His brain ticked through a quick checklist of reasons and rationale. When he reached the end of that list, the obvious course of action seemed like a non-decision. There were no more facts to ponder. And there was no reason to hesitate.
Quin leaned over and mashed his cigar against the ground, scrubbing it back and forth, leaving a streak of black soot on the flagstones. Flicking what was left over the side of the balcony, he rose from his chair and kissed Naia’s cheek.
“Why don’t you go up to the library, darling,” he suggested, straightening his hat. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Naia nodded absently, gazing over the edge of the balcony in the direction of the Crescent. She didn’t look up as he walked away. He wondered what she was thinking about so hard. A cool breeze came up, stirring his coat. He glanced back at Naia one last time then opened the door to the castle.
Once inside, he focused his concentration on the sound of his feet echoing sharply off the walls. The castle rang eerily, vastly empty, which worked to his advantage. The last thing he needed was distraction. As he walked, his thoughts started drifting. He battered them back into focus. Thinking led to doubt. Doubt led to hesitation.
And that was the one thing he couldn’t afford.
In his profession, morality had no relevance. Right or wrong, the world—and Naia’s life—depended on his decisiveness.
Quin entered the great hall and wound through the intimate clusters of furniture that filled the sprawling room. It was as though the chamber was a neglected host, waiting eternally for guests who would never arrive. He took great care to step quietly, not wanting the sounds of his footfalls to announce his presence prematurely.
He found the small room Tsula occupied at the far end of the hall.
Quin paused outside her cracked door, taking one last moment to prepare. He checked his boot knife to make sure it was loose in its sheath. He checked his pulse, checked his resolve, then reached up to push the door open.
The sound of Tsula’s voice halted his motion. “Stop lurking in the doorway and come inside, Quinlan Reis.”
He supposed he should have been startled. But he was unsurprised. The Harbinger seemed to have an endless supply of prescience. Quin pushed the door open and found Tsula sitting in her chair, awaiting him with hands folded on her lap. She wore an elaborate headwrap, her body swallowed by the fabric of an over-sized kaftan. She gazed up at him with eyes as dull as stone and hard as steel. Raising her hand, she indicated the chair opposite her own.
“Have a seat.” Her voice was just as level as her expression. “You kept me waiting. I expected you much sooner.”
Quin sat in the offered chair and stared around at the screaming colors of the cluttered room. Everywhere he looked were tapestries, knickknacks, baskets, vases, jewelry—a lifetime’s worth of possessions all gathered together in one dense, claustrophobic space. It was all so distracting, he almost missed the substance of Tsula’s words.
His gaze snapped toward her. “You know why I’m here?”
“Of course.” She draped her hands over the armrests of her chair. “I am a Harbinger. Knowing the hour and manner of my death is just one of the many burdens those of my order must bear. At first, we see our death as only one of an infinite number of possibilities—or versions, as we like to call them. But each decision we make turns another page in the Story of our life. The longer we live, the versions of our narrative diminish before our eyes, until there is only one version left to pen. And then our life’s chapter is written. I’ve known how my own Story ends for quite some time. And I know it will end here today.”
Her words made Quin feel cold and clammy—a sensation he wasn’t used to. He found himself having second thoughts.
Suspiciously, he asked, “Then why aren’t you trying to stop me?”
“Because death cannot be avoided.” Tsula confronted him with a relentless, deadpan stare. “Far too many times in my life, I have had to stay my hand and watch fate reap its terrible harvest. I foresaw the fall of my nation. And I foresaw my own daughter’s death. Yet I could do nothing to prevent either. If I had stopped you from causing the Desecration of Caladorn, then the entire world would now be under Xerys’ sway. And if I had stopped my daughter from trading her life to save your own, we would not be sitting here today. You would have never foiled my husband’s plans. And now Xerys would be reigning from the throne of Isap, with the world groveling at his feet.”
Quin’s breath hitched. He sat frozen in his chair, shocked into rigidity. His mouth went dry. His thoughts hung suspended in the air, waiting for impact.
He whispered, “You’re Amani’s mother?”
“I am.”
His heart broke open. Quin lurched from his chair, overcome by mindless rage. He towered over Tsula, fury sweeping away what was left of his rationality.
“And you knew? You knew she was going to Aerysius? You knew she was going to be executed?”
“I did.” Tsula’s expression was glacial.
Quin wanted to howl. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Why didn’t you warn her? Why didn’t you stop her? You let her die!”
“I already told you,” Tsula said, calmly. “There is a reason why all Harbingers were trained in seclusion on this isle. We are called upon to make difficult choices. Sometimes, those choices are unbearable. I knew Amani would die. And I knew her death would destroy you. And yet I could do absolutely nothing to save either of you. Otherwise, the reign of Xerys would have already come to pass.”
Quin shot forward, planting both hands on the back of her chair, his face an inch away from her own. Gritting his teeth, he growled, “Amani meant everything to me! Everything!”
“I know.”
“She didn’t have to die!” His voice shook just as hard as the rest of him. His vision blurred. He pushed off from the chair, whirling away.
Almost gently, Tsula said, “I hope someday you can forgive me, Quinlan Reis. As I forgive you.”
It was too much. He lashed out with the magic field, ending her life in a heartbeat.
21
The False God
Darien raised his practice sword, catching Azár’s strike on his crossguard.
“Don’t let the blade get ahead of you,” he instructed. He stepped back, bringing his blade up into a high ward above his shoulder. “Again. Move together with your sword.”
Azár took a step back, then repeated the action. This time, her blade impacted solidly with his.
“Like that,” Darien said. “Again. This time rotate your left hand. Watch your structure.”
Azár stepped back, brought her sword up, then moved forward with a downward cut. Darien moved crisply to block, noting the difference in her blade’s impact. There was a lot more power behind her strike than there’d been before.
“Better.”
He smiled, lowering his guard. “Why don’t you practice that a few times?”
Azár grinned back, resuming her stance. Darien tossed the practice sword down on a rug beside the other dulled blades the Zakai had brought out for morning drills. He stood watching Azár rehearse her cuts, her feet now in time with the rhythm of her blade. Satisfied, he turned and strolled back across the encampment in search of Sayeed. As he walked, he realized he was smiling. He took enormous pride in his wife. He couldn’t think of another woman he’d ever admired more.
He crossed the entire encampment in less time than it had taken him a week ago. The attack in Amberlie had greatly reduced their numbers. There were less soldiers, and therefore less tents. He’d healed all the men and women he could, making certain they’d suffer no further losses on the march. Even so, it had taken them longer to reach Glen Farquist than he’d anticipated.
He found Sayeed conferring with his senior officers. The men stopped talking as soon as they caught sight of him, their gazes slipping to the ground. Even after all the time he’d spent amongst the Tanisars, their eyes had never lost the formal deference that had been there from the outse
t.
Sayeed left his men to intercept him, guiding him away with a hand on his arm. Darien still found it peculiar, the lack of personal distance Sayeed and his people were comfortable with. He’d never liked being touched. He’d liked it less in recent months. There were only two people in the world he could endure being in close proximity to: Azár and Sayeed. Everyone else knew better and kept their distance.
At the top of a low rise, Sayeed let go of his arm and gestured downhill at the valley below. They stood in the shadow of the Craghorns, the mountain’s snowy summits blocking the warm rays of the morning sun. Below, the forest thinned to grassland. Beyond the ridge, the grassland thinned to sand. The valley below was a microcosm of desert surrounded by mountains and rolling, heathered hills, protected by a horseshoe ring of golden bluffs. Highly defensible geographically. In all of recorded history, Glen Farquist had never fallen.
Sayeed asked, “What are your thoughts?”
Darien stared down at the opening between the cliffs, remembering the last time he had ridden between those sandstone walls. It had been with Naia, the same day he had forsworn his Oath of Harmony. He still remembered the harsh face of Naia’s father, the High Priest of Death, who had tried to convince him to abandon his course. Darien wondered how his life would have been different if he’d listened to the man.
“It’ll be well-defended,” he said. “They don’t have a standing army, but they can raise a competent force of clergy and laymen. A few of the temples have monks trained in the martial arts. They’re also in possession of several artifacts that might give us problems.”
Sayeed’s face grew very serious. “And will they yield?”
Darien shook his head. “No.”
Sayeed blew out a long sigh, then bit his lip thoughtfully, his gaze travelling over the valley. His face ranged through a variety of emotions, finally settling on trepidation. “If these are men and women of the cloth, it is ill luck to strike them down.”
Darien turned his back on the valley. “They struck first.”
Kyel strode beside Alexa down a narrow tunnel that plunged beneath the cliffs rimming Glen Farquist. The silent cleric who guided them carried a flickering torch in his hand that cast a rippling plume of light. The massive expanse of rock above them seemed to bear down on the roof of the tunnel, so much so that Kyel felt like he had to duck as he walked along. The air was frigid and smelled of wet clay, an odor Kyel found nostalgic.
In the weeks before the Battle of Orien’s Finger, Darien had sent him on a mission to find a way to seal the Well of Tears. There was no greater library in the world than the vast warren of Om’s temple. Kyel had spent three days leafing through texts and documents in the belly of the temple, only to find out his search had been merely pretense. Darien had already known the text he needed. The search had been just another of the infuriating lessons Darien had contrived for him.
Alexa hadn’t spoken a word since they’d entered the tunnels. She walked at Kyel’s side looking utterly serene, as if she had been in the warrens of the temple a hundred times before. Perhaps she had. Along their journey south, she’d shared tidbits of her life, like crumbs scattered before him on the floor. But the same way crumbs did a poor job of describing the loaf they’d been broken from, Alexa’s scraps of information yielded surprisingly little about her life before Aerysius’ fall.
At the bottom of the tunnel, they reached a broad avenue carved from rock. There, they were passed off to another cleric, who led them along a subterranean highway past a tall water clock. They followed their guide through several corridors filled with silent men and women carrying armloads of scrolls and books. They turned down a whitewashed hallway that led to the High Priest’s personal chambers.
Their brown-robed guide knocked on the door then swept it open before them. But when Kyel moved to enter the room, the cleric stepped between Alexa and himself, preventing her from following. The balding old man shook his head.
“It’s all right,” Kyel assured Alexa. “They’re funny like this. I’ll catch up with you when I’m done here.”
Alexa’s eyes clouded with doubt, but at last she nodded and followed their guide back in the direction they’d come from.
Kyel had good reason to trust the clerics. And good reason not to. He’d spent a lot of his time in their warrens during the past two years. They had helped him make the transition from commoner to mage, helping him locate information he so desperately needed to increase his knowledge. And they’d cared for his son and seen to Gil’s education, something Kyel hadn’t been able to do alone. Even after what had happened to Cadmus, he had every reason to believe the priesthood of Wisdom would still support him.
He hoped.
He entered the High Priest’s chambers and found two men waiting for him within. The first was a middle-aged man Kyel had never seen before. He was slender, except for his cheeks, which looked mottled and swollen. He wore a pair of spectacles that hung off-kilter too far down his nose. But it was the man sitting beside him who commanded Kyel’s attention.
Kyel moved into the room, nodding formally at the High Priest of Wisdom.
The priest returned the gesture, his long white beard dipping to brush his steepled fingers. He wore elegant robes of rich brown, along with a bronze stole draped over his shoulders. His vibrant blue gaze came to rest on Kyel’s cloak.
Kyel turned to the gangly cleric sitting on the stool next to him. “I’m Kyel Archer,” he introduced himself. “Pardon, but I don’t believe we’ve met?”
The cleric’s glasses slipped further down his nose. He pushed them back with a finger. “My name is Arvel. I am the Voice of His Eminence.”
The man was Cadmus’ replacement, Kyel realized. “Your Eminence, where did you have Alexa taken?”
It was Arvel who replied. “Your companion has been escorted to a guest room, where she may recover from her journey.” He adjusted his posture on the stool, sliding his bare feet up to rest on the crossbar between the stool’s legs. “We are glad you have returned. Events have transpired that—”
“I want to see my son,” Kyel cut him off.
The High Priest shook his head.
Arvel stated firmly, “You may see your son after we have spoken. There are many issues that are of paramount importance, and—”
“No.”
Kyel shook his head firmly. When he’d first met the High Priest of Wisdom, he had allowed the man to unsettle him, and in doing so, allowed himself to be manipulated easily. No longer. He was done with being controlled.
“Whatever you want to say, it can wait,” he told the two men, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I want to see my son first.”
Arvel stared at him unblinkingly. Tense moments wore by. At last, the cleric shook his head. “Our warrens extend for miles. A small child could easily get lost within,” he said softly, dangerously.
Kyel froze, rooted by fear. They had anticipated his arrival and had prepared for it. He sank back into his seat, glaring at Arvel with a raptor’s intensity.
“Be warned,” Kyel said. “I’ve lost any patience I ever had with the temples of Glen Farquist. This temple, in particular. Bring my son to me. Now.”
Arvel turned and looked at the High Priest. The two stared at each other a long moment. They were conferring, Kyel knew. The Vicar of Om had taken a vow of silence and could only express his thoughts through the medium of his Voice. That Voice had once been Cadmus. Apparently, it was now Arvel.
“We are willing to make a compromise,” Arvel said at last. “If you address two of the issues we wish to speak of first, then your son will be brought to you. You may spend the remainder of the day in his company. Then tonight after supper, we will gather here again to address the remainder of the issues that confront us.”
Kyel glared at him a moment longer, stewing. At last he nodded. The compromise was likely the best offer he’d get. He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Very well.”
Arvel looked pleased. He se
t his hands on the table, knitting his fingers with a smile. “We shall first address the abhorrent amount of power in you.”
Kyel blinked. He hadn’t expected that. At least, not right away. They had jumped right to the most damning subject they could confront him with. Perhaps it was an attempt to throw him off balance. If so, it was working.
“What about it?” he asked warily.
The man leaned forward in his chair, smiling at Kyel apologetically. His glasses had slipped down his nose again. This time, he didn’t bother pushing them back. “Before we begin, we wish to apologize for our lack of sensitivity on these issues. However, it is not possible to discuss—”
“Just get on with it,” Kyel growled.
Arvel stared at him in silence for a moment, then said with a flick of his eyebrows, “To be very blunt, you have eleven tiers of power in you. If you were any other mage, and this were any other time, we’d already have your execution prearranged. However … we wish to assure you that is not the case. We have no plans to harm you.”
Kyel shrugged dismissively. “That’s because you don’t think I’ll live long enough to be a threat.”
Arvel smiled. “I’m glad you understand. Considering the situation, there can be no secrets between us.” With one hand, he slid the spectacles from his face and set them on the table. Reaching up, he massaged the bridge of his nose.
When he lowered his hand, Arvel’s face had transformed.
Sitting across from Kyel was a different man entirely, one of robust stature and imposing presence. Kyel stared at him in stunned silence as seconds ticked by. His eyes went to the old man. Then back to the man who had just been Arvel.
Kyel didn’t know how he knew. He just knew.
“You are Om,” he whispered.
“No.” Arvel shook his head. “Om does not exist. He never has. Like almost every other deity, Om is merely an inception, an archetype of an ideal. Which explains my existence: I am the incarnation of what Om would be. Through my network of historians and spies, I have access to limitless knowledge and can conduct limitless surveillance. I have access to artifacts that expand my mind, my sight, and my hearing. I listen to all the mutterings and grumblings of the world. I feel the flutter of every butterfly wing. I am aware of every birth and every death. Every cry of misery and every gasp of joy. For all intents and purposes, I am a god. The only thing I lack is the spark of divinity.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 129
