Chains of Blood

by M. L. Spencer

  He wanted to die. He needed to die. He reached out for the magic field and wrenched it in as hard as he could. Sharpening it into a weapon, he took aim at himself.

  “Rylan!”

  He dropped his hold on the field.

  It was Gil’s voice. The battlemage was shaking him as if trying to wake him from sleep. Rylan clenched his eyes shut and hugged himself. He couldn’t face Gil, couldn’t face anyone.

  “Rylan!” Gil gasped again, grabbing him by the arms and rolling him onto his back.

  He opened his eyes and looked up through a pall of grief into Gil’s blistered and grime-smeared face. He struggled for words but couldn’t find any. All he could do was shake his head and weep.

  “I’ve got you,” Gil said, hauling him upright. With his other hand, he clutched his spiked weapon against him and said a word.

  The world lurched.

  The street disappeared.

  43

  To Make an End

  Rylan looked around, taking in the sight of a military encampment swarming with flames and commotion. Soldiers were sprinting in every direction, and everywhere he looked, wounded and dead were laid out in rows or, more often, lying where they fell. Disoriented and weak, he sagged against Gil, clinging to him desperately. It was all he had strength for.

  He didn’t look up at the sound of running feet. Gil steadied him, holding him upright, even though his knees wanted to buckle under his weight. He couldn’t stop weeping. Xiana’s pale, dead face filled his mind, haunting him from the afterlife.

  “He saved me,” he heard Gil say. “He killed the woman he was chained to then he just kept killing everyone. He took down an entire battalion on his own.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Is he in his right mind?” asked a calm voice. A woman’s voice.

  “I don’t think so,” Gil said after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t have time to find out.”

  Rylan squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against tears that wouldn’t stop coming. If anything, they came harder.

  “Go do what you have to do,” the woman’s voice said softly. “I’ll do what I have to.”

  Another long pause.

  Gil eased him down to the ground and knelt beside him, setting a hand on his back. It was a kind gesture, but Rylan took little comfort in it. He was far beyond comfort. Nothing could ever make a difference.

  “Thank you,” Gil said in a gruff voice. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Then he left. Rylan listened to the sounds of his footsteps walking away. Wiping his eyes, he glanced up at the woman. It took him a moment to recognize her. The Prime Warden’s face was covered in soot, her hair in disarray. There was a heavy weight about her presence he didn’t remember from before. She knelt beside him.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he answered, struggling to get the word out past the knot in his throat. He wiped the tears from his eyes, but they came right back. The grief he felt was incapacitating. He just wanted it to end.

  Naia asked, “Do you know who you are? And what you’ve done?”

  This time, all he could do was nod.

  “Then you understand why I can’t let you live,” she whispered in his ear.

  Her words steadied him. He felt the comforting warmth of hope. She was going to give him what he wanted, what he yearned for: a release. That was the best he could ask for. He would thank her gladly, if he could. But he couldn’t; all he could do was weep.

  She squeezed his hand. “Are there any last words you wish to say?”

  “No.” He shook his head roughly. He wanted it over. Wanted it over now. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Stop!” a man’s voice commanded. “Move away from him!”

  Naia rose to her feet, stepping back. “He’s too dangerous. He could turn on a whim—”

  “Then I’ll kill him myself!”

  Strong arms were suddenly around him, jerking him to his feet. A man who smelled powerfully of blood and sweat pulled him roughly into a tight embrace and kissed his cheek.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  It was the Sultan’s voice. Rylan had almost forgotten what it sounded like. He opened his eyes and took in the sight of the man’s bearded face, bloodied and bruised and mottled with grime. But underneath all those layers were a pair of brown eyes full of concern and compassion.

  “Can you walk?” Sayeed asked.

  Rylan nodded. He leaned heavily against him as he let the Sultan guide him across the chaotic encampment toward a pavilion on the far side. The tent was surrounded by soldiers wearing tattered blue uniforms tied with long gold sashes. Upon sight of them, two started forward, but Sayeed waved them brusquely away. When they reached the tent, he swatted back the flap and supported Rylan as he limped into the space. Rugs covered the interior, which was divided into rooms by hanging cloth partitions. Sayeed led him through the first drape of cloth, then lowered him down on a bed of cushions.

  Rylan sagged into the pillows as every ounce of strength he had left his body all at once, draining out of him like water and leaving him hollow and aching. The tears threatened to come back again. He pressed his fists against his eyes, denying them.

  “You are like her, aren’t you?” Sayeed asked, his voice hoarse and dismal.

  Like her? Rylan didn’t know what he meant. He cracked his eyes open, straining to focus enough to see what the Sultan was talking about.

  What he saw shocked him. He was lying next to Ashra. Her body was so close to his, he could touch her by just flexing a finger. She lay curled on the pillows, her hands tucked beneath her chin. Her eyes were red and dim, staring straight ahead at some fixed point above his head. The sight of her brought with it a renewed sense of grief. He understood her pain, knew how excruciating it was. He reached out and stroked his fingers down her cheek, wiping away a tear.

  Sayeed knelt beside him. “Is there anything that can be done for her?” he asked.

  Ashra was the Sultan’s daughter. No wonder Sayeed’s voice sounded so weighted by defeat. For a moment, he considered softening the truth. But then he decided against it. Anything less than the truth would be a disservice to them both.

  He took Ashra’s hand in his, desperately wishing he could ease her suffering. Looking at the Sultan, he told him, “If you love her, then you’ll let her go—let her go back to them. That’s the only way she’ll ever be happy.”

  Sayeed’s face compressed into a grimace of wrath. Bringing his hands up, he shook his head savagely. “No!” he growled. “Do not ask that of me.”

  Fresh tears spilled down Rylan’s cheeks as he gazed into Ashra’s tormented face. He squeezed her hand, wishing he could impart some type of strength into her. But he couldn’t; he didn’t have enough for himself, and certainly none to give.

  He looked back up at the Sultan, wishing he had any other advice. But he didn’t. Nothing else would help. Sayeed had to know that. If he wouldn’t let her go, then there was only one other humane option left. He knew what he would want. What he did want.

  He whispered, “If you can’t let her go, then take pity on her. Don’t let her suffer.”

  Hearing his words, the Sultan threw his head back and let out a soul-shuddering moan. He covered his face with his hands and sat in silence, every muscle rigid. He remained like that for a long time. Eventually, he drew in a deep breath and let it out again in one, great sigh.

  “I always wanted a daughter,” he said dismally. Leaning forward, he brushed a lock of Ashra’s hair back out of her eyes. “My people have a saying: a beautiful daughter is a father’s greatest joy. And also his greatest sorrow.” He looked at Rylan with a bitter scowl. “What are they like? The Turan Khar?”

  Rylan didn’t know how to answer him. It took him a moment to formulate a reply. “They’re not evil,” he said at last. “In many ways, they’re better than us. If you let her go back to them, she’d lead a fulfilling life. She’d know love.”

  Star
ing bitterly at his daughter’s face, the Sultan stroked his hand through Ashra’s raven hair. “Would she truly be happy? If I let her go?”

  Rylan nodded. “Aye.”

  Sayeed bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. Then he sat staring at a smear of grease on the rug for a very long time, as if that single imperfection was the most important thing in the world. At length, he nodded. He leaned forward and collected his daughter in his arms and sat rocking her softly, sweetly, stroking her hair. He kissed her forehead. Then he whispered something in her ear.

  At the sound of his words, Ashra stirred. She gasped, her eyes filling with life and light. She sat up and kissed his cheek, then rose to her feet, Sayeed rising with her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely.

  “Thank you, baba,” she said in a joyous whisper.

  Then she turned and fled the tent.

  Rylan watched her go. He lay in the spread of cushions, staring at the cloth partition fluttering in her wake. His spirit went with her. The rest of him remained behind, empty and broken. He wanted to go too. But he knew that he couldn’t.

  He looked up at the sound of a soft sob. Sayeed slouched next to him, weeping quietly into his hands. It was a sad and disturbing sight, one he had never expected to see. From outside the tent came the distant sound of dual explosions. The Sultan didn’t react. Rylan wasn’t sure if he’d even noticed them.

  Minutes went by. Eventually, Sayeed wiped his eyes and looked at him. “What about yourself?” he asked. “Will you be able to live apart from them?”

  Rylan closed his eyes, and Xiana’s image came back to torture him. He had killed his love. Nothing he could do would ever bring her back. And nothing in the world would ever ease his guilt.

  “I don’t want to live,” he said softly.

  More explosions trembled the ground, this time much closer. Sayeed glanced up, his gaze wandering the mottled roof of the tent. The canvas lit up, backlit by fires that flickered for a few seconds then were gone. At last, the Sultan nodded, as if affirming some inner thought or resolution. He took Rylan’s hand in his and drew it close, squeezing his fingers so hard they hurt.

  “Then come with me,” he said with a look of great intensity. “Fight at my side as your father once did. Let us make an end together.”

  Rylan looked at the strong brown fingers clasped around his own. For two years, he had brought war to this man and his people, thinking them his enemy. And yet, in the end, the Sultan was the only true friend he had left. The offer he made was a good one. A hard one, but good. It was the best end Rylan could see for himself.

  He nodded weakly.

  Sayeed stood and helped him to his feet, steadying him with a rock-hard grip on his arm. For a moment, Rylan felt lightheaded. He rubbed the greasy sweat off his brow, finding the strength to stand on his own.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  The Sultan’s gaze dropped to Rylan’s side, and a wistful expression came over his face. “You still bear my sword. How has it served you?”

  Rylan glanced down at the curved scabbard, feeling suddenly sentimental about it. He wished he could tell Sayeed his sword had been put to good use. It shamed him that he had surrendered to his enemy after only drawing his weapon once.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head. “I never got the opportunity to use it.”

  Sayeed nodded. Then he clapped Rylan on the shoulder. “Then let’s go find an opportunity.”

  He walked toward the tent’s exit, then looked back to make sure Rylan was following. Rylan took one last glance around the dim interior, his gaze lingering on the bed of pillows where Ashra had lain. An unexpected flare of jealousy stabbed his heart. He envied her. Gods, he envied her. He wished he could go back to them too. But for him, it wasn’t that easy. Ashra hadn’t killed the man she’d shared the bond with and hadn’t turned against the community herself. Rylan knew he could never go back. Shiro would either kill him or chain him to someone else. Only, this time, he would make sure no amount of resistance was left in him, and the only way to do that would be to break his mind. The part of him that was Keio Matu knew that such tortures had once been practiced. And that part of him feared such a torment more than anything.

  No. There could be no going back.

  Rubbing the last of the tears from his eyes, he followed the Sultan out of the tent. The moment he ducked through the flap, the reality of war descended upon him. In the near distance, he could make out the chaotic sounds of battle. Explosions lit up the night just a few blocks away, sure signs that mages were still alive and active in the struggle. He thought of Gil and wondered how he was faring. Then he thought of Ashra. He hoped she could make it back, but he feared for her.

  As he followed the Sultan across the square, he breathed in the wretched smell of the camp, a heady combination of smoke, blood, and fear-sweat. In a way, it was liberating, knowing that soon he would be free of all this. His mind went to Xiana, and he even dared to hope. He would be reunited with her soon. He prayed she could find it within herself to forgive him. Perhaps, in death, Keio and Ilia could finally be united, to experience the love that had been denied them for so many centuries. He wanted to believe it was possible. He prayed it was.

  As they crossed the square, a cluster of the Sultan’s elite guards detached themselves from their posts and sprinted toward them. Seeing them, other soldiers followed, even wounded who could barely pick themselves up off the ground. Many were heavily bandaged, their uniforms bloodied, their armor split and dented. And yet there was no defeat in their eyes. An officer trotted forward and drew up before the Sultan.

  “Rally what men you can find who can still hold a weapon,” Sayeed ordered. “Fall back to the palace. We will cover your retreat.”

  The officer rose from the ground, a look of dismay on his face. Before he could protest, the Sultan ungirded the gem-encrusted sword and its matching dagger from his hips, handing them over.

  “Give these to my son,” he said as the officer relieved him of the weapons.

  The man’s face paled, but he asked without objection, “Which son, Your Grace?”

  The Sultan scowled. “Whichever son survives.”

  A blazing fireball shot down from the clouds, pummeling a building directly to the east. Officers started bellowing commands and, within seconds, the encampment was being mobilized to withdraw.

  Sayeed placed his hand on Rylan’s shoulder. “We’ll form a rearguard and make our stand over there,” he said, pointing toward a cluster of barricades and pickets that blocked off the north side of the square from the approaching streets. “It will be just the two of us, along with my personal guard. Are you agreeable to that?”

  Rylan nodded absently, his gaze lingering on the series of barricades ahead. Although he could tell some work had been put into them, they wouldn’t be enough. He wondered how long the Sultan expected the rearguard to hold the square—and why he wanted to. Any number of officers could have covered the retreat. It didn’t make sense that Sayeed would risk himself. Perhaps to lend fortitude to his men. More likely because he knew the fight was already lost. Looking around at the numbers of brutally injured standing and holding weapons, Rylan thought that might be the case.

  “Do they speak to you, these people of the enemy?” Sayeed asked. “Can you still hear them?”

  Rylan looked at him, surprised not only by the questions, but also by his own reaction to them. A great, aching emptiness clenched his middle, threatening to squeeze more tears out of him. “Not anymore,” he whispered.

  The Sultan nodded, looking thoughtful. “How did you escape them?”

  Rylan thought back on the answer to that question, an act that only brought more hurt. He felt the tears run down his cheeks. He didn’t try to stop them. All he could see was Xiana’s face, and the pain of betrayal in her eyes. He clenched his jaw and balled his fists, his whole body shaking. He glared at the meager defense offered by the barricades, thinking death could not come
soon enough.

  “When my son was killed, there was a man,” he said slowly. “He told me that if I valued my daughter’s life, I had to swear an oath to Xerys.”

  Sayeed gasped.

  “What else would you have me do?” Rylan asked contemptuously. “I pledged myself to the same godsdamned devil my father did. So that’s how I did it. Their chains couldn’t bind that part of me. I used the power of hell to kill the woman I was shackled to, and then I took their damn chain off my wrist and threw it away.”

  The Sultan listened to him with a look of shock. “Ishil’zeri!” he exclaimed. “You truly are your father’s son!”

  The statement hit Rylan like a punch in the throat, for it was true. “I know,” he said, hating himself.

  Sayeed reached out and caught Rylan behind the head, gripping his hair in an iron fist. “Look at me!” he growled, his voice coarse with anger. “Your father was not evil, and neither are you! Darien Lauchlin was the most courageous man I have ever known.” He let go of Rylan, but the fierceness didn’t leave his eyes. “Never be ashamed to be like your father. Do you understand? Be proud.”

  Rylan nodded, wishing he could believe him. Almost, he thought he could. The Sultan had surprised him by defying his expectations from the outset. Instead of a tyrant, Rylan had found him to be honorable. Even admirable. Not the cruel dictator he had been led all his life to believe. Perhaps it was the same with his own father. Perhaps Darien Lauchlin really was the hero this man kept claiming him to be. He hoped so.

  Another battery of explosions shook the square. Another nearby building collapsed. Rylan staggered, his chest vibrating. Sayeed grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the breastworks. Ahead, the sounds of the battle grew more frantic. Before they reached the barricade, Rylan could already see the futility of it all. The Sultan’s men were far outnumbered, their position untenable.