is the day I must make my report to the Sensho, so that he may decide your fate.”

  Rylan had forgotten all about the Sensho—forgotten he was still technically condemned. He rose to his feet, concerned. Not that he expected Xiana to betray him. But the Word of Command was still firmly anchored to him, and that alone made him nervous.

  “What are you going to tell him?” he asked.

  Xiana smiled at him affectionately. “I am going to tell him that I found nothing of your father in you. That you are a good and honorable man who does not deserve death.”

  Good and honorable.

  He wanted to laugh at that. She was wrong.

  He was neither good nor honorable, she just didn’t know it. She didn’t know the terrible secret he had kept from her. Remembering the people he had killed in the waste, he was suddenly confronted by an intense feeling of fear. There was much more of his father in him than she knew. So much more. Like his father before him, he had made a covenant with evil. He wondered what Xiana would think if she knew that. Or what the Sensho would think.

  The part within him that was Keio Matu shuddered, sending renewed feelings of self-loathing bubbling to the surface. He shouldn’t have ever tried to hide this part of him from her. This was too big, too terrible. He should have admitted it from the start. He felt suddenly terrified, the fear chilling his gut like a shard of ice.

  His lips moved without him willing them to. “Xiana… I need to tell you something…”

  He stopped himself. And gasped, horrified by how close he’d come to admitting he was a monster deserving death. The Sensho would execute him. Amina would never be rescued. She would spend her life as a slave of the Turan Khar. Or worse.

  The part of him that was Keio Matu berated him for the thought. This was bigger than him. Bigger than Amina. Too dangerous to be kept a secret.

  “What is it, Rylan?” Xiana pressed.

  Looking away from her, he took a deep breath. The fear in him was paralyzing, freezing his mind as well as his body. His mouth went dry. He was going to tell her, he realized. He was
going to tell her everything. The other man within him demanded no less. Rylan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He tried again, and this time his voice worked, though it was weak and ragged.

  “The man who took Amina did something else to me,” he said.

  Xiana leaned into him and touched his hand, her face scrunched in a look of intense concern. “What? What did he do to you, Rylan?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself. “He threatened to kill my daughter if I didn’t swear an oath.”

  “What oath?”

  Suddenly, he could feel her doubt. He bowed his head, grimacing in shame. Icy sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “He made me swear an oath to Chaos.”

  He heard her gasp. There was a long pause.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, the revulsion in her voice clawing at his heart.

  He had betrayed her. Betrayed himself.

  He hung his head in shame.

  “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d kill me,” he answered, unable to look at her. “Then Amina would be lost.”

  For seconds, she stood staring at him, the color draining from her face. At last, she whispered, “And why are you telling me this now?”

  Tears filled his eyes. He blinked them back and didn’t let them fall. “Because I understand now that Amina isn’t the most important thing in the world… just in my world. I was selfish.” He hung his head. “Do what you will with me.”

  He hardly noticed when she left. He sat back down against the wall, hugging his legs, his head bowed against his knees. They would be coming for him soon. The thought didn’t scare him; it just made him sad. He sat there in confusion, wondering why he’d said anything at all. There was another man inside him now whose priorities weren’t necessarily his own. He had listened to that man. And now he had failed his daughter.

  He heard the guards coming up the path seconds before they burst through the door. He didn’t resist as they hauled him off the floor and bound his hands behind his back with coarse rope that bit into his flesh. They dragged him out the door, a man to either side of him. He struggled to keep up with them, but it was difficult. He lurched in their grasp as they propelled him down the path through the garden.