His Eminence, the High Priest of Wisdom,
Thank you for receiving my acolyte, Kyel Archer. Please provide him with a text which I require, A Treatise on the Well of Tears. If you would kindly allow my acolyte to borrow the original text, I will take great pains to assure that it is returned to you promptly. I regret that I must also beg a favor: please withhold knowledge of the text’s existence from my acolyte until after he has spent three days’ study in your vaults. I sent Kyel to you under the pretense that he is to be searching for information on the Well of Tears. However, it is my wish that he be provided with the following listed materials so as to progress further in his training. If you can think of any other resources that might be helpful to him, please include them in his course of study. I would be much appreciative, as Kyel does not have the benefit of Aerysius’s libraries to broaden his knowledge. Thank you for your time and assistance.
Yours in the Pursuit of Wisdom,
Darien Lauchlin
Prime Warden of Aerysius
Distinguished Order of Sentinels
Grand Master of the Eighth Tier
Guardian of the Eightfold Light
Below the last line appeared to be an almost comprehensive listing of the books that Kyel had been searching through for the past three days. The Mysteries of Aerysius was listed first, followed by The Fall of Bryn Calazar, the text that had provided Kyel with so much insight into the Well’s influence on Zavier Renquist. The list of titles and authors continued even onto the back of the page. As he scanned down the rough columns, Kyel saw that he recognized most of the works. But nowhere was there a mention of a book entitled The Family Lauchlin. That must have been an addition of the High Priest’s, probably falling under Darien’s request for ‘other resources that might be helpful’. It had been helpful, all right. Kyel just wished he could get the name Gerald Withersby out of his head. It provoked too many images of his own son. He couldn’t imagine the horror of seeing Gil’s name and death date scrawled on such an entry.
“So this was all just some damned trick?” He crumbled Darien’s letter in his hand, shoving it into his pocket. It was just as his trial with the vortex, one of Darien’s crash lessons in acolacy. Kyel was damned near fed up with them.
“You furthered your education, didn’t you?” was Cadmus’s response. “And you learned much more than if we had just offered you a stack of books and simply asked you to sit and read. Knowledge is, after all, the First Pillar of Wisdom. Truly, your Prime Warden is as insightful as he is brash.”
Insufferable is more like it, Kyel thought, fuming. Lifting Treatise on the Well in his hand, he stood up from the table and turned to the High Priest.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll just be on my way,” he said.
But the old man shook his head.
“You agreed to regale us with your tale for one more evening,” Cadmus reminded him politely.
Kyel sighed, sinking back down into his chair. He set the text in his lap and held his head in his hands, propping his elbows on the table. Beneath him, his plate of food looked as cold as it was ever going to get.
“What is it you wish to know this time?” he wondered dismally.
Cadmus smiled profoundly. “His Eminence desires to know only one last detail before you leave our hospitality. He wishes to know to what dark use your master intends to put the Circle of Convergence on Orien’s Finger.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dangerous Audacity
“HE’S STAYING AT AN INN called the Four Quarrels in Southarbour, Sire. And it appears that Landry was right in his guess; they’re sharing a room together, and a bed.”
The Black Prince nodded, absently stroking his goatee. He had figured as much, even before Landry had mentioned anything. It was the only explanation that fit; temple priestesses simply did not go flitting about in the company of vigorous young men, alone and unescorted. He wondered what that dithering old goat Luther Penthos would think if he knew that one of his own initiates had whored herself out. It was good news, really. He would take anything that put him at an advantage over the impudent young Lauchlin.
“Excellent,” the king pronounced, feeling his mood elevate somewhat. “What else?”
Chadwick Cummings cleared his throat noisily with a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, Sire, but he’s kept to his room all day. Only the priestess has emerged. Apparently, they must have gotten into some sort of row; she left the inn this morning in quite a heat.”
“I can’t imagine, with his charm,” the king muttered. The comment sparked a round of polite chortles from his entourage.
“Let me think,” he growled, glaring them all into silence. He still knew next to nothing about Lauchlin. He felt certain the man was who he claimed, but there were too many disturbing inconsistencies about him. The mage’s sword, in particular, bothered him the most. It would be one thing if the blade were merely an ornamental token, but Faukravar doubted it. The man was simply not the type to sport such a device. The sword was unsettling, almost as much as young Lauchlin himself.
“So, we still don’t know for certain whether or not this mage is tame,” he uttered, voicing his thoughts out loud. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.” Squeezing his eyes shut, his grip intensified on the arms of his throne as he struggled to think. Every puzzle had a solution, even this one. If only he could just see it. Then he realized: the solution had already presented itself. A sinister smile formed on his lips as he inquired of his captain of the guard:
“You had the priestess followed, of course?”
“Of course, my liege.”
The king nodded graciously. “Good. Have her escorted to the North Tower. Should diplomacy fail, we will use her as security.”
Cummings stepped forward, a frown on his plump and clammy features. “Sire, do you truly think it’s wise to provoke him?”
“Why not?” Faukravar demanded contemptuously. “He provoked me, didn’t he? Let’s just see if he can maintain his cloak of arrogance when he finds out we have his whore locked up in chains.”
The shadows of the city were lengthening by the time Darien turned away from the window. He had been there often on and off throughout the day, staring out through the faintly rippled glass at the busy streets below. His eyes were growing weary of scanning the constant bustle of people that moved beneath his window like a solemn and anonymous procession. He had long ago lost track of the number of white dresses he’d seen gliding by, and yet none had brought Naia back to him. It was as if the priestess had been simply swept away by the tides of people flowing through the endless city streets, like a piece of driftwood caught in a current and carried out to sea, far away from the security of shore. The hour was growing late, and he had no idea where she could possibly be.
If something had happened to her, it was his fault. Vaguely, he wondered if Naia’s disappearance was some sort of punishment for his transgressions. Perhaps the vengeful goddess he’d sold his soul to was exacting atonement for his sins. Darien realized now the magnitude of the injury he had committed when he had chosen to lift Naia’s veil and draw it back from her face. He had not thought the decision through enough; there simply hadn’t been enough time. He had let his emotions rule him in a moment of vulnerability, and now he was paying the price.
At least, now, he could give her the answer she wanted. He had told Kyel once that sometimes it felt like he was still falling from the cliff. He thought that he had finally found someone to pull him back from the brink, another miracle like the Bird Man who had just happened to be at the right place at just the right time. He knew better, now. What had happened last night had been the wrong place, the wrong time. The wrong person. He couldn’t expect Naia to save him from the cliff’s edge when he couldn’t even save himself. He could not risk the very real possibility that he might even pull her over with him.
He loved her too much for that.
When he saw her again, Darien knew what his decision was going to b
e. He was going to set her free. Again, he was reminded of Edric Torrence, the ancient mage who had saved his life and then turned around and sacrificed himself so that Darien could inherit his gift. Birds are smart, the old man had told him. They always know when it’s time to fly. Until now, he hadn’t realized how profound that statement had been. It was Naia’s time to fly. Perhaps she had flown already. If not, then he would somehow find the strength to open the door of the cage he had so selfishly placed around her. Then he would say goodbye, stand back, and watch her go.
A soft pattering noise tapped on the window. Looking up, he saw that it was starting to rain. Once, he had loved the sound of rain. He could remember many nights, lying awake late at night with Meiran in his arms, listening to the sound of the droplets splattering against the glass of the window in her bedchamber. Meiran was another woman he’d simply had no business being with. Why was he always drawn to the exact things he shouldn’t have? Like the sword he refused to give up, the only two women he had ever loved were forbidden him. Meiran was dead now, her soul condemned to Hell because he had ignored tradition and chosen to take her anyway.
And now Naia was missing.
The parallel was too complete, too decisive. The more he thought about it, the more it filled him with a growing sense of dread. All day long he had waited by that window, but now he knew she wasn’t coming back. She had left her pack, and her horse was still downstairs in the stable; she hadn’t flown. Her coat was still folded neatly on the chair. The sound of the rain swelled until it was thrumming on the widow. Outside, there was a downpour. Naia would not be caught out in such a storm without her coat. Even if she was that mad at him, she was also sensible. She would have returned by now.
There was only one explanation left, and it made perfect sense. Darien cursed himself; he should have seen this coming. His mother had warned him about the King of Chamsbrey enough times; he’d known before their arrival in Auberdale that the man was viciously cunning. And if he were Faukravar, Darien figured that he probably would have done exactly the same thing.
The Black Prince had taken Naia to use as leverage against him.
The only question remaining was what he was going to do about it. It was really no question at all; one woman he loved had already been sacrificed simply because she had made the mistake of loving him back. He would be damned if he was going to let that happen a second time.
Darien paused only long enough to test the hone of his blade before slapping the baldric on over his shoulder. He stuffed the white cloak into his pack and started to reach for his gloves, but drew his hand back, instead. By taking Naia, the king had made an open declaration of war. And if the Black Prince wanted a war, then that was exactly what he was going to get.
It was well past dark by the time he arrived at Glassenburgh Castle for the second time that day. The rain had finally stopped, but the black fabric of his clothes was soaked through to the skin. It was bitterly cold, and Darien shivered as he let go of the wall and dropped to the ground on the other side. It took only the slightest ripple of shadow to elude the watchful eyes of the guards as he walked across the dark lawn toward the drawbridge over the castle’s moat.
He gathered in the web of shadow that surrounded him and walked across the drawbridge, overlooked in full sight of the guards. Once inside the bailey, he pressed himself against the wall and loosened the web. The shadows melted away, dissipating back into the night. He removed his pack and baldric, setting them down on the ground at his feet while he withdrew the white cloak from his pack and pulled it on over his shoulders, fixing it in place. When he stepped away from the wall, his hair and clothes were once more fully dry. He reached for the hilt of his sword, checking to make sure that the blade was loose in its scabbard, then stalked across the yard toward the castle’s entrance.
This time, the guards saw him coming. That was the last thing they saw. Drawing his blade, Darien sliced out with four quick, successive strokes. As he stepped through the castle’s wide-open doorway, he left behind him only dead men on the steps. He slammed his blade home into its scabbard, not bothering to wipe the wet sheen of blood off the steel.
Inside, he found the castle lit for an occasion, the sound of music and ringing laughter coming from a hall to his left. Darien followed the swelling noise of distant applause as he strode down the empty hallway beneath a glowing spread of chandeliers. He moved as if in a dream, his eyes loosely focused on the hallway ahead, the sounds of the castle muted and indistinct. He turned a corner and vaguely noted the hazy shapes of people spilling in and out of a doorway ahead as if moving through a mist. They were dressed formally, the women in long gowns of silk and velvet, the men in capes and embroidered tunics. Darien was hardly aware of the press of people around him as he inserted himself into the crowd. He didn’t notice the frowns of the men who stepped back away from him as he walked by. He couldn’t feel the eyes of the women running over him as he moved between them through the doorway.
The fog that glazed his senses abruptly fell away, shattered by the sound of a woman’s scream immediately followed by a ringing shriek of steel. Someone had noticed the sword at his back. Or the Star. Whichever, it made no difference. The music stopped playing as a crowded room full of people turned toward the sound of the commotion. Darien stopped in the doorway, suddenly unsure of himself. All motion in the ballroom ceased as every face turned, fixing solely on him.
He had walked into a gala.
At the far end of the hall a quartet of musicians were slowly lowering their instruments as the motion of crossbows being raised drew his attention upward to the galleries. Silence descended rapidly over the hall, the only sound the clicks of safeties being thrown. Over the heads of the guests, he could see the Black Prince seated on a raised dais at the far end, flanked by his group of lackeys. The king’s eyes were dark and coldly seething.
The cruel look on Faukravar’s face washed away any trace of doubt Darien had left. Provoked to a rage of fury, he stepped forward as the crowd parted before him in a wave, opening a clear path between himself and the king.
He was trembling as he strode between the ranks of guests, the cold anger that filled him inflamed by the taunting promise in the king’s malicious glare. He crossed the length of the room, ignoring the threat of the guards drawing toward him. He didn’t pause, even as the first man stepped forward to take him.
The crowd surged back as Darien slid his sword out and drew it downward in an elegant motion that parted the flesh of the man coming at him all the way from his neck to his crotch.
He brought his sword around, sliding the steel under the next man’s guard. He kicked the dead man off his blade, watching the body crumble to the floor. Darien stepped over the corpse, oblivious of the mob struggling away from him. He closed on the dais as the rest of the guards fell back, converging in front of the throne to protect their king.
The sound of wails and desperate weeping seemed strangely distant in his ears, as if the crowd behind him was very far away or in another world entirely. Eyes only for Faukravar, Darien reached out with his mind and flung the guards away from him, throwing the men backward against the walls with a hurricane gust of solid air. On the throne, the Black Prince glowered down at him as Darien sheathed his sword and mounted the steps to the dais.
He didn’t slow his pace. Shaking in rage, Darien advanced on the Black Prince and backhanded the man across the face. Faukravar’s head whiplashed around as the golden circlet of his crown tumbled to the floor and rolled off the dais. Bracing his right hand on the back of the throne, Darien clutched the king’s silk collar and hauled him bodily out of his seat.
“Where is she?”
Dumping the man back down, Darien waited as Faukravar took his time about adjusting his collar. Then the king slowly brought a hand up and touched it to the red mark on his cheek, eyes glaring defiance.
“I thought it expedient to have her detained,” he explained in a cruelly conversational tone. “If anything happens to
me, your lover will suffer the same fate.”
Darien shook his head, glaring down at the man. “No. I have neither the desire nor the patience to play that game. Have Naia brought to me here, now, or I swear by the gods I’ll kill you with a thought.”
His words provoked a stir of movement in the galleries as the crossbows trained at his back adjusted their aim. On the throne, Faukravar heaved a wearied sigh as he spared a glance back at his recovering guards.
“Your threats grow just as tiring as they are empty. Since you’ve done no real harm here tonight except by the common steel of your blade, I must assume that you’ve sworn the Oath of Harmony. There is nothing you can do to touch me with your power.”
Darien scowled as he raked his sleeve back to expose the angry red scars on his right wrist. He held his arm up before Faukravar’s face, watching the king’s eyes slowly widen. He reached out from within, caressing the man’s mind with the razor-sharp hone of his wrath. A change crept over the king’s face. His cheeks went white, jaw clenching in pain. Trembling, his hands clutched the arms of the throne as he threw his head back, gasping a long and shuddering breath.
“Release her!” Darien commanded, stroking Faukravar’s mind with a final, agonizing wrench.
The king slumped forward with a shivering moan.
Darien waited, his breath coming in heaving gasps, as the Black Prince slowly recovered enough to draw himself up again. The seething defiance in his eyes was gone, replaced by a look of pristine terror.
The Black Prince raised a shaking hand, signaling his men.
Darien stood back, sweeping his eyes over the diminished crowd. Two men ran out even as more guards spilled into the back of the room. The guests who remained were few and seemed frozen in place, staring with looks of nauseated horror in their eyes. He stood stalk still, arms clasped behind his back, as long minutes dragged by. Gradually, the pulsing careen of his heart returned to normal, the savage rage that consumed him gradually dissipating.
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