Darien felt a mild stir of resentment that anyone would have a care to wonder about his health. Hadn’t the boy looked out on the devastation that surrounded him? Hadn’t he seen with his own eyes the injury that had been dealt here? And the dead; could he not hear the silent screams of the tortured dead that yet lingered in the air? So much horror could never occur in a place without leaving a lasting imprint behind. A thousand years from now the grief of those who had died here might still be heard, like a sad and telltale whispering on the wind.
“How many total casualties?” Darien wondered, wanting a better idea of the carnage he had reaped in this place, a number he could use to scourge his soul.
“Estimates are over a hundred thousand,” Wellingford replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Six thousand of our own.”
Darien stared out across the blackened land, searing both numbers like fiery brands into his mind. “Have there been any survivors from Greystone Keep?”
“Only three, Prime Warden. All infantrymen.”
Darin bowed his head, overcome. Devlin Craig had been the staunchest, most loyal friend he had ever known in his life. And though he still held some resentment toward Garret Proctor, Darien understood him better, now. Neither man had deserved so cruel an end. Craig especially; the captain had risked his own life to save him from Arden’s fire, only to be immolated by his own. But he could not afford to let himself be defeated by feelings of guilt and grief. Soon he would face his own reckoning, and then he would have all of eternity to immerse himself in them. He had much to atone for.
“What is the situation with this third army?” he asked in a deadened voice.
“Our scouts have reported thirty thousand on the march, coming by way of the Gap of Amberlie.”
Darien nodded; his brother’s work, again. “There’s a darkmage with them,” he informed Wellingford, turning toward him. “At least one. You’ll need to meet them outside the eye, or be faced with a magical assault.”
“Where will you be?” his young general wondered, looking up at him anxiously.
Darien raised his hand, pointing toward the slopes of the Craghorns, his eyes seeking out the summit of the highest peak. The one surrounded by a faint green nimbus that was barely visible though a veil of white haze.
“I’ll be up there. If I can seal the Well of Tears in time, it ought to neutralize their darkmage.”
Wellingford looked at him in mute incomprehension, but Darien did not care to explain. Instead, he said, “We’ll meet tonight in the command tent to discuss strategy. Come with your officers at the turn of Third Watch. I want the officers from Emmery there, as well.”
“Yes, Prime Warden.” Wellingford sounded doubtful. As well he should.
Darien turned his stare back toward the devastated earth, imprinting its scorched features on his mind. “Have you ever seen the Black Lands, Wellingford?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Well, now you can say you have,” Darien grated, and left him standing there alone.
He found Kyel and Swain together, sitting by a fire in front of a blue tent. Neither man saw him approaching. Swain looked occupied with honing his blade, while Kyel seemed to be contenting himself with picking lint off his black cloak. The cloak suited him, Darien decided. It made him appear taller, stronger. More confident. Or perhaps it wasn’t the cloak at all. As Darien drew nearer, he realized that he could not attribute those changes solely to the cloak; they stemmed from Kyel himself. The boy he had met at Greystone Keep had grown. He wasn’t a boy at all anymore, Darien decided sadly. His innocence had been the price of those chains. Which was too bad. Kyel’s sense of innocence was something Darien had always admired about him, and desperately envied.
Swain glanced up and saw him first, a scowl instantly appearing on his face. The smooth scratching noise of the whetstone in his hand became a shrill scrape, grinding down the length of his blade. The sound made Darien’s neck prickle. He understood Swain’s threat, and didn’t appreciate it in the least.
“I’d like to speak with Kyel. Alone,” he added, glaring at Swain.
The man eyeballed him dubiously then shrugged, slamming his blade home in its scabbard as he rose to leave. He kicked out at the thanacryst as he glided by, but the beast didn’t hardly seem to mind. Its attention was riveted on Kyel, its ears laid back and hackles rising.
“Theanoch!” Darien growled at it. The thanacryst whined, slavering furiously.
Kyel was frowning up at him, a worried look on his face. His hands fell away from his cloak, the markings on his wrists gleaming metallically in the sunlight. Darien found himself staring down at them, his interest captivated; he had found yet another thing about Kyel to envy.
“You’re awake.” Kyel sounded surprised, but not necessarily pleased.
Darien gestured toward the tent behind him, hoping that the pain he felt didn’t show on his face. The young man had every right to hate him, just the same as everyone else. But it hurt sorely, all the same.
“It’s time for your last lesson,” Darien told him, avoiding his eyes as he moved past him into the tent.
Inside, he waited for Kyel to follow, staring at the ground. He wished things could have been different. In a different world, Kyel might have even been his friend. In a different world, he could have taken Naia to love, to marry, perhaps even raise a family someday. In a different world, his hands would not be stained in a river of blood, wiped dry on a bed of ashes. His conscience would be clean. He could be the man he’d always wanted to be, was meant to be. Not this.
But there was no other world, no easy escape. Darien staggered a bit as he lowered himself to the ground, having to reach out his hand to steady himself. Kyel was staring down at him in concern. The thanacryst in the doorway sounded as if it was purring.
“You’re not well,” Kyel observed.
Darien ignored him, gesturing at the ground in front of him, instead. “Have a seat.”
“Darien, you need to listen to me—”
“Sit down.”
Kyel obeyed him, but not as quickly as he once would have, and his expression was anything but compliant. When he was settled, Darien considered him carefully before saying, “You put on the Soulstone against my command.”
Kyel only shrugged. “You knew all along I was going to do it.”
It was true; nevertheless, he couldn’t let the slip in obedience go unmentioned. Kyel was no longer his acolyte, technically, but he was still very far from being ready to assume the responsibilities of a full Master. There was little Darien could do for him now; the remainder would be up to Kyel himself. He could choose to make himself as great as he wanted to be, or settle for much less. It all depended on how much effort he was willing to invest.
“I figured Romana would leave you little choice,” Darien admitted.
Kyel scowled. “I’m so tired of your games,” he growled contemptuously. “That’s all I’ve had, ever since I agreed to become your acolyte. You haven’t even spent any time with me. I don’t know the first thing about using my gift; all you’ve ever done is set hurdles in my path and then sit back and watch me go over them. The vortex, the Temple of Om, Romana, all just more of your games. I’m tired of them. I don’t wish to play anymore.”
Darien sighed. “Whether you agree with my methods or not, you’ve learned from them.”
“What?” Kyel demanded, clenching a fist. “What have I learned?”
Darien sat back, staring in wonder as he realized how much he had grown to admire the man before him. “For one thing, you would have never stood up to me like this a month ago. And I’d wager you gave Romana quite a headache.”
Kyel just glared at him. But slowly, his anger seemed to fade, and he dropped his eyes to the ground. “I was once almost in awe of you,” he said slowly. “When we first met, back at Greystone Keep. You were everything I always wanted to be. You seemed to know so much, you were so confident, so committed to what you believed in. But now...I don’t know if it’
s losing the Oath, or the Bloodquest, or if your power’s just eating you up inside. Perhaps it’s everything. But you’re not the same anymore. I think you’re sick, Darien. The truth is, you scare me.”
Darien nodded. He paused a moment in thought, reflecting on Kyel’s harsh but sincere words. More gently, he said, “Then learn from my example. Always hold to what you believe in, fix your sight on what is most important, and you’ll do fine. Everything else matters not at all.” He had a quiet smile on his face as he added, “I wish I could have done so many things differently. Now, it’s too late.”
“But it’s not too late,” Kyel insisted. “Forget about Aidan. Leave the Well of Tears open, like Swain said. Just go someplace quiet and marry Naia. Settle down in a village and make a life for yourself. Give yourself a chance to heal.”
It was a tempting idea. In a different world, he would have liked nothing better. But it just wasn’t meant to be.
“No,” he said finally. “We’re leaving for Aerysius on the morrow.”
Kyel sighed, shaking his head. “You’re making a mistake.”
“It won’t be my first,” Darien replied. He left the implied corollary unsaid. “Now, listen. I came to tell you one last thing.”
He waited until he was sure he had the young man’s full attention. Then he continued, “You can do almost anything you want with your gift, within reason. There is a natural order that governs everything; even magic obeys it. If you know how something works, then you know how to manipulate it. But you must be utterly committed to the task; never mire yourself in doubt.
“And you need to broaden your knowledge. When this is over, set yourself to the task of study. Learn everything you can about everything there is. Only then will you truly earn those chains.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
An Unexpected Offer
THE EVENING WAS CLEAR and furtively still as Darien directed his horse across the threshold of the vortex. Nose to the ground, the thanacryst loped along eagerly at his side, its enormous paws making deep tracks in the snow. Darien felt reassured by its vile presence. The beast was small comfort, but its strange devotion was the only protection he retained. Under the torrent of the vortex, the solace of the magic field was once again absent from his mind. He had left his sword behind, hidden beneath the covers of his pallet. Into the night he rode alone, unarmed, and utterly powerless. It was a despicable feeling, but imperatively necessary; all weapons were proscribed by the ancient conventions of parley.
In his right hand, Darien clutched a white banner improvised from a torn bedsheet he had confiscated from an empty tent. The strip of cloth was much longer than it was broad, and he carried it draped over his hand, its frayed edges trailing almost to the ground. The banner was large enough to be seen from a distance, especially under the radiance cast by the moon’s reflection on the snow. Darien could only hope that any sentries stationed ahead would see it before loosing their black-fletched shafts at him. His life now depended exclusively on the honor of a demon.
He rode in thoughtful silence, reflecting on the reasoning behind his decision to obey the crumpled summons in his pocket. He had convinced himself that the parley was a necessary risk; he needed to look Renquist in the face and take the measure of his enemy. But now that he was fully committed, Darien realized that he had been prompted by an underlying motivation that was much more reckless in nature: he was fascinated by the man.
In legend, Zavier Renquist had been the greatest mage the Lyceum had ever produced, vastly potent and passionately committed to duty. Renquist’s treason had been as unexpected as it was devastating. Meeting the man face to face, Darien thought perhaps he could gain some insight into what had driven the most esteemed Grand Master in all of history to become the most reviled.
And it burned, the desire to know what the man wanted of him.
Ahead, there was movement in the snow. Darien slowed his horse, raising the banner to be certain it was duly marked. Squinting, he made out the forms of six riders approaching, their armor as dark as the huge destriers they sat astride. The armored soldiers did not have the appearance of sentries; their mounts were bred for battle, not speed. As they drew nearer, he saw that the men were outfitted in full plate, black pennants fluttering at the tips of their lances. If he were in any other place, and these were any other soldiers, he would have taken their strange presence for an honor guard.
He could hear the jingle of their tack as they approached. Darien waited, the white cloth held up in his outstretched hand. The thanacryst stood patiently waiting in the snow, head slightly cocked and ears erect. Its grisly tail began to wag, hesitant at first, then eagerly. As the riders drew into a ring about him, the beast threw back its head and uttered an enthusiastic howl.
“Theanoch,” Darien hissed at it. The creature obeyed instantly, laying back its ears and whining, great globs of slobber foaming from its mouth.
One of the soldiers reined his mount around, backing the horse up and drawing abreast of him. Darien peered into the grate of the helm, trying to make out the dim features of the face beneath. He slowly raised the banner in his hand, offering it out across the distance between them. The Enemy soldier appeared to be considering it. Finally, he lifted a chain-gloved hand and accepted the fragile badge of truce.
“Demas tur narghul, nan ledro,” Darien uttered. I have come, as agreed.
The soldier tipped his dark helm approvingly. “Nan ledro. Narghul. Reiste katáe.”
The man leaned forward and jerked the reins out of his hand, riding forward with them held high enough to clear the Tarkendar’s head. The others closed in around Darien, encircling him tightly as the first soldier led his gelding forward through the snow. He sat straight in the saddle, wondering about the significance implied by the tight formation the soldiers were assuming. He had come willingly enough; they had no reason to fear he would try to bolt. It was almost as if the men were arranged defensively, forming a living shield around him. Darien wondered what they felt he needed protection from. Perhaps the discipline of the Enemy was faltering, if Renquist feared betrayal from within his own ranks. Of course, Darien had to consider, he was personally responsible for the slaughter of a hundred thousand of their fellows. That could breed resentment despite any amount of discipline, in any army. Renquist was probably just being prudent.
As his mount was led forward, Darien found himself missing the contentment of the magic field with a desperate sense of urgency. And he missed his sword, the familiar weight of the baldric on his shoulder. Even with his guard, Darien felt more vulnerable than since he had entered the vortex. He couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering fitfully over the snow, alert for sign of treachery. The soldiers that surrounded him rode in silence, but he did notice that all six men were nervously examining the surrounding terrain as avidly as he was himself.
Behind him, the thanacryst whined. Darien had forgotten it was even there, faithfully jogging along on the heels of his mount. The soldiers had not even acknowledged the beast, had given no sign that they even wondered at its presence. Every so often it paused, scenting the air, and uttered a wolfishly eager growl.
They crossed a long, crescent-shaped fold in the land where a frozen stream ran its course, lined by the barren branches of oaks. They followed the streambed for a ways, until a dark object came into view from behind a hill. It was a tent, Darien realized, erected in a solitary location at the summit of a lonely, snow-draped knoll. A few horses were picketed nearby, but otherwise there was no sign of anyone about. Darien took heart in the sight; he had feared he was being led into the thick of the Enemy encampment. But he also felt a wary sense of apprehension. It seemed Renquist was taking no chances.
They led his horse up the hill to the front of the pavilion, where the soldiers that ringed him halted together as one. The men dismounted, hands fingering the hilts of their blades as they glanced about nervously. Darien dismounted as two figures emerged from the tent. They were the first men of the Enemy he had ever see
n unhelmed, with the sole exception of the dead. Both wore long robes of the same dark indigo blue, a small insignia embroidered on the breast. Darien frowned, trying to make out the features of the emblem, but his view was quickly blocked by a soldier stepping in front of him.
“Arst ghan, Thar’tier,” the man rasped, gesturing with his hand.
Darien followed the man forward, surrounded by darkly armored bodies. As they drew up at the entrance of the tent, he at last managed a glance at one of the two robed men guarding the doorway. The insignia on the man’s chest glared at him, igniting a spark of outrage as he recognized it. It was the Silver Star, or something so similar that it made little difference. Darien felt a cold rage seething furiously in his chest. The two men must be mages. That they would dare emblazon themselves with the Star of fallen Aerysius took him beyond ire, well past contempt.
One of the two, a dark-haired man with a cruel scar on his face, glared at him fiercely. Darien almost missed the significance of the white cloak draped over the shoulders of his robe, the cloak of a Prime Warden. Darien stopped, staring at the man in patent astonishment. There was only one person it could possibly be: Cyrus Krane, ancient Prime Warden of Aerysius, now one of Renquist’s fell companions.
His guards stopped short of the tent’s entrance. The two mages stepped forward, Krane’s eyes coldly examining him, raking up his body from his boots, lingering on his eyes. He didn’t appear to like what he was seeing. In contrast, the red-haired man at his side was wearing an almost amiable expression on his face. For some reason, he reminded Darien of Corban Henley, and it was more than just the color of his beard. The man had Henley’s way about him, a cool and deliberate air. He nodded slightly, a look of intrigue in his eyes.
“Byron Connel,” the man gave his name without preamble. “This is Cyrus Krane. Come inside; we’ve been expecting you.”
He turned, sweeping back a flap of fabric with his hand and holding it open for Darien as he ducked to enter. Krane fell in behind him, the hem of his cloak rustling over the snow-covered ground. The warm air that hit his face made Darien feel almost relieved. Within, the interior was dark, lit only by softly glowing stone lanterns set about on the floor, which was draped in woven wool rugs. Otherwise, the tent was thoroughly empty. There was no furniture and, more disturbing, no one waiting within.
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