Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  Judhi allowed himself a slight smile. “She is our backbone. For a week, we have been fighting to retake this quarter of the city. Many were killed on the first night of the attacks. At first, the people were afraid to stand up. But Uma Halabi gave us our spine back.”

  “Who was she before?” Gil asked, stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth.

  The man glanced toward the room full of wounded. “Uma Halabi is like a mother to the people of this district. Her husband was a butcher, but he was killed the night of the first attack.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Gil said. He looked up to find Uma Halabi glaring at him from the doorway. She made a brisk motion with her hand, sending Judhi out of the room with a sheepish nod of apology. The woman moved into the room and settled down next to Gil on the rug.

  Drinking down the last of his wine, Gil asked her, “So, what exactly is your plan? What do you intend to accomplish here?”

  The woman waved her hand dismissively. “There is no plan. We have been fighting block by block trying to retake the Damali Quarter. But the Khar have taken every district surrounding us and they have us besieged. There is no food, and most of the wells have been poisoned. We will not be able to survive here much longer, so we have no choice but to fight.”

  What she had already accomplished was a miraculous feat. He couldn’t imagine how one old woman and a band of civilians could have held an encircled quarter, when the entirety of the Sultan’s forces couldn’t hold the Waterfront. More likely, the Khar had shifted their assets elsewhere, leaving Uma Halabi and her band for later; they posed little threat.

  “What has it been like here?” he asked.

  “The first night, when the Khar came, there was fighting in the streets and fire from the sky that brought down many of the buildings. People hid in their basements while the enemy roamed the streets, murdering everyone in sight, even those trying to surrender. The next day was worse. They brought the children out to the market square and promised to kill them unless their parents gave themselves up. When they did, they were all executed, every last one of them, along with the children they had tried to save. Since then, people have been disappearing one by one.”

  She sat still for a moment, her hands restlessly smoothing her skirt over her legs. At last, she asked quietly, “What about you, Master Gil? Why have you come to the Damali Quarter?”

  Gil still hadn’t decided whether divulging his plans to this woman was wise or rash. There were arguments to be made for both. In the end, he decided to risk it. “The Khar broke through our perimeter. They are on the verge of taking the entire city. They use chained mages to mount their attacks, and they’re all but unstoppable. If it wasn’t for their mages, we might have a chance.”

  He looked up and met her gaze. “We’ve learned that the Khar keep their mages in the Alqazar Citadel. So that’s why I’m here. I’m going to the citadel to kill as many as I can.”

  Uma Halabi stared at him a long moment before flicking her eyebrows and lowering her gaze to settle on the rug. “A noble plan,” she said finally. “Noble, but stupid. All you will accomplish is augmenting their ranks, when they capture and chain you.”

  Firmly, Gil said, “I won’t be captured.”

  The woman’s brow furrowed in doubt. “How can you be so sure?”

  He lifted the talisman and set it across his lap. “This weapon is the most powerful magical artifact we have. It can transfer me out of there in the blink of an eye.”

  She gazed down at the morning star dubiously. “If you are caught, then the Khar will use both you and your magical weapon to great advantage.”

  “I won’t be,” Gil insisted. “Can your people help me get to the citadel?”

  The old woman shrugged. “I’m certain we could. I am also certain we won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because going into the citadel would be like taking an apple from the bottom of a stack of apples. The rest of the apples will fall on you. Their mages killed thousands by calling down fire from the heavens. What do you think they will do to you?”

  Gil frowned, frustrated by her doggedness. “This is the artifact that destroyed the Well of Tears. With it, I’ll be just as powerful as any four or five of their mages put together.”

  Uma Halabi raised her eyebrows. “Then you are even more ignorant than I thought. Because they have many more than four or five mages. And when you are captured, all hope will be lost for us.”

  Gil grinned recklessly. “Then I guess you’d better make sure I don’t get captured.”

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Look,” he said. “If I don’t do this, the entire city will fall. There’s no question about it. They’ve crossed the canal, and that was the last thing stopping them.”

  Uma Halabi nodded slowly. Then she gathered her robes and rose from the floor. She took a step toward the door but then paused and turned back.

  “You may stay here tonight,” she told him. “I’ll have more food brought to you.”

  “Wait,” Gil said, climbing to his feet. “Where are you going?”

  She shot him a disdainful look. “If I’m going to help you, Master Archer, then I have arrangements to make.”

  “Thank you,” he said to the woman’s back as she left.

  37

  The Turan Khar

  “Do you trust me, Rylan?” Xiana asked.

  “I do.”

  He trusted her as much as Keio had trusted Ilia, and that trust was never-ending. Reaching up, he stroked her face. She looked beautiful in the light of morning. The sun shone directly through one of the thin latticed windows behind her, haloing her hair. But then the sun moved on, rising above the opening of the window, and the shadows returned.

  Leaning into him, she kissed his lips, at first tentatively. But then the kiss swelled into something more, something beautiful. It took on the aspect of something far larger and significant, infinitely wondrous. It promised everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d never known he needed.

  “What about their mages?” he asked, pulling back.

  “If Shiro falls, then every mage under his command will lose all sense of direction and purpose.”

  “Why is that?”

  She smiled. “Because that’s how the Turan Khar operate. One mind, one purpose. All controlled by the Warlord, who is in turn controlled by the Empress. Without the Warlord’s direction, all collapses. That’s what Khar means. Unity. Every person in their civilization is connected to the whole.”

  He couldn’t imagine it could be that simple, as though the Turan Khar were simply one body that could be decapitated and left to rot. He had seen their mages, seen the chains on their wrists. They certainly seemed like slaves, but even slaves had a mind and will of their own.

  But she was Ilia, and he did not doubt her.

  She pulled him closer, hugging him tight.

  “Are you ready?” she asked softly.

  He nodded.

  She moved behind him. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  As he complied, she bent and scooped up the sash of her yori rope, using it to bind his wrists firmly. Tugging it tighter than he liked, she finished off the knot, then circled around in front of him and kissed his cheek.

  “Close your eyes,” she whispered, the sound of her voice stirring excitement within him along with dread.

  Rylan caught a glimpse of Ilia’s opal pendant before Xiana stepped behind him whispered the Word that commanded it. The walls of the hut around them grew thin like stretched fabric, then thinner still, until another fabric appeared behind them, this one dark and opaque. In seconds, the vision of the hut was withdrawn entirely, and a cool breeze stirred Rylan’s hair.

  He looked around, not recognizing where they were; it was a place he’d never been.

  They stood in the center of a courtyard paved with marble tiles and bright with the morning sun. In the center was a large fountain, carried on the backs of stone-carved panthers stan
ding in a ring. The courtyard was lined with arcaded walkways, each column elaborately scalloped. It had the look of any number of buildings he had seen in Karikesh, built in the Malikari style of architecture.

  He became aware of movement around them, and realize they were not alone. In the shadows beneath the arcades stood small clusters of people, all looking at them with surprise and shock on their faces. No one moved.

  After moments, a man and a woman came forward, crossing the courtyard toward them. Both wore gray robes that fluttered around them, giving them the appearance of wraiths newly emerged from the grave. The man had long black hair and gray skin. The woman who walked at his side looked Rhenic, her thick blonde hair worn in elaborate braids.

  The woman halted well back from them, while the man came forward to hug Xiana and kiss her cheeks.

  “Xiana…” he breathed, stepping back. “We’ve missed you so.”

  She smiled broadly and wrapped her hand around Rylan possessively. “And I’ve missed you, Gralish,”

  “Who is this?” the man asked, frowning at Rylan’s bound hands.

  Xiana lifted Rylan’s chin, forcing him to look at the gray man. “This is Rylan Lauchlin. He will be my other half.”

  The way she said it made Rylan shiver.

  “Lauchlin.” It was Gralish’s partner who spoke. “That is an ill-omened name.”

  Looking at Rylan, Xiana smiled fondly “Not ill,” she corrected. Her hand moved to stroke his hair. “It is a glorious name, strong with a proud legacy of magic. Rylan is mine now.”

  The gray man looked back and forth between Rylan and Xiana before nodding.

  “Then he is ours,” he decided. He moved forward and drew Rylan in for a hug, kissing his cheek. “Welcome, Brother.”

  His words, more than his touch, made Rylan feel soiled. When the man drew back, he could still feel his cold lips lingering on his skin.

  Xiana gestured toward the two Khar mages. “This is my family, Rylan. Your family, now. Gralish is from Ortun, a land to the north of Daru.” She paused, as if uncertain how to introduce the woman.

  Gralish rescued her, draping an arm around the Rhenic woman’s shoulders. “This is Laira, my iyan.”

  The woman lowered her gaze demurely.

  “What happened to Terrik?” Xiana asked.

  Gralish did not reply. Instead, he bowed his head, sorrow darkening his eyes.

  Xiana murmured, “I’m so sorry, Gralish.”

  “Terrik has transcended,” the gray man said, and smiled through his pain. “I am very glad for him. And now I have Laira to fill my heart. I am truly blessed.” He lifted Laira’s hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly. Laira gave a tentative smile.

  “What’s wrong, love?” Gralish asked her, cupping her chin.

  “He frightens me,” she answered, her eyes flitting to Rylan.

  The man frowned. “Why?”

  She looked away again, and edged closer to Gralish, whispering, “He is a demon.”

  The man stepped back, his body tensing. His eyes darted to Xiana. “Is this true?”

  Xiana dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “Rylan’s father served the God of Chaos. But Rylan is not like him. He is honest and kind.”

  She leaned into Rylan and kissed his cheek. Her lips brushed his skin lightly, traveling toward his ear and sending shivers down his spine. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling

  Gralish examined his reaction closely. At last, he nodded, seeming satisfied. “I believe you, Sister. But is he tame?”

  Xiana admitted, “In heart only. He has never been chained.”

  The man sucked in a cheek, gazing at Rylan thoughtfully. “You must take him to the Warlord, then.”

  “Of course.” Xiana took Rylan’s arm and tugged him forward gently. “Let’s go, love. I will take you to meet our father.”

  Rylan moved to follow her, anxious to be away from the gray man.

  “Welcome home, Sister,” Gralish called after them. “So happy to meet you, Brother.”

  The sound of his voice made Rylan’s skin crawl. He hurried his pace, wanting to put a good distance between himself and the two enemy mages. He was aware of people staring at him as they crossed the courtyard. Xiana guided him by the arm around the fountain, then through an enormous, iron-shod door into the interior of the fortress.

  Dark walls and fluttering shadows surrounded them. They entered a narrow hallway lit by iron lanterns that cast a dreary ochre light. The walls were etched with elaborate filigree that swirled over their entire surfaces. The dance of light across the twisting patterns was mesmerizing. Rylan walked at Xiana’s side, staring blankly at the walls.

  “What does it mean to be chained?” he asked.

  Xiana took a moment before responding. “The chains connect two people in all ways, sealing them together as one. They also seal a person to the Unity—the whole of the community.”

  They turned a corner, then mounted a flight of stairs. Rylan found himself wondering if Xiana had ever been chained. Gralish had seemed to know her intimately. Had she been connected to the Turan Unity? And, if so, how had she ever escaped them?

  A creeping feeling of doubt settled over his shoulders.

  He asked, “Why did that man ask if I was tame?”

  Xiana answered, “Because a chained mage would never harm their other half. Or the community.”

  They reached the end of the stairs. Before them extended a wide hallway that ended at an ominous-looking door. It was enormous, constructed of rough wood planks that looked half-rotten by the years, far older than the rest of the fortress surrounding it. The boards were pierced through with rusted bolts and secured by dark bands.

  Staring at the door, Rylan pondered Xiana’s words, feeling an increasing sense of foreboding. “This Shiro…” he said slowly, “is he going to try to put chains on me?”

  He didn’t know why he had asked that. The answer was obvious. But the doubt now chilling his insides was making it hard to think. And harder to trust.

  “Yes,” Xiana answered, gazing at him solemnly. “He will want you sealed to the Unity. And sealed to him.”

  Rylan stared past her at the door, his eyes locked on it. Shiro was behind that door. Waiting for him. He swallowed dryly. He trusted Xiana with his life. He had to remember that.

  And yet, doubt gnawed at his bones.

  “I’ll not let them chain me,” he whispered.

  She squeezed his hand reassuringly, a comforting warmth in her eyes. “Are you ready?”

  He nodded. He had come here to claim his daughter. There was no question that he was ready. Rylan followed her as she walked forward across the parquet floor and stopped before the massive door. Reaching up, she rapped hard upon the ancient wood.

  For a long moment, nothing happened.

  Then, with a shudder, the great door creaked opened just a crack. Xiana leaned forward and said to someone on the other side, “We are here to see the Warlord.”

  The door opened just a fraction more, revealing the thin sliver of a man standing on the other side. A man with pale skin and even paler hair, his features narrow and jagged.

  The man ran his gaze over Rylan critically. “No mage enters the Warlord’s presence unbanded.”

  The door started to close.

  Xiana thrust her hand out, stopping it.

  “He is dampened. The Warlord is expecting us.”

  The door hesitated.

  “Very well.”

  The menacing sound of that voice made Rylan shudder. Xiana smiled at him in encouragement, gripping him once more by the arm. With a ghastly moan, the door swung open before them, revealing a room cloaked in darkness beyond.

  Rylan followed Xiana past the pale man, who closed the door behind them, cutting them off from the light of the lanterns. The room they stood in was ink-black, save for a strip of light spilling in through a doorway ahead. With a wave of his hand, the pale man motioned them toward it.

  Xiana led him into the wash of light
but drew up short as a pair of chained mages stepped forward, blocking their path. Rylan glanced beyond them into the room but could make out very little within. A sheer drape of red fabric hung on the other side of the doorway. Through it, he could make out only the vague outlines of wide pillars backlit by flickering flames.

  Clinging to his arm, Xiana raised her chin and stated clearly to the mages blocking their path, “Brothers, please inform the Warlord that his daughter Xiana begs audience.”

  Rylan felt a cold shiver steal over him at her words, as all the doubt within him bubbled to the surface. He looked at Xiana and studied her face, searching her eyes for signs of betrayal. But her deep brown eyes were without emotion. He could find neither treachery nor comfort in her gaze.

  Before them, the chained mages bowed together as a pair. One moved to draw the drape back, revealing a long, dark hall with a high ceiling supported by fluted columns. Flaming braziers lined the edges of the room, and rows of candles defined a path to a dais at the far end of the hall.

  The mages withdrew to the side. Xiana tugged on Rylan’s arm, pulling him forward. She led him into the chamber, stepping onto a crimson rug that stretched the length of the room and flowed up the stairs onto the dais. There were no windows in the hall. No tapestries or artwork of any kind. Along the top of the walls ran a band of blue tiles decorated with stylized Malikari calligraphy that wrapped around the entire room. He had no idea what it said.

  On the dais, four unchained mages wearing iron bands on their wrists knelt at the foot of a throne made of human skulls. It was a grisly sight. A chilling sight. Yet, as Xiana drew him closer to the throne, Rylan’s eyes were drawn solely to its occupant, a man with leathery gray skin and long white hair, whose features were more skeletal than the bones he sat upon.

  As they approached, the Warlord took notice of them and turned their way. When the man’s cold stare fell on him, Rylan halted mid-stride. His heart shivered to a stop. He recognized the man on the throne; there could be no other like him. It was the man from the Guardian Tower in Suheylu Ra.

  The man who had murdered his Ilia.