Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  As he walked, Rylan looked up at the sky. It was perfectly blue, the clouds wispy and fantastically white. He was glad it wasn’t overcast. He was glad his last glance of the sky would be one of clear blue radiance. They dragged him through the village and onto the cliffs on the other side, to where the palace of the Sensho stood perched atop the edge of a precipice, overlooking the Desolation. The boards of the walkway groaned beneath their feet as they marched him up a ramp and out onto a rope bridge that spanned a recess in the cliffs. There, the daylight seemed brighter, making him squint. Before he was ready, the sun disappeared behind the elongated eaves of the Sensho’s palace.

  One of the men took him by the hair and shoved him through the doorway, pushing him toward the center of the room. He stumbled and fell to his knees. He knelt there with his arms restrained behind him, staring down at the rush mats that covered the floor. He drew in a deep breath. Then he raised his head to look up into the stern face of the Sensho.

  Sensho Domeda was seated cross-legged on the dais. Xiana knelt next to him. She didn’t look at Rylan, but instead kept her gaze angled downward at the mat, her expression unreadable. The guards knelt around him, hands gripping the hilts of their swords, their bodies tense with readiness. For long moments, no one moved. The Sensho sat glowering at him, his face never changing. Rylan waited for the pronouncement of his sentence, determined to accept his fate with dignity.

  Unnerving seconds dragged by, stretching infinitely.

  At last, the Sensho turned and grunted something to Xiana.

  She lifted her gaze from the mat and looked at Rylan. With her eyes locked on his, she stated formally, “Rylan Lauchlin, you stand condemned for crimes of the blood and crimes of the soul. You were allowed one week to convince us that you were a man of better morals than your father. As your mentor, I have given my recommendation to the Sensho.”

  There was a slight gap of silence filled only by the sound of his own thundering pulse.

  Xiana continued, “I have recommended to the Sensho that you should be allowed to live.”

  Rylan felt the breath gush out of him, a flood of relief that almost washed him away. He gaped up at the dais, unable to believe what he’d just heard. His head spun dizzily, and the world suddenly seemed insubstantial and surreal.

  Xiana went on, “Even though you have sworn a compact with Xerys, you did so under coercion, and you had the courage to confess. This act, more than any other, has convinced me that you are a man of good judgment, who puts the welfare of others before himself. The Sensho has heard my recommendation.”

  Her eyes lowered again to the floor, and her voice darkened.

  “Unfortunately, the Sensho does not agree. The Sensho believes that your oath to Chaos compromises your freedom of will. Because of this oath, you may be compelled to commit acts you might otherwise find appalling, and you cannot be trusted to listen to your own conscience. I am sorry, but it has been determined that you are too dangerous to live. Out of compassion, you will be executed immediately.”

  Rylan stared at her in shock, his mind reeling. He could have accepted that judgment from the Sensho. But not from her. Hearing it from her, it was too painful.

  And too fast.

  The guards leaped up immediately and converged on him. Two fell on him from behind, their weight pinning him down. Another drew his sword and took up position over him. The image of the Sultan’s men waiting to be executed flashed through Rylan’s mind. Those men had been spared at the last moment. But no one was going to spare him.

  “Elantu!” Xiana cried.

  Rylan had no idea what she meant.

  But Keio Matu did.

  She wanted him to fight.

  He opened his mind and grasped the only power available to him: the power of the Onslaught. Its sick energies filled him, defiling him. He hauled them in, then lashed out blindly.

  The men holding him screamed and fell away.

  Rylan scrambled to his feet, the ropes restraining him falling from his wrists. He stared about in shock, not certain what had happened, what he had done. Only one of the guards on the floor was moving. The rest lay sprawled in dark pools of sludge that once might have been blood.

  Sensho Domeda remained sitting on the dais, his expression unchanged, staring unblinking at Rylan. Then he rose. Saying something Rylan didn’t understand, the Sensho effected a low bow. Then he turned and descended the dais, making his way across the floor and out of the room. Rylan stood staring at Xiana, his mind reeling in confusion.

  “What just happened?” he mumbled.

  Smiling, Xiana came forward to stand in front of him. She took his hand. Gazing into his eyes, she said, “You just became deizu-kan.”

  Rylan looked at her blankly. Too much had just happened. He couldn’t process it all, and he had no idea what she meant. Did they still intend to execute him? Should he be running for his life? Or begging for his death? He felt numb.

  Xiana’s smile deepened. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek to his and saying softly, “Go home and rest. No one will trouble you now.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be along.” She kissed his cheek, then pulled away, her nose wrinkling. “Ugh. Go take a bath. You stink.”

  He watched her walk away and disappear through a side door. Then he turned and made his way back to the main door of the palace, feeling as though he were moving in a dream. As soon as he stepped out from beneath the shadows of the eaves, the glare of sunlight assaulted his senses. It was overwhelming. Shielding his eyes, he walked out onto the wood pathway on the cliff and set his course for the village. He walked aimlessly, without thinking, not really noticing where he was going. People move past him. He didn’t acknowledge them, wasn’t really aware of them. He had no idea why he was still alive. All he knew was that he shouldn’t be.

  When he finally looked up and noticed his surroundings, he was mildly shocked. Somehow, his feet had obeyed Xiana and carried him to the bathhouse. He didn’t remember deciding to go there, or which path he had come by. The shaded garden surrounding him was like a sanctuary filled with peace and tranquility. The pool misted with steam beckoned him forward.

  The bath was unoccupied, which emboldened him. Moving toward the pool, he stripped and washed with soap at the fountain, just as Xiana had taught him. Rinsing, he rose and entered the bath. The water was hotter than he remembered, so he took his time, submerging himself gradually, wading in inch by inch. At last, he settled all the way down and, leaning his head against the edge of the pool, closed his eyes.

  He sat there for a long time as the steam rose around him, relaxing him. Minutes went by as the mist drifted over him. Eventually, he opened his eyes and gazed up at the thick limbs of the trees shading the spring. The leaves move slowly, rocked by a gentle breeze stirring the branches. He focused on the soft, rustling noise, letting his mind drift toward sleep.

  A splashing noise jarred him awake.

  Startled, Rylan opened his eyes to find Xiana standing across from him, her body naked and glistening. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face. She waded slowly toward him, her eyes locked on his. He sat unmoving, his breath lost somewhere deep in his chest.

  He forced himself to wrench his eyes away from her. She’d said it was common for the genders to bathe together, that it was just her people’s way. But he couldn’t do it. She was too beautiful, too desirable. The feelings of another man overwhelmed his own emotions. Unwillingly, his gaze was drawn to her naked form, captured and held there. He was unable to look away. His body hungered for her with a need he couldn’t ignore.

  Xiana stopped in front of him and pressed her forehead against his. He could feel her warm breath stroking his face, feel her firm breasts pressed against his chest. She stood there for moments unmoving, her eyes searching his. She smelled of roses.

  Something inside Rylan broke. He pulled her close against him and kissed her lips. His hands moved over her curves, stroking, exploring, her body sliding ag
ainst his. It was too much. The heat within him became a fire. It burned him raw.

  He scooped Xiana up and carried her to the edge of the pool, setting her down on the deck. There, he settled down beside her and kissed her tenderly. Her soft fingers traced his skin, her breath shivering against his neck. He laid her back gently on the pinewood boards and gathered her close.

  Gazing deeply into her eyes, he lost himself within her.

  34

  City of Shadow

  The world shivered and shifted.

  Gil paused between footsteps, taking a moment to steady himself as his surroundings took their time to stabilize. He glanced at Naia in alarm, but the expression on the Prime Warden’s face remained serene. Looking around, he saw they were in an underground passage that sloped downward in a gentle curve. The temperature had fallen drastically; he could see his breath before his face. A glowing blue mist swirled at their feet. It was magelight, and there was nothing divine about it. Just another temple mystery easily explained by magic. Feeling self-justified, he looked at Naia.

  “It’s cold,” he said.

  “It’s supposed to be.”

  Taking his arm, she guided him deeper into the shadows of the tunnel, their feet disturbing the glowing mist. The noise of their footsteps was strangely muffled, as though the walls of the passage were porous, absorbing the noise. Shivering, Gil tugged his thick cloak tighter around himself. There were no torches on the walls; only the magelight to light their path. It cast an eerie shadowplay that danced across the stone walls. An intersection appeared ahead, where another passage crossed the one they were on. There, Naia turned, selecting the path that led to the right. As they walked, Gil became aware of an unpleasant odor that was gradually intensifying the further they went. It took him a moment to identify it: the stench of decay.

  Eventually, the tunnel opened up into an enormous cavern. The sound of rushing water echoed hollowly from a distance, and Gil couldn’t tell which direction it came from. Wondering how high the ceiling was, he craned his neck to look up. He didn’t see a ceiling. Instead, the walls seemed to continue upward forever, never-ending.

  “How far does it go?” he asked.

  The Prime Warden offered a shrug. “No one knows.”

  Gil turned his attention to the walls. They had a strange pattern to them, like a honeycomb. Frowning, he raised his hand and pointed ahead. “What are those?”

  “Burial vaults,” Naia answered. “Each contains remains of the deceased.”

  Gil balked. Suddenly, the stench of decay seemed much more powerful. He drew his cloak over his face, sucking air through the fabric in a vain attempt to mitigate the stench. He walked faster, wanting to put a good distance between himself and the chamber with the vaults.

  “Let’s hurry,” he pressed.

  Naia complied, lengthening her stride. She led him down a path that meandered over uneven terrain toward a chasm that gaped like a ragged knife wound through the center of the chamber. Gil eyed the bridge that spanned it warily, hesitant to cross. The structure looked to be made of thin black glass and didn’t seem very sturdy. Before he could object, Naia walked out onto the span, which made melodic crystalline noises as she set her weight upon it, like thousands of tinkling windchimes. She turned and motioned him forward.

  Gil swallowed, now even more reluctant. The sound made him think the bridge would shatter like glass under their combined weight. But he followed her anyway, walking out over the chasm. A chill breeze rushed up from the depths, ruffling his cloak. Moving to the rail, he looked down, which was a mistake. Hundreds of feet below ran a dark river the color of squid ink. The air that rose from it smelled strongly of rotting death.

  “That’s not water, is it?” Gil asked, the stench making his stomach squirm.

  “No. It’s not.”

  He glanced at Naia uneasily. “Do I want to know what it is?”

  “Probably not.”

  He backed away from the railing and didn’t say another word until they reached the other side of the span. The Catacombs of Death were proving to be far more sinister than he had imagined. Almost, he was beginning to believe that there was far more at work than just magecraft. If magic alone had sculpted these passages, then it was a feat of industry far surpassing anything he had ever seen. They walked on a trail that paralleled the chasm, drawing closer to the burial vaults. Each vault was illuminated separately from within. Inside, Gil could see shrouded remains laid out on marble slabs. Here, the odor of decay was overwhelming.

  “Gods, what a stench!” he exclaimed. “Why don’t you just bury them in the ground instead of letting them go to rot?”

  Naia lifted her hand, indicating the vast burial wall. “Nothing rots here. The Catacombs exist outside of time, so decomposition doesn’t occur. But often corpses come to us less than fresh.”

  “‘Less than fresh,’” Gil echoed. “That’s an understatement, if I’ve ever heard one.”

  They moved through an opening in the wall that led to a dark stairwell that took them downward, emerging into another wide chamber. This one was filled with monuments and statuary, carvings of the goddess and likenesses of the deceased. Stone gargoyles guarded massive crypts, along with granite demons that seemed entirely out of place. The ground swarmed with a thick fog that moved like a slow current around the rows of sarcophagi.

  He followed Naia down a narrow path through what amounted to a sprawling necropolis. Out of the corner of his eye, Gil caught sight of a flickering blue light. When he turned to look at it, whatever he had seen was gone. His skin crawled with the growing certainty that more than just magic was operating in these halls. As they left the graveyard and moved into another tunnel, he caught a glimpse of a softly glowing wight, the vague and fleeting memory of a young woman. This time, the presence lingered for just a moment before flickering out.

  Startled, he glanced at Naia.

  “Did you not believe me?” she asked.

  “No,” Gil admitted. “Every temple mystery I’ve ever come across has been easily explained.”

  “Not here,” she assured him. “These Catacombs are the creation of the One True Goddess. There is magic here—don’t get me wrong. But there is also holy mystery. The Atrament is very real, as is the Netherworld.”

  He believed her. The further they went in, the harder it was becoming to deny.

  They started down another tunnel. This one smelled cleaner, the odor of rot fading and finally disappearing altogether. The air grew still, even stagnant, and warmed slightly.

  Gil asked, “What made you decide to hide Thar’gon in the Catacombs?”

  Naia responded, “At the time, Quin and I were all that was left. Every other mage had been killed—either in the destruction of Aerysius or in the wars that followed. There was no Warden of Battlemages to pass the talisman to. We decided it should be saved for future generations. This was the only place we could be sure it would be protected.”

  Gil shook his head. “It’s never ceased to amaze me how you were able to grow the Lyceum so quickly. In two decades, you’ve brought us from two surviving mages to numbering in the hundreds. It’s a remarkable accomplishment.”

  Naia smiled and reached her hand into her cloak. “We couldn’t have done it without this.” She withdrew the Soulstone medallion.

  “You brought it with us?” Gil stared down at the medallion, mildly shocked.

  “Yes.” Naia ran her fingers across the faceted stone, which gleamed with a red inner light. “I’m going to leave it here, at least for the time being. I can’t imagine the danger this artifact would pose, should it fall into enemy hands.”

  Gil found himself in agreement. They walked in silence for a while, the glowing Soulstone illuminating their path just as much as the magelight. Eventually, they came to another intersection. There, Naia stopped. A wrought iron gate blocked the entrance to the next chamber.

  “This is it,” she said.

  Reaching through the bars, she struggled with the lock on
the gate. She didn’t have a key, and yet the lock clicked, and the gate swung open toward them just a fraction, creaking on its hinges.

  Instead of entering, Naia turned to him. “Before we go further, I need you to understand something. What you will find in this room will be troubling. I’m sure you’ll have many questions. Rest assured, I will answer them all later, when we have time.”

  The severity written on her face, and the foreboding implicit in her words, made Gil feel suddenly apprehensive. Looking past her through the bars, he asked, “What’s in there?”

  Very softly, Naia answered, “Your past. And also your future.”

  Gil looked beyond her. On the other side of the iron gate was a wide chamber that housed two structures that stood apart, on opposite sides of the room. Mausoleums, both made of contrasting marble. He remembered what Naia had said, back at the Lyceum: that Thar’gon had been buried with Darien Lauchlin. He stared harder at the two mausoleums, wondering which tomb could be his. Neither looked to be the resting place of a demon.

  The gate shivered open wider. Gil moved into the chamber, the mist retreating from his feet. He crossed to the center of the room and there paused, standing to consider the marble tombs before him. Each mausoleum was very different. The one on the left was tall and narrow, its marble white and veined with silver. Flowers and greenery were strewn on the ground around it, all fresh. Gil felt the tugging urge to approach the tomb. He turned and cast a questioning glance at Naia.

  “Go ahead,” she urged, pausing well back from him.

  Gil moved toward the white mausoleum with a feeling of trepidation. Stepping gingerly over the carpet of roses, he mounted the steps to the front of the structure. It looked like a small marble house with a sloped roof and a columned entryway. Beneath the columns, there was a wall of solid marble. Above the wall, upon a triangular portico, were etched the words: