Quellin was an elderly scholar whom Emon employed to oversee and maintain his collection of volumes. He was a quiet man with a sour disposition who acted as if Khorvaire would be a much finer place if all the people vanished overnight so there’d be no one to get fingerprints on the vellum pages of his precious books or mis-shelve them once they were finished reading. There was something else about Quellin that bothered Diran, though he couldn’t quite pin it down. Sometimes Diran would catch the elderly scholar looking at him with an expression of dark amusement, as if the man harbored a secret that he couldn’t wait to share.
Since Diran was quiet and always careful with the books, most of the time Quellin left him to his own devices. Sometimes, like today, he’d even step out of the room for a time while Diran read. Where the old scholar went and what he did, Diran didn’t know and didn’t care. He was just grateful not to have Quellin hovering about, just waiting for him to crinkle or, Sovereigns forbid, tear a page.
“I think Quellin has more important tasks to attend to right now than come check on his favorite reader. C’mon.” Makala slid off the chair arm, then took Diran by the hand and pulled him onto his feet.
“What are you up to?” Diran said suspiciously.
Makala gave him a sly smile. “You’ll see.”
She continued pulling Diran by the hand, leading him toward the back of the library. He had no idea what she had in mind. There was nothing in the back of the room except a wall of bookshelves crammed with reading material, but Diran didn’t care. He felt a mounting excitement with each step further that Makala led him, and he knew that at this moment he’d follow her into a nest of basilisks if she asked.
When they reached the back row of shelves, Makala stopped and released Diran’s hand. “You see that thick volume on the middle shelf… the one with the gold filigree on the spine?”
“Yes.”
“Remove it.”
Diran’s earlier ardor began to wane. The last time Makala had led him somewhere was during his final test. There were no other rites of passage for Emon’s students, at least none that he knew of, but this situation was starting to feel all too familiar. Still, he did as Makala asked and pulled the volume she’d identified off the shelf. As he did so, he glanced at the title: From Beyond: Extraplanar Entities and Otherworldly Manifestations. He didn’t recognize the author’s name, but the title was intriguing.
Makala reached past Diran and slid her hand into the space the book had occupied. She reached all the way to the back of the shelf and then pushed. There was a soft click and she quickly withdrew her hand.
“Step back,” she warned, doing so herself.
Diran did likewise, and the bookshelf swung slowly outward to reveal an open doorway beyond, with stone steps leading down into darkness. He supposed he should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t. He’d been a ward of Emon Gorsedd too long to be surprised my much of anything.
“I take it we go down,” he said.
“Of course. Put the book back on the shelf first, though. We don’t need it anymore. The door will close when we set foot on the third step.” She smiled. “Besides, Quellin would have a fit if you left it lying on the floor or worse, brought it with you.”
Diran slid the volume back into its proper place on the shelf then followed Makala through the doorway. As soon as Makala’s foot touched the third step from the top, the door-shelf began to swing closed. There was no light in the stairwell, and when the door closed all the way, they were left in complete darkness.
“Too bad I don’t have a lantern on me,” Diran said.
“We don’t need any light. The way is safe and we don’t have far to go. There’s no railing, but it helps if you put both hands on the walls as you go down.”
He heard Makala’s footfalls as she started down the stairs. As she’d advised, he stretched out his arms, touched his hands to the walls on either side of him, and followed. Diran counted the steps, something that had been ingrained in him by Emon’s training. After the thirteenth step they reached the bottom.
Makala’s hand found his in the darkness and she gave him a gentle squeeze.
“We have but a short hallway to cross, then we’ll reach another door. I can’t tell you what lies behind it, but I can tell you this: be strong.”
Diran felt her lips brush his, then she released his hand and started down the dark hallway. After only a second’s hesitation, Diran followed. Twenty steps later, he caught up to Makala. He heard the click of a door latch, then bluish-white light spilled into the hallway. Diran squinted to keep his eyes from being dazzled after walking through total darkness. He didn’t close them all the way, though. He’d been trained better than that.
The light was soft but enough to reveal the details of the hallway, the open door, and Makala, who stood in the doorway, a solemn expression on her face. The hall was made of gray stone, the door oak with thick iron bands around the edges. Diran knew this place lay beneath Emon Gorsedd’s home, but as to what it was, Diran hadn’t a clue. He’d never heard anyone speak of an underground chamber, had never suspected its existence.
He looked at Makala for some hint as to what he should do next, but she just continued looking at him without expression. No real help there, but then, he supposed he didn’t need any. He walked past Makala and through the open doorway.
Inside was a large chamber with smooth rounded walls and a domed ceiling. Light came from globes of mystic energy that hovered in the air near the walls. Curved wooden risers lined the walls on both sides of the chamber, and sitting on them were men and women, all looking at him with the same impassive expression Makala had worn. Many of the people were unfamiliar to Diran, but there were many that he recognized. All of them were older than he—some quite a bit so—and all of them were Emon’s “children,” as the warlord liked to call them: assassins who plied their trade for whatever clients Emon chose. Emon himself sat among them on the right side of the room, front row, center. There was an empty place beside Emon, and Diran had a good notion whom it was reserved for. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard the door close, then Makala walked past him and sat down next to Emon. The master assassin, unlike all the others, didn’t affect a neutral expression. He was smiling broadly, looking for all the world like a proud father.
In the center of the chamber was a large obsidian table. The blue-white light of the mystic globes gleamed off its highly polished surface, making the table seem to glow with its own internal power. There were runnels carved along each side, and Diran didn’t want to guess what they were for.
Standing behind the table was the librarian Quellin, though instead of his normal tunic and leggings he wore a hooded black robe. The old man usually displayed little emotion other than irritation or impatience, but the eyes beneath his bushy white brow shone with eager anticipation, and the mouth set in the midst of his full ivory beard was stretched into a dark smile. It was the first time Diran could remember seeing a smile of any kind on the librarian’s face, but the most striking feature in the chamber lay behind Quellin. It was an altar that rose nearly to the ceiling, carved out of the same black stone as everything else in the chamber. Six figures rose from the altar’s base, the statues rendered in crude detail, but no less recognizable for it. These were stone images of the Dark Six, gods of foulness and evil all: the Devourer, the Fury, the Keeper, the Mockery, the Shadow, and the Traveler. As with the table, the light from the globes played across the statues, gathering within their eyes and making it seem as if the Six were alive and staring at Diran, curious to see what he would do next.
No doubt the sensation the statues were watching him was solely due to his own imagination, but there were plenty of real eyes looking at him, Makala’s and Emon’s among them. Diran stepped toward the table and stopped when he reached it. He assumed he’d done the right thing, for Quellin’s smile grew wider and more sinister. Quellin spoke, his voice pitched at normal volume but nevertheless echoing throughout the chamber.
�
��Diran Bastiaan, welcome to the Chamber of Joining. Today you will take your last step toward becoming a full member of the Brotherhood of the Blade.” Quellin gestured toward the obsidian table. “Lie down.”
Diran knew better than to ask what would happen if he refused. He would be slain, perhaps even by Emon himself, but Diran didn’t want to refuse. Though he didn’t know what this ritual might require of him, whatever it was, it would be worth it to at last be accepted into Emon’s brotherhood. He climbed on top of the obsidian table and lay down. There was a smooth depression for the back of his head, and the cold, hard table made Diran feel as if he were a corpse laid out on a slab.
Quellin stepped around the table and stood by Diran’s head. “Today you are going to receive a great gift, Diran Bastiaan. After this day, you shall be stronger than ever before, your mind will be clearer, your senses sharper, your resolve more firm and your heart cold as frost-covered steel. After this day, you shall never again be alone.”
Obviously Quellin was much more than a simple librarian and scholar, Diran thought. Was he a wizard? A priest? A deluded madman? He supposed the next several moments would tell the tale.
Quellin turned and faced the ugly statues on the black stone altar. “We do the work of the Six, and to help us serve Them more efficiently, They imbue us with a small measure of Their own majestic darkness.” The old man turned back to Diran. “You have been deemed worthy of being granted the gift of the Dark Six, Diran. Do you accept it of your own free will?”
A part of Diran, perhaps the deepest part of him, wanted to say no, but the word that came out of his mouth was, “Yes.”
“Excellent,” Quellin said, almost hissing the world. He turned back to the altar and lifted his hands over his head.
“Here me, oh Six! Your servant comes before You once more and asks that You crack open the Gates of Oblivion and permit Your shadows to join with this willing vessel. Diran Bastiaan has proven himself worthy. Under his master’s tutelage, he has become a strong, swift, and cunning killer. All he lacks now is the touch of Your dark hands. I beseech You, reach out to this youth and grant him the fell blessing I ask, so that he might walk the face of this world as small reflection of Your own magnificence!”
As Quellin intoned his prayer, Diran had the impression of darkness gathering, pooling thickly around the base of the table, manifesting as a tarry black substance. The chamber grew colder, so cold that his breath came out as curling wisps of mist. Quellin stepped around to the table’s side, and Diran was able to look at him without craning his neck. The elderly man leaned closer and whispered, “Whatever you do, do not resist.”
Quellin straightened, reached between the fold of his robe and took out one of the daggers that hung from his belt. The old man pressed the blade’s hilt into Diran’s right hand.
“Two clean, quick cuts, one on each wrist,” Quellin said, “not too deep, but enough to open the arteries. Once you’ve made the cuts, return the dagger to me, then place your bleeding wrists into the runnels carved into the sides of the table. Do you understand?”
Diran nodded and felt the familiar sensation of a dagger hilt resting in his right palm. He closed his fingers around it then hesitated. If he did as Quellin commanded, he might well bleed to death, but if he didn’t do it, then he certainly would be killed for his defiance. He turned his head and looked at Emon and Makala. The master assassin was still smiling, but Makala’s face remained expressionless, as did those of all the others nearby. Then Makala gave him a wink and he knew that, whatever was about to happen, it was going to be all fight.
He was surprised by how little it hurt to make the cuts.
Quellin took the knife, and Diran lay back, putting his arms in the runnels as he’d been told. Seconds went by without anything happening as he slowly bled out his life’s blood onto the obsidian table, but then he sensed the darkness pooled around table’s base become alert, almost scenting the air like an eager hound. He felt it sliding up the side of the table, ebon tendrils probing as it came. He looked down at his feet. The runnels ended in shallow basins at the foot of the table, and the blood flowing from his opened veins had already filled them halfway. Dark tendrils stretched up over the edge and dipped into the basins, as if tasting the thick, red fluid they held. The darkness must’ve found what it tasted to be sweet, for it flowed up the sides, over the edge, and into the basins, splitting in two as it did so. The darkness absorbed the blood in the basins and then, hungry for more, flowed up the runnels, following the blood trail to Diran’s cut wrists. He watched as tendrils emerged from the leading edge of the darkness to brush against his wounds, their touch freezing cold on his flesh.
On each side, tendrils wormed their way into his wounds, and Diran screamed as he experienced a pain more excruciating than anything he had ever imagined. It took several minutes for the darkness to finish entering his body, and he screamed the entire time, until finally his throat was too raw to make further sound. Then it was over.
Diran lay on the table, breathing slowly. The runnels were dry and clear; not a speck of blood remained on them. Diran sat up and examined his wrists. The wounds had healed with no sign of scarring. He felt healthy, strong, bursting with energy. He leaped off the table and landed lightly on his feet. He was hungry enough to eat a whale, and at the same time he felt ready to take on an army single-handedly, armed with nothing more than his wits and a sharpened stick.
He looked at Makala with new understanding. This was why she was seemed so different over the last year. She’d already undergone her Joining, and now so had he.
Emon Gorsedd stood and clapped. He was joined by Makala, then one by one all the other assassins. Even Quellin was grinning and clapping.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood of the Blade, Diran!” Emon shouted.
Diran smiled, and if somewhere in the midst of all the clapping and cries of congratulation he heard a small dark voice whispering to him from the most shadowy corner of his soul, he thought nothing of it. It felt natural, felt right…
Felt good.
* * *
Diran’s eyes opened. At first he didn’t know where he was, but that didn’t matter because for the first time in years he felt complete again. Like an amputee who’d gotten used to the loss of a limb, he’d forgotten how good it was to be whole.
All too soon the feeling began to fade. Diran felt wind rushing on his face, smelled salt in the air, heard the gentle whisper of soarwood runners cutting through water. He looked up, saw stars, moons, and the Ring of Siberys, all illuminating the night sky, and he knew that he had been dreaming. With that realization, the last lingering feelings of completeness vanished, and an empty space opened up in Diran’s soul. He let out a long sigh.
“Uneasy dreams, my friend?” A woman’s voice, coming from the stern. Yvka.
The last of the dream fog lifted, and Diran remembered everything: the Black Fleet, Onkar, the Zephyr, Flotsam and Nowhere, and most of all, Makala. He turned to Ghaji. The half-orc sat with his arms crossed, head down, snoring softly. Diran rose quietly so as not to wake his friend and moved back to sit cross-legged on the deck facing Yvka.
“At least Ghaji is having no trouble sleeping,” the elf-woman said.
“Ghaji and I are both veterans of the Last War. One of the first things a soldier learns is to grab any opportunity for sleep. You never know when—or if-—you’ll get another chance.”
The night air had grown chilly, especially with the wind kicked up by the Zephyr’s swift passage. Diran and Ghaji had broken out their bedrolls and wrapped them around their shoulders like shawls while Yvka was content to make do with a light traveler’s cloak. She’d offered to let them sleep in the Zephyrs cabin, cramped though it might be for two, especially when one of those two was as big as Ghaji, but the two companions had declined. Not only did they want to remain on deck in case of trouble, they still weren’t sure how much they should trust Yvka.
“Speaking of sleep,” Diran said, “you’ve been piloting
the Zephyr without rest since we left Nowhere. I was raised in the Principalities. I learned to sail almost before I could walk. It’s been a while since I sat at a tiller, but I think I can remember enough to take your place so you can get some rest.”
“I’m holding up fine. My people don’t need as much rest as yours. Besides, I want to maintain our best speed. The sooner we reach Dreadhold, the sooner we’ll be able to track down Erdis Cai.”
Diran looked at the column behind Yvka, atop which sat the metallic containment ring that kept the air elemental bound and servile. The interior of the ring glowed with shimmering blue energy as the elemental continued producing wind to fill the Zephyr’s sails.
“Are you certain?” Diran asked. “I would think that an enchantment this powerful would take a great deal of energy out of the pilot.”
“Controlling the elemental takes effort, but the magic’s primarily in the ship itself,” Yvka said. “The ring, the column, this chair… the hand-link carved into the arm has been keyed especially to me, though the spell could be broken by a wizard or even an especially skilled artificer. All I have to do is remain in physical contact with the hand-link for the elemental to stay active. It would remain so even if I slept, though I would be unable to work the tiller of course.”
“Then I can take over for you,” Diran said. “It would mean my standing next to your chair since I couldn’t sit in it while you slept, but I—”
“Again, you have my thanks, Diran, but as I said, there is no need.”
“You don’t trust us, Ghaji and me, do you?”
There was enough moonlight for Diran to make out Yvka’s features, and he saw her sad smile.
“It was how I was trained,” Yvka said. “Trust no one. Surely you understand.”
Diran frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You and Ghaji have been traveling in the Principalities for weeks now, and your presence has not gone unnoticed by the people I work for.” Another smile, but one of amusement this time. “You and Ghaji don’t exactly keep a low profile.”
01 - Thieves of Blood Page 9
