Darkrise

by M. L. Spencer

  She had the troubled feeling that he hadn’t.

  16

  Lessons in Patience

  The wind howled under the door, fanning the candle’s fragile flame. The shadows in the room flickered, first growing bolder then shrinking. The wind gusted again with a howl that sounded like the shriek of a dying animal. The candle’s flame blazed to life, flaring for a split-second before dying.

  Kyel stared at the cooling wick, willing the tiny flame back to life. It sprang up with a jubilant glow, as if excited to be reborn.

  Kyel pushed away the text he’d been studying and grumbled, “I don’t understand this passage at all. It says, ‘a net preponderance of shadow is required to offset a net preponderance of light.’ How is that bloody possible? Isn’t shadow just the absence of light?”

  “Let me see it.” Meiran extended her hand without looking at him, engrossed in the scroll she’d been reading.

  Kyel shoved the book toward her and watched as she turned to settle over it, one elbow on the table, palm supporting her head. Her eyes scanned slowly over the scrawled writing. Finally, she shook her head, shoving the text back in his direction. “I’m not a Sentinel. I know very little about the nature of light. What I do know is this: we don’t have much time. So if you come across pages like this that you find yourself struggling with, just skip over them and move on to something else.”

  From the other end of the room, Cadmus cleared his throat. “Pardon, Prime Warden, but do you mind if I take a look at it?”

  Meiran didn’t glance up at him. “Go ahead.”

  Kyel got up and walked the book over to Cadmus, who donned a pair of spectacles then hunched over to read the passage. He pressed a finger to the page, trailing it beneath the lines of text as he read. When he was done, he looked up to consider Kyel over the frames of his lenses. “Well, it seems obvious to me. This type of shield forms from a web that absorbs or reflects weaponized light. Shadow, in this context, is merely referring to the web’s capacity for absorption. Look, it says so right here.” He tapped his finger on the page.

  “Right.” Kyel took the text back, snapping it closed without looking at it. “I’m sick and tired of energy transformations—they make my brain want to bleed!”

  Cadmus shook his head. “You keep forgetting Nerid’s Second Law.”

  Kyel tossed the book down on the table, throwing himself down in his seat. “Damn Nerid’s Laws! If I want something to disappear, I’ll bloody well make it disappear!”

  “I’ve had enough.” Meiran set the scroll she was reading down at her side, staring from face to face. “From both of you. Brother Cadmus, if you insist on continuing to interfere with Kyel’s education, then have the grace to do so away from my presence. Kyel, patience is a skill that continues to elude you. I hear from the forgers that weaving mail is an excellent way to acquire patience. Go spend the rest of the day in the smithy.”

  Kyel gaped at her. “You’re not serious?” There was a war coming. How could Meiran want him wasting his time when there was still so much to learn?

  “I am. Consider this a demerit.” Her tone brooked no argument. She picked the scroll back up, unrolling it in her hands.

  Kyel stared back and forth between Meiran and Cadmus, blinking slowly. Then he whirled in disgust and careened through the door, slamming it behind him. He strode out of the tower into the inner ward, his black cloak billowing in the wind of his wake. He crossed the ward in a hurry, hot with anger. He was aware of the stares of the men on him, tracking his every motion. Everywhere he went, it was always the same.

  A soldier guarding the cistern muttered the word “darkmage” and spat on the ground. Normally, Kyel would have ignored the insult. This time he stopped, spinning back toward the man. He grabbed the soldier by the collar and slammed him back against the wall.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded, not caring that half the yard had stopped to stare at him.

  The bald soldier smirked, eyes laughing and daring him. “Go ahead. Do it. Show everyone what you’re made of. It ain’t gonna shock nobody.”

  “This is horse piss,” Kyel gasped, leaning into the man’s face. “I haven’t done anything to you!”

  “You’re the Oathbreaker’s little cunt. I was at Orien’s Finger. I know what you mages really are.”

  “I am not Darien Lauchlin,” Kyel growled. He released the man, forcing his sleeve back past his elbow and holding it up in front of him. “See? I’ve still got the chains of my Oath. I’ve never used my power to strike a man, and I never will.”

  The soldier scoffed, staring at the markings on Kyel’s arm with a look of revulsion. “We’ll see about that. We’ll see what you do when the first spear comes at you and you piss your pants. ’Cause none of us here’s gonna have your back. Most of us lost brothers or fathers at Orien’s Finger. On the battlefield, you’ll be on your own.” He looked up into Kyel’s face and sneered, chuckling softly. “You’re gonna burn, boy. I and my mates, we’re gonna watch.”

  Kyel stared at him, feeling the heat of anger scalding his cheeks. He didn’t say anything; he was too shocked to respond. Instead he drew back, turned, and stalked away. He kept his stare fixed on the ground, knowing for certain that the eyes of every soldier in the courtyard were pinned on the embroidered star on his back.

  Meiran stood up from her chair, crossed the room, then took the seat across the table from the temple watchdog who had managed to embed himself like a tick in their midst. His interference was starting to wear. She’d had just about enough.

  The man looked up at her, a kindly smile on his face. He had gentle eyes, but his nose was bulbous and red with broken veins that extended onto his sagging cheeks. He was either too stupid or too smart to take her seriously. She suspected the latter.

  Removing his spectacles with one hand, Cadmus rubbed his eyes and said to her, “I understand your frustration with my involvement, Prime Warden. But what we really need is a functional Sentinel, not soldiers with gaps in their mail coats.”

  “You and I must talk.” Meiran leaned toward him with her elbows on the table. “I need the help of the temples, which is the only reason you’re not straddling an ass back to Glen Farquist. You and I both know that the little ‘agreement’ you pulled over on Kyel means absolutely nothing. There is no more Aerysius; the office of Prime Warden was decapitated the day Emelda Lauchlin died. You have no authority whatsoever over Kyel or myself. I’ve only suffered your presence so far because I might be able to gain something by it.”

  The kindly smile didn’t slip from his lips. Cadmus was simply sitting there, staring, blinking. He wore the same expression a parent would while patiently waiting a child to finish a tirade.

  Meiran ignored him and went on, “You, on the other hand, have everything to lose. When the Reversal of the magic field happens, every one of your temple mysteries will become undone. Then everyone will know the truth: that your gods are made of tin, and your miracles are manufactured. What will you do when the only true power in the world comes from a hole in the ground and is wielded by demons hell-bent on destroying you?”

  Cadmus’ expression didn’t crack. If anything, his smile broadened. “We need each other, Prime Warden,” he said finally. “Our ‘manufactured miracles,’ as you call them, are the only chance you have of stopping Xerys’ armies. You and Kyel are both crippled by your Oath and too self-righteous to acknowledge it. Without the aid of the temples will most assuredly fall.”

  His eyes took on a look of sympathy. “It pains me to say this, but I’m sure you already know: both you and Kyel are already dead. Your corpses just haven’t finished twitching yet. When all is said and done, what kind of legacy do you wish to leave behind? If you cooperate with the temples, at least some small remnant of civilization will remain. If you don’t … then the world will belong entirely to Xerys, to be forever remade in His image. I don’t think you’d want that.”

  It was like someone had just drenched her with a bucket of ice-cold fury. Mei
ran felt physically numbed by the shock of it. For moments, she could do nothing more than just sit there, glaring at him contemptuously, hoping that somehow the violence in her eyes approached the wrath she felt inside.

  “Why do we need your help?” she asked in a whispered hiss.

  Cadmus shrugged and spread his hands, the patient smile returning to his pudgy face. “Because we are not Bound. And we have the power to bring them down.”

  Her wrath condensed, sharpening into threat. “Then I hope you have a plan.”

  His smile was oily and triumphant. “Don’t worry, Prime Warden. We do.”

  Kyel dropped another circular piece of wire onto the anvil. He picked up a blacksmith’s hammer and, taking careful aim, started pounding the wire ring. It took about ten solid hits before it was perfectly flat, the ends overlapping. He picked it up and threw the flattened ring into a bucket full of other flattened rings, just one among hundreds.

  Another thirty thousand of those, and they may have enough for a mail shirt. Of course, that was all Kyel knew how to do. An actual blacksmith would have to do the punching and riveting and link the chains into the right pattern.

  He picked up yet another circlet of precut wire. Ten or twelve solid hits on the anvil, and another flattened ring went into the bucket with a clink. He thrust his fingers into the can and picked up another wire.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Kyel turned to find Traver gawking at him from the doorway. He went ahead and pounded the next ring flat before plunking it in the bucket. “Hammering chain.”

  Traver strolled over, face distorted by an expression of incredulity. “What the bloody hell for? We’ve got blacksmiths to do that!”

  Kyel shrugged, pounding out another ring. “I’m supposed to be learning patience.” He tossed the finished ring into the bucket.

  “And are you?”

  Kyel turned toward him, massaging his right arm. “No.” He sighed wearily.

  He cast a dispirited glance at Traver, motioning to the bucket of flattened rings. Traver plunged his fingers in and picked up a handful. He nudged them around in his palm before tipping his hand and allowing them to spill back out.

  “Doing that all day would make me desperately impatient,” Traver said, running a hand through his hair. Then he grabbed Kyel by the arm, firmly steering him toward the door.

  “Come along. Day’s done already; you may as well come back tomorrow. How ’bout you join me for a drink?”

  Kyel tossed the hammer down then followed the captain into the chill night air of the ward. The lights of bonfires danced from the corners of the yard, sparks zipping through the air like glowing fireflies. Halfway across the courtyard, he became aware of the stares he was collecting. Which brought back the memory of the soldier he’d confronted.

  Kyel glared at the first sentry they came to, a bearded man guarding the tower’s entrance. “What are you looking at?”

  The soldier glared back at him, jaw clenched tight in a scowl of disgust.

  Traver stepped forward, scant inches from the man’s face. “He asked you a question, soldier. I think you’d better answer him.”

  The guard’s hard eyes focused on Kyel. “I’m lookin’ at a dead man, Captain.” He spat on the ground, the glob landing between Kyel’s feet.

  Traver threw both hands out and slammed the man back against the wall. Kyel caught hold of him, pulling him back. “It’s fine, Traver! Leave him be!”

  “It’s not fine!” Traver ducked out of Kyel’s grasp and shot forward, grabbing the soldier by a fistful of hair and bringing a fist back to throw a punch. The man didn’t fight, but neither did he cower. He received the blow willingly, his head cracking back against the wall. He leaned forward, spitting out a tooth along with a drooling string of blood.

  Traver gave him a last, good shove. “Report your ass to latrine duty!”

  “Aye, Captain.” The man saluted and strode briskly away, leaving his bloody tooth behind on the ground. Traver glared after him, looking fit to kill.

  “It’s not his fault.” Kyel sighed, staring down at the tooth.

  “What do you mean? You’re the last damn Sentinel we have! You’re the only thing between us and those demons out there—so they’d better start respecting that cloak on your back.”

  Kyel shook his head. “Respect has to be earned. I haven’t done anything to earn it.”

  Traver nodded slowly. Then he turned, clapping Kyel on the back. “Come on. Let’s get some mead in you.” He guided Kyel into the tower, up to his own quarters on the third floor. There, he pulled Kyel up a chair and rummaged around in a wooden chest, pulling out a sack of mead. He poured them each a cup, brandishing his own in the air before throwing his head back and chugging it down.

  “So how’d you make captain with only half a hand?” Kyel asked him, taking a sip of mead. He made a face. It was wretchedly strong, and he wasn’t used to the taste of fermented honey.

  “Well, I had seniority,” Traver shrugged. “And it wasn’t like I could go back to being a foot soldier. So Craig stuck me in the armory and helped me work myself up.”

  “So you have Royce’s old job?” Kyel asked, trying another sip. This one went down harder than the last. He smacked his lips together, running his sleeve across his mouth.

  Traver shook his head. “Nothing all that grand; I’m in charge of requisitions.” He drained his cup and poured more. “So tell me … you’ve been getting a lot of that kind of treatment?”

  Kyel took a heavy gulp and made a face as it went down. “It’s not their fault. Ever since Orien’s Finger, there’s just no trust for mages. People fear what they don’t understand.”

  “Aerysius wasn’t destroyed that long ago,” Traver pointed out. He dropped down on his cot, sliding his boots off and throwing them in the corner. “People should still remember what the Sentinels stood for.”

  They should, Kyel supposed. But they didn’t. “All they remember is Darien,” he said regretfully. “He didn’t make it very easy for people to trust him.”

  “No. He sure didn’t.” Traver knocked back another swallow.

  “I need to change that before the battle,” Kyel said. For some reason, the mead was starting to taste a whole lot better. It was calming his nerves, making it easier to think, even as the magic field tapered off. What the soldier in the yard had said to him had shaken him up more than he’d realized. He needed the men to have his back. He had to be able to trust the soldiers defending him. But in order for that to happen, they’d have to trust him. It seemed like a paradox.

  “Aye, you’re going to need to work on that,” Traver agreed. “You can’t lead men who see you as a threat.” He glanced sidelong at Kyel. “How long’s it been since you’ve played a game of cards?”

  Kyel couldn’t help the grin that slipped to his face. “Too long, actually.”

  Traver immediately set his cup down and produced a pack from his pocket. His hands went to work shuffling, expertly sending the cards dancing between his fingers. His skills had improved considerably, Kyel realized, especially considering he was short two fingers. Traver sent the cards into a showering cascade then offered the pack for Kyel to split.

  “All right. What do you got to bet?”

  Kyel split the deck, then groped at his pockets, finding only a few coppers, a small rock, and a tiny ball of lint. Traver snatched up the rock, holding it in his palm with an expression of delight on his face.

  “Isn’t this the same damn rock you used to carry around?”

  Kyel had to chuckle. “It is. I picked it up on the practice yard two years ago. It’s my lucky rock. Although I’m not sure its luck has been working lately.” The piece of white quartz had stood out at him from all the black rocks of the pass. He’d picked it up to remind himself of what hope looked like. He’d carried it with him ever since.

  Traver tossed the stone back to him. “You need to keep that. Don’t be gambling with it.”

  “So what, if you win i
t from me? You might need the luck more than I do.”

  “Oh, no!” Traver shook his head. “I wouldn’t take your damn luck for all the gold in Chamsbrey. But I will take those coppers off you, so you’d better ante up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Devlin Craig let his hand fall to his side, still clutching the report. The old soldier named Kelbs gave a slight shrug. His face was as hard and cratered and cold as a winter in the pass. He had a no-nonsense way about him that suffered no stupidity.

  “Those are the best estimates we’ve got, Commander.”

  Craig squeezed his hand, crumpling the strip of parchment. “Gods be damned.”

  “Don’t blame the gods, Commander,” Kelbs advised in a practiced monotone. “Blame our own damned lack of foresight. We should have seen this coming.”

  “You mean I should have seen this coming,” Craig growled.

  He trudged over to the table with its collection of maps strewn across it. He leaned over, planting both hands on the table. He examined the array of implements already spread out across the surface and took a deep breath. Then he started moving rocks and broadheads, repositioning them.

  “They’re draining all the Black Lands,” he decided finally. “They’re sending everything they’ve got against us.”

  To the two officers still lingering by the door, he said, “Send messengers to generals Blandford and Horthall. I want the Northern armies pitched at our rear. And I want men up on those ridges tomorrow, planting powder kegs and laying out charges. If they want to take the pass, we’ll let them. But we’ll make it their graveyard.”

  To the old sergeant, he directed, “Prioritize supply. We need provisions. And arrows—as many arrows as you can get. There shouldn’t be one goose with a feather on its wings anywhere between here and Rothscard.”

  “Aye, Commander. How long do you think we have?”