“Thank the gods,” Meiran whispered.
“Don’t thank the gods just yet,” Darien warned ominously. “We’ve yet to deal with the full consequences of the fallout. The Servants’ covenant was breached, and Xerys was not pleased. And I’m afraid it was all just a temporary fix, anyway. The magic field is ready to depolarize again. And this time, we don’t have enough Circles of Convergence left to stabilize it.”
Darien leaned forward, taking her hand. Remarkably, she didn’t try to pull away.
“Meiran, in just a few months, every mage, including yourself, is going to die. Everything ever created by magic will be lost from this world. All of the works of the temples. The infrastructure of the kingdoms. All of our stores of amassed knowledge—it will all be gone. You, Kyel, Naia…” His voice trailed off. He closed his eyes, summoning the nerve to continue. “There’s absolutely nothing we can do to stop it.”
The expression on Meiran’s face did not change. Very quietly, she whispered, “Then whatever will be, will be.”
The courage and determination in Meiran’s voice broke his heart. It reminded him again of all the reasons he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.
“I wish it were that simple, Meiran. It’s not.” His soul was very saddened, very weary. “The people of Malikar, what you know as the Black Lands, depend on magic for survival. I know you’ve seen it. Without magic, there can be no lightfields. They’ll have no way of obtaining food. They’ll all die unless you allow them passage into the Rhen.”
Meiran wrenched back, snatching her hand out of his grasp. She surged to her feet. “You’re asking me to open up our borders to the Enemy?”
Darien rose after her. “I am, Meiran. They’re not the Enemy. They’ve lived in a world of darkness for a thousand years. All they’ve ever wanted was escape into the light.”
She backed away from him, circling the rug to put some distance between Darien and herself. She glared at him with the hurt of betrayal in her eyes. Everything about her body language branded him a traitor.
“That’s not the whole truth, and you know it,” Meiran accused, raising her voice. “They’ve never come as refugees! They’ve always come as conquerors, seeking blood and vengeance. Your own father was immolated in their fires! How can you stand there advocating for them? They’re savages—brutal and uncivilized, hostile and despicable! Since I’ve been here, I’ve seen nothing to convince me otherwise!”
Darien clenched his jaw in anger and desperation. “If you don’t let them in, you’ll be sentencing them all to death.”
“Then so be it,” Meiran dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I am the Prime Warden of Aerysius. My first duty is to the Rhen—not the Black Lands! You should know; you swore the same vows I did, Darien Oathbreaker.”
He sucked in a sharp gasp, feeling slapped in the face by more than just the sting of the insult. “You can’t be serious, Meiran. They’re people! Many are just children!”
He could tell by the set of her jaw just how serious she was. Her face was utterly dispassionate, thoroughly resolved. She stood up straight, composing herself like a queen.
“I’ll think on it, Darien. It’s not that simple, as you said.”
“No, it’s not simple,” he agreed softly. “But it is what’s right.”
“So now I have a darkmage lecturing me on my moral duty?” The sarcasm in her voice bit deep.
Darien glared at her in wounded outrage. “If it comes down to it, aye.” He started to walk away. But he couldn’t help turning back to her, eyes full of hurt. “So, is that all I am to you now? Just a darkmage? Nothing more?”
Meiran scowled, her face hardening. “You’re a Servant of Xerys, Darien. What did you expect?”
He nodded thoughtfully. What had he expected? Not this. He lowered his eyes, staring at the ground. His hand fingered the gold tassel that hung from his waist. “We’re not all evil, Meiran. We’re not despicable. We’re just desperate.”
Meiran took a few steps away from him then paused, looking back. “I’m sorry, Darien. I need you to go, now.” She raised her chin, brushing her hair back away from her face. “You’ve given me much to think about. Now give me time to consider your petition.”
To his dismay, he realized she was no longer the woman he remembered. Before his eyes, Meiran had transformed into the image of the Prime Warden, armoring herself in grace and formality. It stood like a shield between them, shutting him out. There was nothing more he could do.
Darien drew himself up and offered a stiff and proper bow in her direction. “May I return on the morrow?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and turned to leave. But something stopped him. He glanced back in her direction. “Please. Do me one favor before I go?”
Meiran considered a moment before nodding.
Darien clasped his hands in front of him, offering her a gesture of supplication. “Please, Meiran. I need to know what happened to our son.”
The fortified composure she had managed to gather around herself collapsed like sand. Meiran’s hand came up to her face as her mouth contorted into a grimace. She choked back a strangled sob.
“I didn’t want to tell you!” she gasped, her eyes glistening. “You were leaving for Greystone Keep. You had enough to worry about!”
Darien moved forward until he was standing right in front of her. He reached out, placing a soothing hand on her arm. “I understand why you didn’t tell me. But I do need to know what happened.”
Meiran gazed up at him with large, moist eyes. “I had to hide the pregnancy from your mother. I gave birth in the Vale and gave the babe up to be fostered. It was the only recourse I had. I named him Gerald in honor of your father.”
“Thank you for that,” Darien whispered. His voice was very gruff.
“I visited from time to time. He was a very happy babe. He had your hair. And my eyes. He had the sweetest cheeks….” Her voice broke. She turned away, bringing her hands up to cover her face.
Darien swallowed against the pain. “What happened, Meiran?”
She shook her head, dropping her hands. “I didn’t know what happened for a long time. Not until last year. I went looking for the family just as soon as I could. They were hard to find; there’s no one left any longer in the Vale. After Aerysius fell, all the villagers fled. I finally caught up with the family in Auberdale.”
Darien closed his eyes, dreading to hear what he knew was coming next. He steeled his heart against it.
“Go on.”
“Our son died, Darien.” Her voice broke. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “He took ill … his lungs filled with water. Darien … I’m sorry…”
He blinked, feeling only cold, bleak emptiness. His vision blurred. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He felt her soft touch on his shoulder. He took a step away, pulling back out of range.
Meiran pressed on, “The day Aerysius fell, Gerald’s foster mother tried getting him up the mountain for help. She told me about an acolyte who aided her, a man with black hair who wore a sword at his back. It was you, Darien … wasn’t it?”
He couldn’t respond. The entire world had stopped.
“It must have been,” Meiran insisted miserably. “It was the same day you returned home from Greystone Keep.”
Darien’s entire body was trembling. He couldn’t see through the tears that collected in his eyes, tears he was too numb to shed. A hard knot pressed against his throat like a garrote, tightening, strangling him in grief.
“I held my son,” he muttered raggedly.
He blinked, eyes finally shedding their heavy weight of tears.
“I held my son.”
He turned and strode away, bringing a hand up to his mouth. He could hear Meiran’s voice behind him, calling out his name.
He ignored her and just kept walking.
17
The Demons We Love
Quin lingered outside the cave long after Darien had stormed past him. One look at the
man’s face was enough to warn Quin against trying to go after him. He didn’t feel in any particular need of self-abuse. Neither did he have a desire to go inside and confront Meiran; he could practically sense the wake of destruction Darien had left behind. There was probably little he could do to better the situation. Not without getting his head bit off, at any rate. So he sat down on the narrow path with his back up against the rough cliff face. He bided his time, picking up a small rock and tapping out a rhythm with it against another, larger, stone at his side.
Time crept slowly by. Below in the shadows, the village of Qul was beginning to awaken. There was movement in and about the dwellings as people stirred from their beds and went about their morning routines. Women stoked cook fires on the flat rooftops of the houses and began preparing the morning bread. Below, children swept out the courtyards and ran to haul water from the village well. The foul odor of coal soot soon permeated the air, comingling with the aroma of roasting dough and fragrant spices. There were few people out and about in the streets; it was still far too early.
From his vantage, Quin had a very good view of the small camp Darien had made for himself in a ditch at the bottom of the ridge opposite. The campsite was empty; Darien hadn’t returned to it. Above, on the stony cliffs, he could see a brief flicker of light. Quin peered intently into the shadows, wondering what could have possibly caused it. It had been there for just a second then was gone, almost like the eyeshine of an animal. But there were very few animals in all of the Black Lands. The flicker was gone and didn’t come back again. The cliffs across from him yielded no answers, only shadows.
“Oh, hell,” Quin groaned finally, rubbing his tired neck. His legs were sore from sitting so long, confined to the narrow ledge. He stood up, stretching out the aching muscles of his thighs. He stamped his feet until the feeling returned to them. Then, with weary reluctance, he stooped and entered the cave.
“I’m coming in,” he called out, figuring he’d better give Meiran some type of warning. In a much quieter voice, he added, “whether you want me here or not.”
He walked forward stiffly, taking his time, letting his magelight wander ahead to chase the gloom of the passage away. He listened, hearing nothing. The cave was quiet and austere, infinitely still.
When he came to the room-like chamber, Quin drew up and lingered in the doorway, his magelight collected in a glowing pool directly beneath his feet. Meiran glanced up at him from where she sat on the rug, lit by sinuous strands of mist she’d gathered around herself like a glowing azure sigil. In that cold, wavering light, Meiran looked very pale and very fragile. He could tell she’d been crying.
Quin moved forward hesitantly, lowering himself beside her on the rug. Meiran said nothing, but the look in her eyes was one of unspoken reproach. Quin frowned, skewing his lips as his eyes surveyed the terrain of her face.
“I take it that didn’t go so very well.”
Meiran shook her head, eyebrows knitting together in a frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what, my dear?” Quin reached up, removing his hat from his head and resting it upside down in his lap.
“That he’d be so different.”
“Is he?” Quin shrugged dismissively. “I really wouldn’t know, now would I?”
He’d never known Darien Lauchlin in life. While Darien had been busy immolating Malikar’s legions at Orien’s Finger, Renquist had stationed Quin deliberately far away. He’d spent the entire war mired in Bryn Calazar, tasked with the impossible goal of resurrecting the Lyceum’s lost Circle of Convergence. Not once had he come face to face with the man he now considered his closest relative.
Quin had only met Darien for the first time in the dark reaches of the Netherworld. Not the best place to get to know someone but, then again, not the worst place, either, if you wanted to truly judge the colors of a soul.
What had struck Quin most about him was how much Darien reminded him of Braden. He was just a more turbulent version of the man. Despite the gap of generations that separated them, much of his brother’s character and mannerisms had endured in his bloodline. Quin could see Braden in the way Darien carried himself, the way he moved. That look of dangerous intensity that came so naturally to his eyes. The decisive, cool logic he employed. Like his ancestor, Darien was born to be a warrior. What he lacked was Braden’s sense of grace and serenity.
“In some ways, he hasn’t changed at all,” Meiran remarked. “That’s the hardest part. But the words coming out of his mouth…” She shook her head. “Darien was always an idealist. It’s like he’s abandoned every principle he ever had. I don’t understand what could have changed him so much.”
Quin scratched at the unkempt whiskers on his cheek. “Is what he’s asking really so unreasonable? I mean, it seems entirely within the scope of your Oath of Harmony. Or does ‘Always to heal and never to harm’ only apply to citizens of the Rhen?”
Meiran shot a contemptuous glare in his direction. “Spoken like a true darkmage, Quinlan. Is your tongue just as poisoned as Darien’s?”
Quin couldn’t help the flicker of smile that jumped instantly to his lips. “You have but to taste to find out.”
“Ugh,” Meiran groaned, grimacing as if in pain. She raised a hand as if to fend him off. “You’re just as tactless as you are wretched.”
This time, Quin didn’t try to suppress the grin he felt. “Why, Prime Warden, you do bring out the best in me.”
Darien didn’t return to camp. Instead he wandered into the cold and dismal waste, the demon-dog trotting behind. He walked with his head thrown back, staring up at the hostile sky. Strobes of lightning flickered deep within the clouds’ murky depths. The sky's unrest mirrored the turmoil in his heart. It was oddly comforting to know he wasn’t alone.
Above, lightning flared in a shower of sparkling wrath, followed by a swell of thunder. Darien stopped walking, gazing up through the afterglow left behind in his vision. He shook his head, grimacing against his anger.
He fell to his knees, throwing his head back, and wept. His shoulders quaked. He clenched his fists until his nails bit the skin of his palms. But the pain didn’t help. It was insignificant next to the ache of knowing how far he’d fallen. He blamed Meiran, hating her for rejecting him after all he’d done. He blamed fate, blamed the gods. Hated them all, hated everything. Most of all, he hated himself.
Somehow, it seemed vastly appropriate when rain began to fall. A needling rain, driven by an icy wind, relentless and without mercy. Darien didn’t try to escape it. Instead, he spread his arms out at his sides. He tilted his head back, letting the rain wash over his face. A soothing comfort settled in, his grief overshadowed by purpose, despair replaced by a sense of trajectory.
He rose and walked back in the direction he had come, making his way back toward his camp as the downpour subsided. Once there, he dug down deep in his pack, finding the clean, dry robes Renquist had provided him. Darien withdrew the folded garments, holding them out reverently in his hands. For the first time, he fully appreciated the significance of the robes. They were far more than just a gift; they were a symbol. A symbol he could no longer afford to ignore.
He reached up and removed the brooch that held his cloak in place, letting the wet fabric fall off his shoulders. He shrugged out of his shirt, wadding it up and throwing it down in the dirt at his feet. Then he pulled the indigo robes on over his head. He trailed his fingertips over the delicate, embroidered star. So much like the emblem of dead Aerysius he had once worn at his back.
That had been a lifetime ago, a different life.
He wasn’t that man anymore.
Darien returned the next day to the cave.
He didn’t feel the same anxiety he’d felt before. Those feelings had been washed away, replaced by the calm clarity of resolve. He didn’t hesitate as he ducked inside and followed the low passage toward the back. He paused at the entrance of the room-size chamber, collecting himself as he regarded Meiran in silence.
> She was standing next to Quin, garbed in an azure pool of magelight. Darien recognized the color; it was his own legacy, passed down to Meiran through the Soulstone. Only, she had come by it legitimately. The magelight Darien wove was like a lingering reflex, only made possible by the Onslaught.
When Meiran noticed him, Darien dropped to his knees, bending forward in the formal gesture of obeisance demanded by the office of the Prime Warden. He maintained that position, forehead pressed against the floor, palms beside his face. His mind was focused, his heart free of tension. It beat a deliberate cadence in his chest.
“You may rise.” Her voice was rich and clear.
Darien regained his feet with a blademaster’s grace. He reached up and drew the strap of his baldric over his shoulder, setting sword and scabbard aside. Then he turned back to Meiran with a questioning look.
Her anxiety was visible on her face. It was obvious she could sense the change in him, and it was profound enough to give her pause. She glanced sideways at Quin before finally nodding wary permission.
Darien approached Meiran carefully, one hand behind his back, the other held clenched at his side. When he stood in front of her, he took her hand and brought it up to his lips, pressing a kiss against her fingers in the manner of the clans.
“Nur a’yiid,” he said. Morning’s grace. He released her hand, drawing himself up to his full height. “Thank you for receiving me.”
Meiran gazed up at him with grave concern in her eyes. She swept her gaze over him, taking in the significance of his new garments. Her eyes lingered on the emblem on his chest. After long seconds, she asked him simply:
“Why?”
There were so many subtle layers of meaning woven into the various textures of that word. He didn’t know which Meiran wanted addressed. Darien stood looking at her for a moment, allowing himself one last opportunity to enjoy the sight of her. Finally, he spread his hands. “These are the formal robes of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. They were presented to me by Prime Warden Zavier Renquist.”
Darklands Page 21
