The sound of thunder echoed from without. It was followed by the harsh noise of pattering rain.
Once back in the room with Quin, Merris slipped back underneath the covers of the bed. “Your wine, my sweet,” she giggled, plucking the rag out from the bottle’s neck.
Quin sat up, accepting her offer of the bottle and, tossing his head back, downed a large draught of wine. “You are such a lovely dear,” he commended her. “I am very fortunate indeed to have an apprentice so devoted to fulfilling my every whim.”
Merris smiled, leaning in to kiss him on his whiskered cheek. “I’m the one who is lucky to have such a shrewd and clever master so willing to share his knowledge. So what lesson are you planning to teach me tonight, my mighty stallion of a man?”
Quin tilted his head back for another gulp of wine that ended in an abrupt fit of coughing. “‘Stallion of a man’, now, is it? Darling, I’m not usually one to dodge a compliment, but I beg you to at least try to conceive of some endearment that I have a prayer of living up to.”
Merris giggled, running her hand down the side of his face. “I have no complaints,” she whispered.
Quin leered at her sideways from around the neck of his wine bottle. “Do you want me to teach you or make love to you?”
“Both,” she challenged.
He shrugged helplessly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, darling, but you’ve just about broken this stallion’s wind.”
Merris swirled a finger around in his hair. “Then show me something new. Show me something about healing.”
Quin sat up, allowing the covers to fall off his emaciated chest. He took a last pull off the wine bottle before setting it down on the floor on his side of the bed. His dark hair was rumpled, but he still looked far better than he had when Merris first met him. The new beard did something to fill in the skeletal gauntness of his features. Even his color had improved somewhat in the past two weeks they had spent at the inn.
“Here, give me your hands.”
She sat up, her hair spilling in platinum curls down her back as she offered her hands out toward him, palms up. The pink scar that encircled her left wrist was very visible even in the dim lighting. Quin had tried to heal it, to no avail. The awful thing was carved permanently into her flesh, a constant reminder of the oath she had abandoned. No amount of wishing or even magic would ever make it go away.
“Now, pay attention,” Quin ordered, suddenly businesslike, without any trace of his previous levity. “I’m going to teach you how to detect the amount of air in a person’s blood. It’s a good indicator of their condition. Close your eyes and try to feel your body through me.”
Merris obeyed, squeezing her eyes shut. Immediately, she could feel the link he established with her, like a conduit opening up between the two of them. She became aware of herself through Quin’s magically enhanced perceptions. The feeling was disorienting, like staring at a mirror’s reflection in another mirror set slightly off-angle, creating a series of endless reflections, each slightly more distant. She could pick which image she chose to focus on, but then became confused, unsure of which point of view she had just selected. Was it her own perception of her body, or was it Quin’s perception of her? Or was it Quin’s sense of his own self? It took her a moment of adjustment to focus on the perspective she thought was the correct one.
“Is it getting any easier?” he asked.
“Somewhat,” Merris acknowledged, her eyes closed in concentration. “But it still makes me queasy.”
“It’ll improve with time and practice. Now, I want you to keep your focus on my perspective. Don’t let your attention drift back to your own sense of self; you’re going to want it to, and you need to resist the impulse.”
“I won’t,” Merris assured him.
“Now … hold your breath,” he directed her. “Don’t breathe until I tell you to.”
Merris complied, concentrating on feeling her own body through Quin’s link, through his perception of her. At first, there was no change that she could sense. Then, gradually, she could feel something begin to diverge.
There was an insistent tug in the back of her mind, a desire to change perspectives back to her own sense of self. She refused to acknowledge the urge, instead concentrating harder on that strange sense of something moving further away from its set point. The further apart it grew, the greater the need became to switch back to her own perspective. The need intensified, becoming an overwhelming desire.
“Breathe,” Quin commanded, his voice insistent as he released the conduit between them.
Suddenly confronted with her own awareness, Merris sucked in a great gasp, dizzy from lack of air. She lay back against the pillows, panting, her eyes sparkling in excited wonder. She bolted upright, hugging him as she exclaimed breathlessly:
“I felt it! Quin, that was marvelous! Can such a technique be used offensively?”
“Certainly it can,” he said, “with just a little modification. Like this.”
Suddenly, Merris wasn’t breathing again. Only, this time, it wasn’t by choice. Her throat hadn’t closed and there was no gasping or wheezing. Her lungs had simply ceased to function. Moreover, she could feel through Quin her state of unbreathing. It was that same sense of divergence she had felt before, only this time she knew it was being inflicted upon her.
He quickly released his hold on her lungs, allowing her chest to resume its natural rhythm. Instead of the panic she should have felt, Merris experienced a thrill of exhilaration. She flung her arms around him.
“So simple,” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe it’s that easy to kill someone.”
Quin reached down by the bedside, scooping up his wine bottle by the neck. “Killing someone is easy, darling. All it takes is a little knowledge and a robust sense of moral depravity. Keeping someone alive takes far more effort.”
He took a long pull off the wine bottle then just kept swallowing until most of the liquid was gone. He brought his hand up to rake across his lips. He then set the near-empty bottle down beside him, cradling it in the crook of his arm.
He was getting that dazed look in his eyes again. It was not the first bottle of wine Quin had consumed that afternoon. Merris smiled when she saw that expression in his eyes; he was feeling his liquor more than usual. Sometimes he opened up more in such a state. Sometimes, but not always. She liked him better when he was in a mood to be talkative.
Merris leaned forward, cradling her head in her hand with her elbow settled deeply into the pillow alongside him. “Tell me, Quin. How is it that you know so much about killing people?”
He took another swig of wine. “Because inventing new ways to kill people used to be what kept me employed.”
“Really?” Merris pressed, “What kind of job did you have?”
Quin shrugged, lifting the bottle for another swallow. “I’m an Arcanist. I’m trained in the making of things, trinkets and suchlike. Objects of power. My specialty was making dangerous trinkets.”
Merris smiled slyly. This was a side of Quin she hadn’t expected. “How intriguing. Why? I mean, why would you choose such employment?”
“Because I was good at it,” he stated with a whimsical smirk on his lips. He stared off blankly into the dim shadows of the room, eyes focused loosely on somewhere in the past. “More than good, really. I was a master of my craft. My mind is sadistically warped in an artistic sort of way.”
Merris kissed him on the forehead, stroking a finger through his dark and wiry beard. “What happened?” she prodded. “What made you stop inventing things?”
He looked down. “Because one of my trinkets was used to kill someone very dear to me.” Upending the bottle, he finished the last of the wine. Then he set the container down beside the bed, giving it a little push to send it over.
Merris sat up, drawing her knees against her chest. “Really? Who?”
Quin was still staring down at the mattress beside him, conspicuously avoiding her eyes. “The woman I loved. Unfortunately
, my brother had already married her.”
“You killed your brother’s wife?” Merris gasped.
“No. Braden killed her.” Quin sucked in a cheek, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “I simply provided the motivation. And the means.”
Merris stared at him wide-eyed, absolutely transfixed. “What happened?” she all but exclaimed.
“More wine, I think, will be required,” he stated.
Merris nodded. “Of course.”
She reached down by the bedside and produced the second bottle she had fetched, now glad she’d had the foresight to acquire it. Quin had a habit of running out of dialog the moment the liquor ran dry. This was not a topic of conversation that Merris was willing to miss out on for lack of enough wine to sustain it.
She removed the rag from the bottle’s neck and handed the wine over. Quin grasped the bottle with a fist around the neck, upending it thirstily.
“Her name was Amani,” he said in a voice low and gruff as he lowered the bottle back down to his side. “Braden and I were both in love with her. I think everyone was. She was the sort of person who could light up a whole room with just one smile. She was the most gentle and kindhearted person I’ve ever met.
“We both wanted her. Had we been raised with the clans, we probably would have fought to the death over her. As it was, Braden and I decided that the most judicious thing would be to appear together and present our mutual suits before her father.
“Of course, Amani’s father picked Braden over me.” Quin glowered as he took a large gulp of wine. “My brother was always the one with all the accolades, all the titles … all the panache. How could I hope to compete with that? Next to Braden’s glittering accomplishments, my own resume appears quite lackluster, I assure you.”
“So Braden and Amani were married,” Merris prompted him, attempting to move the conversation forward.
“Yes, they were. And, as one might expect, he made her thoroughly miserable.” Quin shook his head, his face growing quite somber. His eyes finally lifted to consider Merris’ face. “Braden is many things, but romantic is not one of his qualities,” he assured her. “Don’t get me wrong; he tried his best to make her happy. He bought Amani anything she could possibly desire. Clothing, gifts, power, friends…” His voice trailed off as he shook his head sadly. “He just never understood that the one thing she desired most from him was his time. And time was the one thing Braden would never give her.”
He took a quick nip off the bottle. “So I took it upon myself to offer Amani some companionship from time to time.”
Merris’ jaw dropped open in disbelief. “You slept with your brother’s wife?”
Quin emitted a slight shrug, canting the bottle in his hand lazily to the side. “Oh, it probably wasn’t very smart. But I’d be lying if I told you it was the basest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Believe me, my morals have been compromised so far and so often, you’d swear I was the politician in the family. Amani needed me, so I was there for her. It’s really just that simple. Braden never once suspected us. He never cast a shadow of doubt her way.
“Then one night, things went sideways.”
His tone had suddenly darkened. Merris detected the change immediately. She placed a steadying hand on Quin’s arm, wordlessly urging him to continue.
“I was on an assignment down in the south. There was a man—a mark. I got careless; I let them catch me off-guard. Aerysius offered to hand me over in exchange for a ransom, but Renquist refused to pay up. I suppose my life just wasn’t worth it to him.”
Quin took a deep drag off the wine bottle before lowering it back down again. He sat there on the bed, twirling the bottle around by its neck as he swirled the liquid up the sides of the container.
“In the end, Amani was the only one who came to my rescue. She stole some documents from Braden’s desk, the kind of papers she had no business even knowing existed. She handed them over to the enemy in exchange for my life.
“I was released,” he said, scowling. “But by the time I got back to the Lyceum, Amani had already been charged with treason. The penalty for treason in Bryn Calazar is death.”
Merris stroked her fingers down his arm to his hand, squeezing his fingers with her own. “What did Braden do?” she wondered softly.
Quinlan shrugged. His voice cracked as he responded pragmatically, “What else could he do? He did his duty. He used an artifact of my own creation to execute her, a silver medallion I called the Soulstone.” There was a deep, festering anger in his eyes that Merris found fascinating.
He continued gruffly, “Braden fastened the clasp around his own wife’s neck and then watched Amani die. It was horrible: slow, agonizing. He just held her as she writhed on the floor, screaming as her life was sucked right out of her.”
Merris gaped at him as she shook her head, trying in vain to reconcile the image just provided by Quin with the Braden she had met back in Aerysius. The two visions just didn’t seem to want to resolve in her head. “Why would he do such a thing?” she wondered, failing completely to comprehend.
Quin raised his eyebrows, taking another large swallow of wine. “Because, in Braden’s mind, it was the right thing to do,” he explained matter-of-factly. “He was even awarded a promotion for his cooperation in the matter.”
Merris narrowed her eyes in consternation. She couldn’t help the next thought that sprang to her mind. It slipped right out of her lips before she could stop it:
“What would you have done?”
“Put in the same position? I would have used the damned thing on myself.”
He lifted his bottle toward her as if proffering a toast. On his face he wore a vile and sardonic grin. “My dear, let us drink to the perils of love.”
Braden gazed out across the undulating terrain that sprawled out before them to the far distant horizons. Above, flocks of eagles flew across the cloud-filled skies or wheeled high overhead, riding the updrafts. The vast herds of the Jenn waded up to their knees in a sea of silkweed, oats and einkorn.
“I can’t believe so many actually came,” Sephana remarked from the back of the sorrel mare she rode at his side.
Braden couldn’t help the smile that came to his lips. After traveling for two weeks among the warriors of the Omeyan Clan, Sephana’s appreciation for the horse culture had increased, but she still vastly underestimated the competence of the Khazahar’s warrior tribes. If nothing else, the sight before them should be evidence enough to convince her.
From over the great distances of the eastern steppe, the tribes had come to converge at this place, every warrior of every clan, every nation of the Khazahar hordes. As was their custom, the Jenn had sent their women and children far away to the south, to the elder forests of the Sajar-Asharu, the Mountains of Cedar. There, they would remain in relative security, waiting for word that all was safe to return again.
The herds had made good time. In only two weeks, the Omeyan people had traveled from their winter home in the canyon near Vintgar all the way to the eastern edge of the steppe, almost to the dark waters of the sea. The walls of Bryn Calazar would be within sight tomorrow evening if they kept going at their present pace. The hordes travelled swiftly, leaving behind a vast swathe of trampled ground behind their fast-ranging herds that numbered in the tens of thousands.
Beneath him, Braden’s horse danced impatiently. He reached down and ran his hand along the stallion’s neck and scratched its short-cropped mane. The flame-colored stallion was an exquisite creature of a proud bloodline, the product of thousands of years of expert husbandry and meticulous breeding. But it was spirited, eager for the thrill of the gallop or the heat of a fight.
At a signal from its rider, the stallion knelt forward to the ground, allowing Braden to slide easily from its back. He removed the embroidered riding blanket and slipped the bridle off over the horse’s ears. He stroked the animal’s velvety nose, murmuring a quiet word of thanks. Then he released the stallion back to the herd for
the night. Braden watched as the chestnut darted off, tail carried high and neck arched, anxious for the company of its own kind.
He looked to Elessar, who remained mounted on his own dark bay. “We’ll make camp here for the night,” Braden explained to him. “Then tomorrow we’ll go down into the valley and make preparations for a siege.”
Elessar commanded his own horse to kneel, slipping agilely off its back. His darkly bearded face looked even more severe than usual as he stepped forward. He appeared to be mulling the implications of Braden’s words. After a long moment of silence, he voiced his concern:
“Grand Master Braden, of course you understand that we lack the means of laying an effective siege to a port city the size of Bryn Calazar.”
Braden nodded, placing a hand upon Elessar’s shoulder in reassurance. “I am aware of that. It doesn’t matter, to be frank. The point is, you’ll be there, threatening their walls. I just need you to get their attention. Get their attention and keep their attention.”
The warlord nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. The siege is a feint. We are meant only to distract.”
Braden frowned, hearing the disappointment in the warlord’s voice. He felt suddenly uncertain. “I’m sorry, Elessar. I hope that doesn’t lessen the honor or the glory for your warriors. If the darkmages are focused on you, then I’ll be able to strike them where they are most vulnerable: in the heart of the Lyceum itself.”
The old man’s gaze lowered to Thar’gon, the silver talisman of war that hung at Braden’s side. In his age-strained voice, he assured him, “There is no lessening of glory. It remains an honor to ride at the side of our Sentinel, a mage whose blood is our own blood.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 162
