He did. Her love flowed through the link he shared with her. He felt peace. Reassurance. All that he had lacked before, Xiana now brought him. He could sense his own feelings echoing hers. And within him, there was even more reason to rejoice: Keio Matu was finally reunited with his beloved, and Rylan felt awash in his joy.
Nothing could ever be wrong again. Everything was right.
He was whole.
Stroking his hand, she asked, “Do you know what tier you are?”
Rylan barely had to think about it; he already knew. There was a test to determine a mage’s tier, and it was ironically simple. Closing his eyes, he waved his hand through the air, then opened his eyes quickly. A trail of sparkling magic lingered in the path his hand had traveled. It was fractured eight times, one for each instance of the Gift he had layered within him.
He blinked in shock. “I’m eighth tier,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Just like my father.”
Xiana gave a satisfied smile. “Just like Keio Matu. We will be Deizu-sum, in charge of every kaiden,” she explained, her fingers trailing up his arm. “The weight of every life will rest on our shoulders, and the safety of the Unity will be in our hands.”
The Unity. He understood the word now, completely, and all of its ramifications. It was the collection of all the people in the Empire, each connected to the other through infinite links. A collective whole, with every life touching every other life—and all those lives now bound to him. They were all-important. His own life was insignificant in comparison. Nothing else mattered; nothing could ever come close.
Not even Amina.
The thought stroked his nerves the wrong way. It was true, and yet it felt so wrong. Rylan frowned, his gaze darting to his daughter. She was still asleep, still peaceful. Her plump little fingers twitched once. Reaching out, he touched her hand.
“She’s so beautiful,” he murmured. “If I had one wish, it would be that my son could be here with us.”
A deep, throbbing ache filled him, all the way down to his bones. An image of his son’s shoe lying next to a pile of ash came to the surface of his mind and stuck there. His nerves trembled as though a sudden darkness had passed over them.
Shiro. His son.
They were somehow connected, though he couldn’t remember why or how. Somehow, Shiro had taken his son away. At first, the thought made him enraged. But the feeling passed quickly. He understood. His son had been a necessary sacrifice, to nudge him in the direction of the right path, a path he would have never chosen otherwise. No matter how awful, his son’s death had served a purpose. He had to forgive; he had to let it go. Shiro was his father now. And, just like any father, he loved his son enough to hurt him. Sometimes love had to be painful. Rylan understood that.
But another part of him doubted.
Korey’s death hadn’t been necessary… Shiro could have found another way. Suddenly, Rylan was filled with doubt. A cold, slithering feeling settled in his gut.
Chains will never bind you…
Xiana set a hand on his back, and the warmth of their connection chased the cold feeling away. Contentment settled back around him like a warm blanket, along with a great sense of peace.
“We’re preparing for an offensive,” Xiana said quietly, her fingers stroking his back in soothing circles. “You and I will lead the attack, as Deizu-sum. Together, we will bring this city into the Empire. The joy of the people will be boundless. It will be wondrous to see.”
Her words provoked a stirring of excitement within him. The people of Karikesh didn’t know how empty and lonely their lives were; they had never known anything different. But soon they would know a better life, and they would rejoice. Rylan was happy for them. Malikar and the Kingdoms could at last live in harmony. There would be no more cause for adversity. Every continent in the world would soon be unified, and there would be one, everlasting peace.
And yet, it pained him that so many people would have to die to achieve that goal. Perhaps it didn’t have to be that way. Maybe he could do something to make a difference.
“Let me go to them,” he said. “The Sultan is a good man. I’m sure I can make him understand. Then no one has to die.”
Xiana smiled at him regretfully. “Death is meaningless, Rylan. The only thing that matters is the Unity. We are but transitory beings. We are here for just a moment, like a spark. We burn briefly and brightly, then we fall back into the flames. Like the spark, we are here to serve the fire; no more. That is the purpose and meaning of our lives.”
“Aye.” He nodded, knowing she was right.
Xiana’s hand went to the chain that linked them together, and she caressed it. “For now, you are sayan, the one who is led,” she told him. “I am isan, the one who leads. Our roles may reverse someday, as you grow into your power. But until that time, I control the link.”
He nodded absently. His eyes and mind had returned to Amina. He was thinking how lucky she was to grow up knowing only this. She would never know hatred. She would never know isolation or loneliness.
Only love and serenity.
“Come here,” Xiana whispered, taking him into her arms. “You need rest. Lie down and sleep. I’ll watch over you.”
Rylan did as she asked. He lay down beside his daughter and cuddled her as he drifted off to sleep, comforted by the feel of Xiana’s hand stroking his.
Gil stared up at the towers of the Alqazar Citadel and swallowed. The fortress was heavily guarded. He stood across the street, watching as soldiers inspected the wine cart before allowing it through the gate into the citadel’s bailey.
He sucked in a cheek. He would have to find another way in.
With the talisman, he could transfer into the citadel if he knew what it looked like inside. But he’d never get a view of the baily from the street. Glancing up, he surveyed the row of buildings behind him and chose the tallest. He strolled up the street with his head bowed, hoping the guards wouldn’t take an interest in him.
He felt an almost dizzying sense of relief when he reached the building unmolested. And his luck held: the door was unlocked. He let himself into a narrow hallway that smelled strongly of spices. The sound of laughter came from somewhere down the hall. He took the stairs up to the third floor, then found a door leading out onto a balcony. Moving toward the rail, he let out a sigh of relief.
Below was an unobstructed view of the interior of the fortress.
The Alqazar Citadel was a massive complex of courtyards and fortified structures laid out in no particular order or design. From where he stood, he had a good view of the first two courtyards. The rooftops of several buildings rolled away from him, the towers blocking his view of the rest.
The first courtyard swarmed with soldiers and supplies, smoke rolling from forges and kitchens. It would be difficult—probably impossible—to enter the fortress from there. The second courtyard was almost empty. It was encased by a series of arcaded walkways and had a distinctive fountain in the middle. Those were all the landmarks he needed. Gil spun a shadow web around himself and unhooked the talisman from his belt. He closed his eyes and fixed an image of the fountain in his mind.
“Vergis,” he whispered.
The world shifted, and then the fountain appeared in front of him from out of a tilted landscape. Gil staggered, catching his balance. He stood blinking in a harsh flood of sunlight, the strong scent of jasmine filling his nostrils. There were only a few people in the courtyard, and no one seemed to take notice of him. As long as he didn’t move, the shadow web was enough. He looked at a man and woman walking away from him. He could tell they were mages by the robes.
The columned walkway next to him offered enough shade to conceal him. Gil waited until he was certain no one was looking, then moved quickly beneath the arcade. He stood still for a moment, making sure he hadn’t been seen. Then he looked around at the buildings that enclosed the courtyard, wondering which one housed the citadel’s mages. Searching building to building would be too risky
; he had to find another way.
A couple strolled past him: two women walking together hand and hand. On impulse, he moved after them. There was a good chance they were returning to their quarters and could lead him there if it wasn’t too great a distance. Holding the talisman at his side, he followed them into the building and down a flight of stairs.
The floor below the main level was dark, the walls lined with old bricks. The odor of mildew clung to the air. He waited and let the two women continue down another flight, then moved quietly after them. From somewhere below rose the drone of conversation, growing louder the further he went.
At the bottom of the steps, Gil drew up.
He stood at the entrance to a large dungeon. Cells lined all four walls, and wicked-looking hooks hung from the ceiling in one corner. The room swarmed with people, sitting and standing, on brightly colored rugs or lounging on couches. They had gone to the trouble to try to make the dungeon seem livable; there were tapestries and silk partitions hanging from the roof, and curtains hung over the bars of many of the individual cells.
But nothing could disguise the fact that this was, in every sense, a prison.
He checked to make sure his shadow web was secure, then moved forward into the room. He looked from face to face, examining the natures of these strange mages he had come to kill. Some wore the gray skin of the Turan Khar, while others had olive skin of a golden hue. Some were Malikari, and others of the Kingdoms. Some of them were people he knew.
All the mages in the dungeon seemed content, even happy. They stood conversing with their peers or sharing meals, sitting in tight clusters on the rugs. Laughter came from all directions, and there was a sense of comfort and ease to the place. Gil turned around slowly, feeling a tightness in his stomach, thinking of the grim work he had come there to do.
Then his gaze fell on Ashra, and he gasped.
She sat in a corner next to a young man with long white hair and pale skin. Unlike most of the people in the room, she wore a thin chain that secured her to her companion. She was drinking something from a cup, and there was a smile on her face. To his shock, she looked genuinely happy.
Almost, he forgot why he was there. Part of him wanted to run to her and rip that chain off her arm, then use the talisman to get her out of there. But he had a duty to perform, and Ashra had to come second to that.
Unless he could accomplish both at the same time.
Wrapped in his shadow web, Gil moved further into the dim dungeon, twisting and winding through the press of bodies, until he worked his way to the corner where Ashra sat laughing at something the man linked to her had said. It was evident the two were connected by bonds stronger than the chain between them. The way the man stared at Ashra as if captivated, his fingers stroking hers, made it obvious he was in love with her… and she was in love with him. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, caressing his chest.
Gil clenched his fists in anger. He’d known she would be a prisoner in chains but, somehow, this was worse. She was a prisoner of love, just like Payden had been. And it was his fault. If he had just listened to her father, she would still be free. Despair blurred his eyes and tightened his throat as he stood thinking of all the ways he had failed her.
He couldn’t leave her like this.
Gil bit his lip. He decided right then that, if he couldn’t take her with him, he would do to her what he’d done to Payden. He would release her from this prison. It would be a kindness, a mercy. The Ashra he’d known would never want this. It was a betrayal of all that she was, all that she stood for. He knew that if she could, she would even thank him.
Gil looked around, taking a quick survey of the dungeon and the people in it. All of the mages surrounding him were prisoners of one sort or another. He felt sure none of them would have chosen this fate, if they hadn’t had their minds and choices taken away from them. He had to release them. He had to release them all. It’s what he’d come here for. Suddenly, the task he had set for himself seemed somehow less grim than it had before.
Quietly as he could, he knelt on the rug next to Ashra. He looked down at the chain connecting her to her new lover. He knew the wrist band wouldn’t come off; they’d had to sever Payden’s hand to remove it from him. But even if he couldn’t get the band off, he could still separate her from the man who held her captive.
Gil opened his mind to the magic field and closed his eyes. He reached inside the man and cut one of the main arteries feeding his brain. The man’s back went rigid and he issued a sharp gasp. He started to reach for his head. His hands never completed the motion. He dropped dead on the rug without sound or struggle.
Ashra screamed.
And she went on screaming. The room erupted in chaos.
Gil released his shadow web—it took too much concentration to keep it up. He severed the dead mage’s wrist with a blade of energy that hit like an axe-blow.
Shrieking, Ashra sprang away from him.
Gil caught her chain and yanked her back.
Snarling, she started to lunge for him. But then she froze, her eyes widening in recognition.
A thunderclap of air exploded between them, hurling Gil backward. He slammed hard against the wall, and something inside him snapped. A stabbing pain pierced his chest, and he sagged down the wall to the floor.
It’s a rib, he told himself. Just a rib.
Another ball of compressed air streaked toward him. Gil got Thar’gon up just in time—the air impacted with the shield thrown up by the talisman, creating a gale-force backlash of wind that lifted people and rugs from the floor and sent them flying. Other magical attacks battered against his shield: thunder and lightning, fire and air, shadow and substance.
Thar’gon deflected them all.
Ashra leaped at him, swinging her chain at his face. He couldn’t react in time. The iron chain cracked him in the face. His vision exploded in a shower of sparkling light. Pain followed an instant later. He almost dropped the talisman.
Crying out, he grabbed the end of the chain and wrenched it toward him. Ashra came with it. She dove into him with her fists, snarling and clawing like a cornered animal. He tried to fend her off but couldn’t; the magical shield he was holding took every drop of concentration he had. Her fists pummeled his back, her legs kicked his thighs. Her fingernails raked his face.
He couldn’t fight both her and the punishing amount of magic being hurled at him—not all at the same time. So he did the only thing he could: he curled his fist into a ball and belted her across the face.
Ashra collapsed.
The magical barrage intensified. Gil clenched his jaw, throwing everything he had into strengthening the light shield, until the dungeon glowed with a white brilliance. The air itself seemed to tremble.
Someone screamed, the kind of ear-splitting shriek only made by the dying.
With a deafening woosh, the floor erupted in flames that rushed across the ground. Within seconds, the entire dungeon was covered by a great, fiery carpet. Gil pulled Ashra’s unconscious body toward him, stuffing her behind him in the corner. He moved to stand over her, the talisman raised and spewing gouts of light.
Shrieks of agony filled the dungeon, coming from everywhere at once.
All across the floor, men and women thrashed in the flames. A few lived long enough to stagger toward the stairs, but they didn’t make it. They collapsed between strides, falling like blazing logs to feed the flames. Gil threw himself back against the wall and stood there drawing heaving breaths, sweat streaming down his face from the atrocious heat. The only thing keeping him alive was the talisman in his hand. The flames only came as far as his shield and stopped as if licking a wall of glass.
When the last of the screams faded to silence, Gil lowered Thar’gon and let the flames die. He stood over Ashra, chest heaving, gazing around at the carnage that surrounded him. Dozens of bodies lay blackened on the floor, twisted and smoldering, in some places forming heaps of formless char.
“Oh,
gods…” Gil whispered.
41
Surrender
Rylan screamed himself awake.
Still screaming, he jerked upright and clutched his head in his hands. An invisible fire scorched his lungs and devoured his flesh. When his breath ran out, he slumped to the floor, where he lay gasping and trembling, too horrified and shaken to react. Xiana thrashed on the cushions next to him, her back arched, hands raking over her body as if trying to beat out nonexistent flames. Eventually, she stopped and lay still, her chest heaving, tears washing her face.
It took Rylan a moment to get his wits about him enough to understand what was happening. Brothers and sisters were dead, killed horrendously. More still were dying. He could feel their suffering, their terror.
“We have to help them!” Xiana gasped, pushing herself off the floor. Her face was white and twisted.
Yes. They had to help—
Rylan scrambled to his feet, but staggered, turning back. He glanced at Amina. His daughter lay curled in a ball, whimpering and sucking her thumb. She couldn’t possibly understand what was happening, but she was obviously terrified.
“Stop!” he shouted. “I can’t leave her!”
Xiana looked back with disbelief on her face. She took the chain they shared in her hands and pulled, trying to draw him toward her. He knew he had to go, knew he was desperately needed.
But his daughter needed him too.
Rylan growled in desperation, torn in half between two desperate priorities. Xiana jerked harder on his chain, physically hauling him toward the door. She didn’t have to pull very hard. Something far more powerful made Rylan back away from his daughter. It was the pressure of the community, conquering his will with all the grace and brutality of a god, crushing any chance of his resistance. With a sob, he turned, leaving his daughter curled on the floor, and followed Xiana toward the stairs.
Chains of Blood Page 36
