“That’s it,” Naia whispered. “You can do this.”
Kyel didn’t need her encouragement; he already knew that he could. He moved around the Well, swiftly finding ledros. Kneeling down beside the vile mark, he quickly conjured the tiny knife of flame. Within seconds, the next rune turned a dull, lifeless black. He repeated the task, working counterclockwise in the sequence Darien had given him, wandering in circles around the Well of Tears until, at last, he found himself kneeling down before the sick pale light of the final marking. Raising his hand, he seared the last vestiges of Meiran’s blood from the dark stone of the rim.
The column of light shivered, white energies crackling through it. Kyel stared up at it, terrified, as the Gateway seemed to throb, its form suddenly unstable.
The Well of Tears was sealed, at least in this world. But the awful energies of the Gateway still shivered, throbbing in the air like a dilapidated pedestal on the verge of collapse.
“The rest is up to Darien, now,” Kyel breathed, looking back up at Naia in sympathy.
The Gateway shivered, pierced through by white streaks of energy that rippled violently upward. The whole pillar throbbed, shuddering fiercely.
Cyrus Krane turned toward it, an expression of horror seeping into his face. On the ground beneath him, Darien squinted up, admiring the beauty of the white streaks that tarnished the vile perfection of the green column of light. He smiled a small, sad grin. Then he drew in a long, wheezing breath that sent a lancing pain from his ribs.
“Crenoch!” he shouted.
The thanacryst obeyed, springing up from the ground in a great leap, catching Krane in the chest with its paws and shoving him backward with the force of its weight. Krane staggered, arms pinwheeling as the thanacryst’s huge mouth closed on his throat. Together, beast and demon tumbled into the Gateway, disappearing in a brilliant glare of flashing light.
The smile slowly faded from Darien’s lips; the pulse of the magic field was still nothing more than a faded memory in his head.
He struggled to roll onto his side, shaking and weak from Krane’s vicious assault. Clenching his jaw, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees, crawling painfully toward the prone form of his brother. Aidan still lay where he had fallen, on his back in the sprinkled snow that covered the Square. Reaching his side, Darien collapsed on top of him, laying his head on his brother’s chest. Surprisingly, there was still a heartbeat in that ruined body.
Darien grasped Aidan’s limp form in his arms, clutching him against his chest as he struggled to rise. His body trembled, refusing the effort he was asking of it. Darien groaned as he struggled with the last remnants of his failing strength, heaving himself first onto his knees, then staggering to stand, swaying, on his feet. His legs shook as he took a lurching step forward, adjusting his brother’s weight in his arms.
“Darien....”
He looked down, surprised to find Aidan’s slate blue eyes cracked open, staring dimly up at him.
“It hurts....”
Darien gazed plaintively down into his brother’s wretched face. “It’ll be over, soon,” he assured him.
Gritting his teeth, he took another staggering step toward the pillar of light. His arms trembled under Aidan’s leaden weight, his legs sagging as he forced them to move forward. The pain in his side was like a fiery brand that flared with every motion of his body.
He crossed the distance toward the Gateway, but his strength failed before he could reach the throbbing light. Darien collapsed, sagging down beside his brother, his body pillowed in a soft drift of snow. He lay there for a moment, head resting on his outstretched arm, staring up at the tall column in the sky. It would be so easy just to close his eyes and go to sleep, right there. He wished with all his heart that he could.
Soon; then he could rest. Squeezing his eyes shut, Darien forced himself up again, somehow finding the strength to rise. He would never lift Aidan; he was too faint, too weak. Instead, he clutched his brother’s wrists and dragged him across the ground the last few feet toward the crackling energies.
“I’m scared,” Aidan whispered in a weak, trembling voice.
Darien took a last, long look up at the towering pillar as his fingers groped in the pocket of his cloak. “Me, too.”
Holding the silver medallion clenched tightly in his fist, he gripped Aidan under the arms, dragging his brother with him as he crossed into the green, ethereal light.
At first he saw only mist. A hazy green bleakness that unfolded before him, expanding outward in swirling clouds of vapor. Beyond the mist there was darkness. This place had the feeling of pressing closeness, as if there were walls all around that he simply couldn’t see. This could not be the Netherworld, Darien decided. Somehow, he must still be within the Gateway.
And he was alone. His brother had gone on ahead of him.
Darien collapsed to his knees, raising his hands before his face. Appalled, he took in the sight of the aura that surrounded his fingers and emanated from his hands. It was the same awful glow he remembered from the Catacombs. The aura was brighter, now, skirling up his arms, very visible against the darkness and the mist.
This time, he knew exactly what it meant.
Dropping his hands, he raised his voice and called out into the bleakness, “I accept your offer. Now, make good on your end.”
The mist around him continued to swirl, thoroughly unaffected by his words. Scowling, Darien realized that he already knew what he had to do. Somehow, he’d known it all along. He closed his eyes in dread as he fell to his knees and forced himself to utter the same infamous phrases spoken by Zavier Renquist a thousand years before:
“I commit my soul to Chaos. From this day forth, I will be the obedient servant of Xerys. I will serve faithfully all the days of my life…
and may not even death itself release me.”
His voice trailed off into silence. Still, the haze that enveloped him yet lingered, swirling. Darien wondered if he had even been heard at all, or if perhaps his proffered oath had been rejected entirely. Only silence surrounded him. Only silence and the mist.
But then a soft light spawned before him, a pale and wondrous glow that confronted the mist and turned back the darkness. To Darien, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Mesmerized, he crawled toward the radiant promise of that glow. Before his eyes, the light assumed definition, solidifying into the image that for months had haunted his waking memories and even his dreams. He reached out toward it, his trembling fingers tracing the soft profile of the face that glowed before him like the first light of a rising moon.
Meiran lay beside him on the ground, dark waves of her hair spread out at her side. The gown she wore was stained and tattered, her eyes closed as if sleeping. But then, as he watched, those lovely eyes fluttered open. For a moment she stared up at him vacantly, as if waking from the depths of the deepest slumber. Dim confusion nettled her features. Then, slowly, her expression changed. Her lips parted, dark eyes widening.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was gazing up at him with such a look of joy that it wrung his heart. Clutching her against him, he held her close in his trembling arms. He closed his eyes as he kissed her, his nostrils filled with the sweet fragrance of her hair.
With effort, he forced himself to draw back away. He took her face in his hands, cupping her cheeks, directing her stare into his eyes as he told her gently, “I need you to be strong for me.”
The joy in her eyes collapsed, replaced by a look of shadowy confusion. Darien shook his head, grimacing through the sorrow in his heart. He wished he had time to explain. He wished he had time to hold her longer in his arms.
Shaking, he brought the Soulstone up, encircling the bands of the collar around his neck as his fingers fumbled at the clasp.
“As soon as I’m dead, get this off me,” he instructed her.
The look of confusion on her face collapsed into terror.
He let the clasp of the necklace snap closed. The o
nslaught of pain was instant and terrible. Darien fell back against the ground, shuddering in agony as the talisman around his neck stirred awake with a deep inner glow.
Meiran held him in her arms as his soul was ripped out of life. Her beautiful face was the last thing Darien saw as he died. It was all that he wanted to see. It was enough.
Chapter Forty-Three
Wiped Clean
THE CHAMBER SHUDDERED, the whole world lurching under Kyel’s feet.
“Quick, get the cover on!” Naia screamed.
Swain was already bent over the enormous circular slab of stone, heaving against it with all his might. Kyel saw that the captain didn’t have close to the amount of strength it would take to budge it.
“Stand back,” he commanded, raising his hand as Swain released the cover and backed away. It was just a push, that’s all. Only a push. He could not doubt.
The cover of the Well of Tears rose silently from the wet floor, dripping liquid filth as it hovered, sliding stately through the air, at last lowering to a gentle rest on the rim.
Then there was only darkness, as consummate as the grave. Kyel tried to see through the black emptiness that surrounded him, but all he could see was the red afterglow of the Gateway that had been scalded into his eyes. Confused and scared, it took him a moment to realize what had just happened.
The Well of Tears, finally, had been fully sealed from both sides.
“He did it,” Swain’s voice echoed through the darkness.
As if from somewhere very distant, he heard the soft sound of Naia weeping. The noise made Kyel’s heart feel heavy with sorrow. Moving toward it, he groped through the darkness until his fingers found the silken texture of her gown. He folded his arms around her, holding her close and wishing there was something further he could do.
But there wasn’t. So he stood there, holding her, as long minutes dragged by. Then, finally, he felt her draw away. Through the blackness, her voice whispered, pleading, “I want to go up there.”
He couldn’t say no, even though he wanted to. He had never been able to deny someone in need. He reluctantly agreed, knowing well it was the wrong thing to do.
Without a trace of doubt in his mind, Kyel produced a soft, misty glow around his feet. The magelight drifted out away from him, coursing in glimmering tendrils of burnished yellow-gold. He had read that every mage produced their own signature color. This was his, and Kyel stared down at it with a contented sense of pride.
In its pale warmth, Naia’s face looked very young and so incredibly fragile. Taking her by the hand, he let the golden magelight spill before them as he guided her out of the chamber. He didn’t turn back; he had no desire for a last glimpse of the Well. Instead, he followed the long corridor, eyes scanning the walls for the tiny circles that indicated the presence of the magical traps Darien had pointed out to him. He found only one and disarmed it with a click. Letting the ribbons of magelight spill before them, he moved ahead, leading his two companions up a wide, curving stair.
At the top of the steps was an opening that revealed a gray expanse of sky. Overhead, dark stormclouds were gathering, looking ready to open up and divulge their weight upon the mountainside. Kyel mounted the last few steps, feeling an almost overwhelming pang of apprehension. He didn’t know what to expect at the top of that stair, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to see it. He had never known Aerysius, but he harbored a long-established and cherished image of what he thought it once must have looked like. Wanting to hold onto that vision, he was hesitant to see the reality that confronted him over the top of the steps.
What he found surprised him. There was no city at all. Only empty terraces on a high mountain face, barren rock covered by a thin layer of snow. And, to his amazement, it was snowing still. Soft white flakes drifted down from the sky, alighting on his shoulders and clinging to his face. With a sense of wonder, Kyel moved out into the dim, white haze, Naia at his side.
It was hard to see anything through the falling snow and swirling mist in the air. He could make out the shadow of a tall and thin arch, but there was virtually no other trace that people had ever existed in this place. The wide terrace he stood on could have been a natural indentation in the cliff. Perhaps, one day, it would go back to nature, be reclaimed by the mountain face that had nurtured it for so long.
Aerysius was truly gone; except for the soaring arch, not a vestige of the city yet remained. Of the Gateway, there was no trace. The sky above the mountain had been released from the grip of that unholy light.
Kyel stared straight ahead into the falling snow, feeling Naia’s fingers tighten around his own. He felt terrible for her, now wishing that he hadn’t brought her up here at all. There was nothing for them here, nothing but hurt. It was time to go.
Swain placed a comforting hand on Naia’s shoulder, muttering, “We should leave, now.”
The priestess nodded, bowing her head.
Kyel moved to turn away from the stark and lonely terrace. As he did, his eyes caught a motion ahead in the drifting snow. Squinting, he strained to peer through the mist, seeing what looked like a soft shadow moving toward them through the obscurity of haze. He hesitated, a muddled turmoil of hope and fear choking his heart. Eyes fixed on the shadow ahead, he watched as it resolved into the features of a woman.
Kyel felt Naia’s fingers trembling in his hand, heard the sound of her moan as she threw her head back. Then she broke away from him, stumbling forward through the piling snowdrifts. Kyel started after her as the strange woman ahead staggered, sagging forward. He reached her just in time to catch her before she fell, helping Naia ease her the rest of the way to the ground.
“Who is she?” Kyel all but whispered.
Swain knelt beside him and brushed matted strands of dark hair from the woman’s face. Her skin was ashen pale, her body shaking violently in Naia’s arms. Tears ran down her cheeks, falling from her chin to land softly in the snow. She gazed up into Swain’s grizzly face uncertainly.
“Captain?” she murmured.
Nigel Swain nodded, the look on his face sad and solemn. “Hello, Meiran.”
Kyel gasped, filled with sudden understanding. Renquist had delivered on the promise he had made to Darien.
A glimmer of light in Meiran’s hand captured his attention. His eyes wandered toward it, Meiran’s stare tracking his own. She raised her trembling hand from her side, offering out to him the necklace she held clasped in her fingers. Kyel felt an urgent flair of grief when his hand closed around the softly glowing medallion.
He held the Soulstone up before his face, marveling at its myriad facets. The gem pulsated with a radiant inner life, brighter than he remembered it being ever before. A sad and eerie feeling of finality leeched into his skin, rushing over his body like a wash of cold water. This was legacy he was holding, Kyel realized. Now more than ever before he fully understood what that meant.
But this legacy was not his own. Wordlessly, he offered the medallion to Naia. She received it from him timorously, her expression a mixture of sorrow and awe. She held the medallion in her open palm, fingers trailing over the gem’s smooth texture.
“He left this for me,” she whispered.
Kyel nodded, though he knew she was partially wrong. The power in the Soulstone was an inheritance that would have to be shared. The final heritage of Aerysius was within that stone, the power it contained too great for just one person. Looking back down at Meiran, his eyes confirmed what his heart had already guessed.
There were no chains on Meiran’s wrists.
It was then that Kyel fully understood the nature of sentiment in the gift Darien had left behind. Deep within the gem’s glowing facets moved the same inner power that had moved through the man himself. It was a part of him that would be with both women always, would never grow old and fade, never sicken and falter.
Kyel wrapped his arms around both of them as he bowed his head, thoroughly overcome.
Traver watched the wild man on his buckskin horse gall
oping away, smiling a crooked grin of thanks after him. It had been downright decent of the herdsman to ride with him all this way. Reaching down, he ruffled the mane of the horse Ranoch had given him with the three remaining fingers of his left hand. It was a tough beast, although an ugly and temperamental one. Ranoch had given him the pick of his herd, and Traver had chosen the piebald. He liked the stallion’s one, glaring blue eye. It seemed to fit; he’d lost his fingers, and the horse had lost an eye.
He rode the stallion bareback; the Jenn didn’t see the need for saddles or tack. The horse was guided by a simple rope tied with slipknots around its head, using pressure to guide its movements instead of a bit. Traver was beginning to consider himself a decent rider after all the time he’d spent on the piebald’s naked back. He was starting to not even mind the smell of the beast, which was indeed a surprise. It was amazing what you could get used to, if you saturated yourself in it day in and day out.
Ahead, he could see the encampment of two armies, and he thought he recognized the blue colors of Rothscard. He didn’t want to get involved with those again. He’d had enough of Rothscard Bluecloaks to last a few lifetimes. There had been a third army that had concerned him more, the black armor of its warriors standing out as a deadly colorguard between himself and the forces of his countrymen. But that army was moving out, breaking camp and heading in disorganized retreat back toward the Gap of Amberlie. Traver watched them go, wondering what had prompted them to leave. There was no sign that any battle had been fought, nor even a skirmish. Something strange was going on down there.
Hungry to find out, he kicked the piebald to a gallop, leaning forward and moving with its strides as they raced over the snowy fields. Ahead, he saw a thin tendril of smoke and, drawing back on the stallion’s ropes that served for reins, decided to go investigate. The smoke was coming from a single, small fire alight on a hill under the bare branches of a tree.
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