Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  KYEL ARCHER

  GRAND MASTER OF THE ORDER OF SENTINELS

  BREAKER OF THE WELL OF TEARS

  Gil stopped and stared at the words, feeling a paralyzing numbness slowly consuming him from his neck to his feet. He was unable to move or even blink. Unable to breathe. He stood there, locked rigid, until shock’s grip on him finally relaxed its hold. He felt his entire body sag, as if all the air had been let out of him at once. Suddenly, it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

  “This is my father’s tomb,” he said.

  “It is,” Naia confirmed, her voice echoing.

  Feeling lightheaded, Gil forced himself to move forward, until he was close enough to touch the marble wall. But he dared not. At least, not yet. He couldn’t.

  “I never knew my father was here,” he said. “I never knew any of this was here. Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He turned back to look at Naia with accusation in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The Prime Warden stood with her hands clasped, sympathy in her eyes. “The Catacombs are one of the Temple’s holy mysteries, Gil. As a priestess, I was entrusted to keep those mysteries. I didn’t tell you because you had no business knowing.”

  That didn’t make him feel any better. It didn’t justify anything. He turned his back on her and faced the crypt.

  “Take your time,” Naia said. “I’ll wait over there.”

  He heard her footsteps retreating, leaving him alone with only a cold marble slab and a belly full of emptiness that felt even colder. He gazed dully at his father’s name etched into the marble: perfect, thin letters chiseled by a master’s practiced hand. He stared at them until they blurred.

  He rubbed his eyes, shocked when his hand came away damp.

  In that moment, every feeling he’d stuffed down deep since childhood came welling up: scalding anger, heartache. Loneliness and resentment. Betrayal. Every feeling a child could suffer at the death of a father came spiraling back to him like a whirlwind, and he staggered under the force of it.

  He sagged against the stone of his father’s crypt, pressing his cheek against the cold marble. When he closed his eyes, old memories poured into him, memories he had struggled to forget. Memories of his father hefting him in his arms, only to flip him over and tickle him until he flailed with laughter. Memories of his father’s gentle smile, his smothering hugs.

  He remembered the last moments he’d spent with him.

  Who protects you, papa? he’d asked.

  With the slightest smile, his father replied, That’s what magic’s for.

  At the time, he hadn’t questioned why that smile had seemed so sad. Now he knew. Because Kyel Archer had known even magic couldn’t save him from the evil that was the Well of Tears. His father had known he would never be coming back but had gone anyway. He had chosen all the right words and yet had said all the wrong things.

  The last words his father said to him had haunted Gil all his life: You need to know how much I love you. And how proud I am of you.

  He was sure his father had meant well by those words, but they had been a curse that had shadowed every endeavor he’d ever attempted—because he knew he didn’t deserve them. He had never done anything to make his father proud. Certainly not as a four-year-old boy. And certainly never since. Oh, he’d tried. Tried his damnedest. It didn’t matter—no matter what, he always failed. He didn’t have it in him to be a hero. He would never live up to his father’s expectations.

  Gil lifted his hand and pressed his palm against the marble next to his face, overcome by grief. But the grief didn’t last long. It drained away quickly, leaving only tears of bitter anger on his face. He took a step back and stared up at the mausoleum, hating every slab of it. It was a monument to a man who’d walked away willingly from a son who loved him.

  He’d never wanted his father to be a hero. He’d just wanted him to be there.

  Wiping his eyes, Gil turned and crossed the rose-strewn floor back toward where Naia stood waiting for him in the center of the chamber. Stuffing his emotions back down deep where they belonged, he drew up at her side.

  “Are you all right?” Naia asked, searching his face.

  “I will be,” he said.

  There were a dozen things she could have said at that moment but, to her credit, she said none of them. Instead she lifted her hand, gesturing toward the second monument that stood on the far side of the room. No flowers graced the ground surrounding that dark tomb. Only burning candles, hundreds of them, glowing in sconces of varying heights. Gil walked forward, skirting the outside of the mausoleum, staring up at its dark gray walls, at the marble veined in bold streaks of black and white. Unlike his father’s tomb, this one had an entrance. And above that entrance was a wide slab of marble with the name LAUCHLIN chiseled into the stone. When Gil hesitated, Naia nodded toward it, urging him forward.

  With reluctance, he picked out a path through the burning field of lit candles. The tomb itself had no door, just an opening in the front that led to a small room that was lit by a single torch hung on the rear wall. On either side of the narrow space, two vaults were built into the walls, each covered by a slab of dark marble.

  The vault on the right was inscribed with the words:

  AZÁR LAUCHLIN

  BELOVED WIFE

  The inscription surprised him. He hadn’t realized that Darien Lauchlin had ever taken a wife. The name Azár was Malikari. Whoever this woman was, she couldn’t have been Rylan’s mother. He turned around and gazed at the vault on the other side of the narrow chamber, this one engraved with the words:

  DARIEN LAUCHLIN

  PRIME WARDEN OF AERYSIUS

  LAST OF THE SENTINELS

  Last of the Sentinels.

  Gil’s mouth twisted at the words. His father had been a Sentinel—a true Sentinel—unlike the demon interred behind this slab of stone. Darien Lauchlin had lost the right to that title the moment he turned against everything Aerysius had ever stood for. He turned on his own nation, his own kinfolk—on everyone who depended on him to keep them safe. Gil stared at the hateful inscription, wanting to scrub it off the marble with his hands.

  Hearing a scuffing noise, he realized Naia had come up behind him.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

  To his surprise, Naia ran her hand over the polished surface of the crypt, her fingers lingering over the letters. Her dark eyes welled with sadness.

  Gil was shocked by her reaction. “You knew him well?” he asked.

  She smiled sadly. “Yes. I loved him very much.”

  Gil looked back and forth between the crypt and Naia’s face. He didn’t understand; so many people held Darien Lauchlin in such high esteem. Naia, the Sultan, even Quin, all claimed friendship with a man who had done little more than rip his own society apart. How could someone as gentle as Naia love someone so evil? It made no sense.

  “I’m sorry,” Gil whispered, not knowing what else to say.

  Naia raised an eyebrow. “Sorry that I loved him? Or sorry, as in condolences?”

  It took him a moment to think about it. “I guess both,” he decided finally.

  Naia’s smile said she forgave him, even though the look in her eyes remained distant. Trailing her hands down the polished slab of marble, she said, “Help me open it.”

  Gil blinked. “Open it?”

  “Yes. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Gil balked, disgusted by the thought. The man inside the crypt had been dead for two decades. He’d already smelled enough moldering corpses to know that he didn’t want to smell another one, especially this close.

  Seeing his hesitation, the Prime Warden let out an exasperated sigh. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

  Before he could react, she depressed two buttons on either side of the stone slab. Immediately, a seam opened in the marble wall as part of the fascia slipped downward with a muffled thud. To Gil’s surprise, the heavy marble slab moved easily. Naia pushed it the rest of the way to t
he floor without effort, revealing a cedar-lined compartment within. Reaching inside, she gave the wood panel a good tug. With a faint creaking noise, a man-sized drawer slid out of the wall. Gil took a step back in surprise.

  There was no corpse. The drawer was lined with rich velvet, ready to receive a body. But the only thing resting upon it was a spiked morning star. No bones. No decayed flesh.

  No corpse had ever lain there.

  “I don’t understand,” Gil said. “If Lauchlin’s not here, then where is he buried?”

  Naia moved away from the drawer, turning her back to him. “There was nothing left to bury,” she said softly. Looking back at him, she said, “Go ahead. Take it. It’s yours by rights.”

  Gil turned his attention to the weapon in the drawer. Thar’gon had been created to be wielded by the Warden of Battlemages. His father had carried it for a time, and now, through some strange twist of fate, that duty had fallen to him. His gaze trailed over the weapon, a small sense of awe creeping over him. It was beautiful, made of polished silver that gleamed with an argent light. The haft was wrapped with black leather, the mace-like head surrounded by a thick halo of spikes.

  Gil reached down and closed his hand around the haft. The moment his fingers touched it, he felt an instant connection. Like a bolt of lightning shooting up his arm and into his chest. He stood there for a moment, savoring the feel of the weapon in his hand. Then slowly, filled with infinite trepidation, he withdrew Thar’gon from its crypt.

  “How does it feel?” Naia asked, her eyes wide and anxious.

  Staring at the talisman, Gil whispered, “Terrifying.”

  The energy moving into him from the weapon intensified, washing over him like a swift current of warm water. It calmed him, soothed him. Filled him with a daunting sense of strength. In his hand, the talisman glowed softly.

  Naia moved forward and spread the Soulstone carefully over the velvet of the drawer where the weapon had lain. Trailing her hands over the silver bands of the collar, Naia whispered, “Just for safekeeping.”

  35

  Misled

  Xiana ran a hand over his stomach, making Rylan shiver. She lay with her head snuggled against his chest, her wet hair plastered to his skin. He pulled the covers up over her and kissed her head. His nostrils filled with the fresh scent of her, rekindling his desire.

  He’d forgotten what a woman felt like.

  Xiana was the only woman he’d ever lain with other than his wife. He’d expected to feel guilty, taking another into his bed. But he didn’t. Somehow, Xiana felt right. Her body fit perfectly against his, the touch of her skin inspiring feelings of warmth and contentment. This was the woman he loved, the woman he’d died loving.

  Rylan stiffened. Those were not his memories. Not his feelings.

  And yet, somehow, they were. The feelings were real. And they weren’t going away. If anything, they were intensifying. The memories that accompanied them were fading, though not the sentiment. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t complain. He’d forgotten what it felt like to know anything but heartache.

  Stroking Xiana’s soft hair, he asked, “Did you know this would happen to me?”

  Her eyes closed, and she smiled softly. “I hoped.”

  “Why me?” He’d been thinking about that question ever since they’d returned from Suheylu Ra. She could have kidnapped any mage in the Rhen. For some reason, she had selected one with a sinister lineage she hadn’t trusted from the outset.

  “Because of who you are,” she answered.

  Because of who you are.

  Those were the same words spoken by the man in the cornfield, the man who had murdered his son. A cold feeling settled over him. He lay staring up at the shadows of the ceiling, as question after question surfaced in his head, each strengthening his doubt a little more.

  Her fingers stroked his chest, moving in lazy spirals.

  Softly, Rylan asked. “How did you know who I am? How did you know where to find me?”

  Her hand stopped moving.

  For heartbeats, she said nothing. Then:

  “I was told.”

  That was the answer he was afraid of. He pulled away from her and rolled out from under the blanket. Sitting up, he asked, “By whom?”

  She rolled over onto her back and stared up at him. “By Shiro.”

  That name sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place it. His skin shivered at hearing it. “Who’s Shiro?”

  Xiana heaved a dispirited sigh. She sat up, tugging the blanket up around her. She said without looking at him, “It’s time you learned the truth.”

  “What truth?” Rylan could feel his insides tense, his heart drumming to a standstill. Real fear seeped down his spine.

  Xiana gazed at him steadily. “When the Khar invaded Daru, I was captured along with all the rest of our deizu. I was given to their Warlord, a man named Shiro Nagato. He is the most powerful man in their society, save only for their Empress. Before Shiro came into power, he was the apprentice of Zavier Renquist, the demon your father served… and then betrayed.”

  Rylan knew the name. Zavier Renquist was the infamous darkmage who had created the Well of Tears.

  Xiana’s expression saddened. “Zavier Renquist knew of your existence. He knew you were alive, even when your father thought you dead. He had plans for you. But your father killed him before Renquist could act on them.”

  Rylan dropped his gaze to the floor and sat staring at a knot in the wood. His father had unwittingly protected him from that monster. With that knowledge, Rylan was able to conjure just the slightest bit of gratitude toward the man. He realized it was probably the first and last positive emotion he’d ever feel for him.

  Xiana drew away from him and leaned back against the wall. “Ever since Zavier Renquist’s death, Shiro has been continuing his master’s work. Part of that work involves collecting and training mages to use as weapons. The more powerful mages are highly coveted. Do you know how the tier system works?”

  Rylan knew very little about magic or magecraft. He shrugged. “I just know the higher the tier, the stronger the mage.”

  “That’s right.” Xiana nodded. “But it’s rare to have a mage over third tier. Very few minds are capable of handling that much power. The most powerful mages in history were sixth tier, and those you could count on the fingers of both hands. More than six tiers inevitably leads to madness. A mind cannot handle that much power. It burns a person up from the inside.”

  Her gaze drifted toward the windows before finally returning to settle on him. “Somehow, both Keio and Ilia were eighth tier. No one knows how they managed to survive with that much power, but they did. Only one other mage in all of history has managed to do that without going mad.” She gave him a significant look.

  It took Rylan only a heartbeat to take her meaning. “My father.”

  Xiana nodded. “And Shiro knows that. Which is why he desires you. Ilia Osan and Keio Matu were more than just lovers—they were a joined pair: two mages with souls and Gifts connected in such a way that one could draw on the strength of the other, increasing their powers exponentially. Separate, both Keio and Ilia were incredibly strong. But together… I don’t know if this world has ever seen anything like them, before or since.

  “So that’s what Shiro Nagato means to do—he means to use us as a joined pair far stronger than any this world has seen in eight thousand years. I was the most powerful deizu Shiro controlled. He had me merge with Ilia… and then he sent me to find you.”

  The explosion of anger Rylan felt was all-consuming. It was born of hurt, the strongest kind of fuel. He surged to his feet, his vision going red. She had lied to him. He wondered what else she had lied about, and how deep the lies went.

  “How could you?” he shouted at her. “How could you betray your own people—and mine?”

  Raising her hands, Xiana climbed to her feet. Looking at him adamantly, she said, “Eight thousand years ago, Keio Matu defeated the Turan Khar… and I think you ca
n do it again.”

  The heat within him lessened somewhat. But the pain of betrayal was still there, hanging on with a death grip. Raking his hands through his hair, Rylan paced away from her. “How? I’m dampened, Xiana!”

  “Shiro doesn’t know you can use the Onslaught. You have the advantage of surprise.”

  The pounding anger in him faltered; he knew she was right. He realized that, for the first time, he knew what a field dampener was and how it worked, cutting off a person from the magic field by wrapping a mirror-field around them. But it couldn’t cut him off from his link with the Netherworld. That would take a shield made of anti-magic, something far more rare and difficult to craft.

  Rylan turned away from her, his hand going to his mouth as he struggled to think it through. Her words seemed to make sense… until they didn’t.

  Frowning, he asked, “Why wouldn’t Shiro know about my oath to Xerys? He’s the one who made me swear it in the first place.”

  Xiana shook her head. “That wasn’t Shiro.”

  He looked at her sideways. “If it wasn’t Shiro, then who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  That wasn’t the answer he wanted, what he needed. He needed a name, a name he could put a face to. Someone he could blame for taking his family from him. He stood in silence for a while, stewing on the information. He paced away, raking his hand through his hair in exasperation. “So there’s someone else who knows who I am… and who just happened to give me exactly what I need to defeat Shiro?”

  Xiana folded her arms and looked at him steadily. “Yes.”

  He wanted to hate her. He had every reason and right to. But something inside him wouldn’t let him. Not something—someone. Keio Matu’s knowledge had come with a price. The price was that he now had to carry small fragments of the man around with him. And every one of those fragments loved Xiana with all their heart.