“Still playing with your toys, I see? You should have abandoned them years ago.” Aidan arched an eyebrow, strolling forward down the stairs. He circled Darien slowly, eyeing the black leather scabbard with an expression of distaste. “Or is it your intention to swear the Oath of Harmony upon that sword?”
Darien uttered a beleaguered sigh, shaking his head. He had hoped things might have changed between them over the two years of his absence. Meeting Aidan’s gaze, he told him sincerely, “I was thinking that maybe we could just be brothers again. Perhaps it was too much to expect.”
Aidan blinked, a gallant smile springing instantly to his lips. “Not too much, I assure you. It was only a jest.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder with a soft chuckle. To Darien, the act was condescending, and the smile on his face seemed forced. “Really, Darien, you always take things much too seriously. Here, let me get that for you.”
Aidan swept the pack off Darien’s shoulder and into his own grip without waiting for a reply. He held the dusty leather well away from his body, as if afraid that some of the grime might smudge off and mar his flawless appearance. He extended his hand in invitation and then strolled on ahead down a corridor that led to the Masters Residence.
Darien had a hard time keeping up with his brother’s long strides. The exhaustion of his journey was wearing on him. As they walked up another long flight of winding stairs, Darien had to grip the railing to help pull himself up. He had left Greystone Keep a week before and had been traveling almost nonstop, even at night. He had given himself very little time to rest along the road, afraid that he was late enough already. The climb up to the level of the tower where the Masters had their quarters was grueling.
As they walked, Aidan made an attempt at conversation. “I trust your journey was safe?”
Darien nodded, thinking he did not have breath to waste on a response as he eyeballed the spiraling staircase still above them.
“Oh, I just remembered,” Aidan announced pleasantly. “I have a message for you from Grand Master Meiran. You do remember her, of course?”
Darien glared at his back. His brother was taunting him, but doing so under the infuriating guise of politeness that was his usual way. Aidan knew very well about the whole Meiran scandal that had hastened Darien’s departure two years before. Everyone knew of it. Darien had pursued Meiran for months, even though she was well above his station and he had no business even being around her. There were no laws in place forbidding Masters and acolytes from associating in private, but the traditions of Aerysius were almost more stringent than formal laws. His mother had quickly caught wind of the affair. Darien had been packed up and shipped off to the front in all haste, without even a chance to say goodbye. Meiran had received a demerit, unheard of for a Grand Master of her status.
Aidan went on as if he were completely ignorant of the whole ordeal. “She sends her regards, but regrets that she will not be able to meet with you before the ceremony. Really, Darien, you must have made quite an impression before you left. It usually isn’t considered proper for a Grand Master to be seen chasing around after acolytes.”
“I won’t be an acolyte much longer,” Darien grated, finding it difficult to control the anger his brother always had a way of provoking. Then he silently berated himself. He was feeding right into Aidan’s ploy. Not wanting his brother to get the better of him, he added in a lighter tone, “Besides, I was the one who did all the chasing.”
They arrived finally at a level high up in the spire. Aidan led him down a broad, well-lit hall with polished marble tiles, stopping at a mahogany door about halfway down the passage. He reached out and swept the door open with a gallant swirl of his cloak, exposing the chambers within.
Darien stood in the doorway, surveying his new quarters with a feeling of trepidation. This was not the stark cell of an acolyte. The room he gazed into was almost as large as his mother’s solar, and was decorated lavishly enough to suit any nobleman. There was a warm fire already blazing in the hearth on the far side of the room.
“Well, here you are,” Aidan announced grandly. “I trust you find your quarters adequate? I chose the location, but Mother made all the arrangements.”
“I guess it will do,” Darien muttered, still feeling stunned and more than a little overwhelmed. He took a step inside, wondering if it would even be possible to get used to so much space after spending the last two years freezing in the cramped cellar of Greystone Keep.
At last he collected himself enough to say, “My thanks, Aidan. It’s wonderful.”
His brother set Darien’s pack down by the door, hesitating a moment as if uncertain whether he wanted the dirty thing to soil the perfectly polished tiles. “I’ll see you again tonight, then. Don’t get too comfortable, now; you’ll not want to miss your own Raising.”
Darien barely heard the sound of the door closing as his brother took his leave. He stood, just staring around the chamber, feeling too exhausted to even think. Moving awkwardly, he removed the leather baldric and leaned the greatsword against the wall by his pack. Then he slumped down into a heavily-cushioned chair and found a goblet of wine already poured and waiting on the table beside it.
His hand was shaking as he raised the goblet to his lips and took the liquid into his mouth in thirsty gulps. As he set the spent glass back down on the table, his head suddenly felt too heavy to hold up any longer. He snuggled back deeply into the soft cushions and dazed up at the painted ceiling as a soft ringing sound filled his ears. The ceiling blurred, growing darker, the colors melting and running together.
He never remembered falling asleep; the drug in the wine acted swiftly.
Chapter Two
Two Goblets, Two Rites
THE DARK ALTAR existed deep within the heart of the mountain. It was accessible only by someone with a good knowledge of the vast network of passages that had been formed over time by both the natural action of running water and the hard labors of men thousands of years dead. The man carrying Meiran’s unconscious body had that knowledge, and other knowledge, besides. He had spent years of his life in preparation for this night, pouring over forbidden manuscripts full of dark teachings and secrets purposefully forgotten. A perfect map of the entire cave system existed in his head, along with the methods of disarming the magical traps and devices rigged to prevent access. He had journeyed down these dark passages many times before. The ancient caves were his own personal sanctuary, the unholy shrine his private chapel.
The altar existed in a small chamber roughly hewn from the black rock of the mountain’s heart. The walls of the chamber wept the wet blood of the mountain down their coarse faces, glistening damply with the pale magelight he cast. The water running off the walls made puddles on the floor of the room, stagnant pools that splashed foul droplets up to soil the hem of his cloak as his boots disturbed their black surfaces. He crossed the length of the chamber to the far side, where he stooped to lay the woman in his arms upon the worn surface of the altar rock.
The altar itself was formed from a single slab of black stone with ancient, rusted chains set there for the purpose of restraining a victim for sacrifice. It had been a common practice among the dark sects of ages past. He didn’t bother with the chains, had even dismissed the necrators after they had served their initial purpose. The woman on the altar needed no restraint, either physical or ethereal. Meiran had been touched by Hell’s own shadow; she would never again awaken.
His nostrils sucked in the stale air of the chamber as he went about his business with meticulous efficiency. Fingers working delicately, he first removed the black cloak from Meiran’s limp body, folding it carefully before placing it on the floor at the foot of the altar. He then paused a moment, eyes drinking in the thin blue silk his action had exposed. His hand moved slowly to caress the fabric’s texture where it lay smooth across the firm curve of her hips. The touch stimulated him, inciting his heart to quicken its pace in his chest. In all his careful planning, he had never imagined that this m
oment could be so irresistibly erotic.
With the back of his hand, he stroked aside a wayward lock of rich brown hair that had fallen forward over Meiran’s pale, perfect face. He continued the motion, running his fingers down the side of her cheek, over her parted lips. Silently, he leaned over, brushing those flawless lips with his own tender kiss.
When he bared the sword from its scabbard with a crisp ring of steel, he was pleased to find it just as sharp as he had expected it would be. In two quick motions, he laid open the skin of Meiran’s wrists to the bone.
Stooping, he bent to catch the pulsing bloodflow with a crystalline wine goblet produced from within the folds of his black cloak. When it was full, he let Meiran’s arm fall limply onto the rough surface of the altar.
He turned then toward the Well.
The Well of Tears stood in the center of the chamber, made of rough stone blocks and covered with a round slab of dark granite four inches thick. Around its rim were carved runes in an ancient, unholy script that looked more like vicious slashes in the stone, as if made by the clawmarks of a vile beast. The Well was a portal to the darkest depths of the Netherworld, a gateway that opened a conduit straight to the bowels of Hell. Once opened, the Well would unleash the dark hosts of Chaos upon the world. He would have the terror of the night at his command.
Kneeling beside the Well, he dipped the index finger of his right hand into the goblet of blood. The dark fluid dripped onto the floor as he moved his finger to the first rune, tracing its form with the warm blood from Meiran’s veins. The blood took a moment to absorb into the porous stone. When it did, the marking began to glow with a pale green light. He moved around the rim to the next rune in the sequence, then another, dipping his finger into the goblet and repeating the act all around the rim. He moved carefully, taking his time, until all of the vile markings glowed with the same pale, sickening light.
But his work was not yet complete. The Well had to be unsealed from both sides. His action had unlocked the side of the Gateway that existed in this world. But someone else would have to open it from the other side.
The lid was far too heavy to be shifted by the limited physical strength of a single man. So he reached within, aligning his mind with the rhythm of the magic field. As if pushed by the invisible hand of a giant, the cover of the Well of Tears lifted and slid aside, falling sharply to the wet stone floor with a resounding crash that reverberated off the walls of the chamber.
He turned then, back to Meiran.
Her blood was nearly spent, running in scarlet rivulets down the sides of the stone altar, mixing with the dark pools of water on the floor. He moved to place two fingers at her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was still there, tremulous, and growing fainter. He stood over her, staring down at her beautiful, ashen face until the tempo of her heart finally stalled in her veins. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips as the last breath passed from her body.
He pressed his hands against her cheeks as she died, cupping her face as if with the tender embrace of a lover. There was a faint tingling sensation in his fingertips where they touched her soft skin, weak at first, then growing infinitely stronger. The flow of power swam up his arms from within her, coursing into him, filling his body and mind with a shuddering ecstasy that was almost too great to stand. He pulled himself on top of her, moving his hands behind her back to lift her body against his chest, hugging her fiercely as he absorbed the final spasms of current that flowed through the link he had established with her. When it was finished, he collapsed on top of her, spent and gasping, relishing a warm satisfaction as if he had just committed an act of physical rape.
It had been rape, of a sort.
What he had taken was not her body, but rather her gift. Meiran had been a Grand Master of the Sixth Tier, one of the strongest mages in the history of Aerysius. He had stolen the gift from her dying body, commingling it with his own. Which meant that he was now the most powerful mage ever to exist.
He pushed himself off her, standing up. His breath still came in gasps, his body still trembling from the deluge of energy from the Transference. He placed a finger on her forehead and used his newfound strength to utter an enchantment that would have been completely beyond him yet a few moments before. He pressed upon Meiran’s soul a Word of Command, sending her spirit to the Netherworld with a task she would have no choice but to perform.
He lifted her limp body into his arms, carried the dead weight of her over to the Well. With one, smooth motion, he cast her in. The blue fabric of her dress rippled in the wind created by the speed of her fall. He watched as the sight of her was quickly lost, consumed by the shadows of the Well. He never heard her body hit the bottom. As far as he was aware, it never did.
Aidan Lauchlin knelt on the floor in the dim light of the shining runes along the Well’s rim. He waited, wondering how long it would take her to complete the task he had Commanded of her soul.
Dark colors swam gradually into focus, hazing in and out across his vision. It took him long moments to realize that it was the ceiling he was looking at and not some confused chiaroscuro that had taken on a life of its own. Blinking, Darien sat up, staring around the room in foggy bewilderment. He must have fallen asleep, though he didn’t recall doing so. There was a dull throbbing in the back of his head, reminiscent of the morning after a night of indulgence. His mouth was dry, and his eyes ached when he reached up to rub them. Beside his chair on the table, the crystalline goblet sat empty. The bottle next to it was mostly full, completely untouched except for the one glass that had been poured from it.
Vaguely, he wondered what time it was. It felt as if he’d been sleeping forever. He struggled out of the pillowy cushions of the chair, regretting the motion instantly. The throbbing in his head turned immediately to a stabbing pain that lanced like hot irons into the backs of his eyes. Wincing, Darien squinted as dark blotches swam across his vision.
It took him a moment to recover enough to stagger across the room to the hearth. The fire had burned out, the coals gray and cold. That was the first thing he noticed. Frowning, he glanced toward the paned window on the wall at his right. Through glass streaked with rain, he saw only consummate darkness. Panic seized him; it was late. How late, he wasn’t sure. But he had a sinking suspicion that the hour was quite advanced.
It was then that he noticed the clock on the wall with heavy iron counterweights suspended from long chains. The position of the bronze hands on its face made the feeling of panic in his gut wrench into an intense wave of nausea. It was a quarter after the stroke of midnight. He was already late for the Rite of Transference in the temple.
“Bloody hell,” he grated in a hoarse whisper. His mother was going to kill him.
Darien stood frozen, groping through the fog in his head to figure out what to do first. He had no time to clean up. His clothes were worn and travel-stained, his hair unwashed, his face unshaven. His body was covered with the dirt of the road. He’d taken no time to prepare himself mentally.
He sprang for the bedchamber first, ignoring the throb of urgent complaint in his head. His mother would have arranged for a wardrobe; she was never one to miss a detail. Yet even knowing that, he still exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw fresh clothing already laid out on the bed. Stripping the filthy rags off his body, he donned the new black robes in a matter of seconds. One glance at the looking glass over the washstand was enough to tell him that his face was a lost cause. He cupped his hands and filled them with water from the basin, splashing it over his cheeks. The towel he used to scrub himself dry came away from his face stained and filthy. He dragged his fingers through his hair, ripping through most of the snarls, then caught the long black strands up in a leather band at the base of his neck.
That was as good as it was going to get. As he dashed out of the bedchamber, Darien suddenly remembered the sword his mother had ordered him to throw over the cliff. He had absolutely no intention of doing so; the blade had been a gift from Meiran. But he didn’t want to leave it
lying around where someone could find it and report that it had not been properly disposed of. Yet, when he glanced at the wall by the door where he had rested it that morning, all his eyes saw was empty space. The blade had been removed while he slept.
The curse Darien swore as he slammed the door shut behind him would have chilled even his mother’s cold blood.
He was well beyond fashionably late by the time he reached the Temple of Athera in the upper reaches of the city. Being located on the sheer face of a mountain precipice, Aerysius was spread out more vertically than it was horizontally. Many of its streets were switchbacks, climbing steeply up the side of the cliff, that or narrow granite stairs carved into the face of the mountain itself. Skybridges linked the tops of towers at lower levels of the city with the bases of structures at higher elevations. Navigating the streets, particularly at night and in the pouring rain, was difficult. To Darien, the climb to the temple was a grueling punishment. His body ached at every joint, and the throbbing pain in his head persisted stubbornly, refusing to go away.
He was shaking and wet by the time he topped the last long flight of stairs, drenched from the rain and shivering from an icy cold sweat that covered his body. Darien shoved his hands out, thrusting the temple doors open in front of him. His long strides propelled him forward into a well-lit antechamber. He stopped in the middle of the empty room, eyes darting frantically in all directions as he tried to figure out where he was supposed to go next. There were four doors leading out of the chamber, as well as two wide staircases that wound up the curving walls to either side. He was about to just start trying doors when a cold voice from above halted him.
“I’m not certain who I should be more furious with: you for arriving over an hour late, or your brother for not bothering to present himself at all.”
Darkmage Page 3
