Darien rose and dressed in the musky warmth of Myria’s tent. He pulled the mail coat on over his clothes and hung his small arsenal of weapons from his belt. The hauberk was heavy to wear, dragging at his shoulders. He felt sluggish beneath all that chain. He worked his arms back and forth, getting used to the feel of it. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Myria lay where he’d left her, the steady sounds of her breathing whispering through the quiet. The dark drape of her hair spilled like a waterfall over the covers. One of her slender fingers twitched in her sleep. He didn’t bother waking her. He had nothing to say.
Tugging the helm down over his head, he left the tent, stepping out into darkness. He trudged through the camp past clusters of men going on about the business of warfare: stoking cookfires, sharpening weapons, fletching arrows with dried willow leaves. No one paid him any mind; there was no reason for them to.
He found his way to the command tent, looking for Sayeed. The encampment was enormous, like a vast, sprawling city, and he had no idea how to navigate it. He didn’t even know where to find his own tent or his wife.
His wife. Just the word in his head made his lips twist into a scowl. He felt affection for Azár, but that was all. He admired her; she was clever and independent. She had summoned him from the dead, but that was the extent of her power over him. It was too bad; Meiran had cauterized his capacity to feel.
He thought of Arden and Meiran, two women with voracious appetites for causing pain.
And then there was Myria, who sated his lust without requiring intimacy. She’d been accommodating to his particular needs, which was all he could ask. He’d done his best not to leave her wanting.
He found Sayeed and his retinue of Zakai resting in the lee of the command tent. They didn’t see him coming, or at least didn’t recognize him. A couple of officers glanced up casually, taking note of his passage, before glancing away. It was Sayeed who finally identified him, frowning at Darien’s warbelt until recognition finally dawned on his face. His look of surprise was quickly replaced by a look of fury.
He surged to his feet, every movement sharpened by anger.
“Where have you been?”
The other Zakai followed him to their feet, confusion rampant on their faces. Darien removed the helm and slipped past Sayeed into the tent. The officer followed him in, lowering his voice as he whispered:
“How are we supposed to keep you safe if you elude our protection?”
Darien turned to fix the man with a sidelong glare, not liking his tone. “I had my reasons.”
But Sayeed refused to be intimidated. He drew himself up, one hand on the hilt of his sword, returning Darien’s glare right back at him. “I do not care what you do—or who you do it with—as long as it does not compromise your safety. But I must insist, Lord, in the future, that you trust our protection. And our discretion.”
Darien shook his head, frustrated and furious. “Just get me to my tent.”
But a voice from behind him stopped him short. “That didn’t take very long. Myria must be losing her touch.”
He turned to find Byron Connel standing in the gap between partitions. Darien felt his blood sour to vinegar in his veins. The man clapped him on the arm, amusement brightening his eyes. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”
Darien wasn’t in the mood for favors. “What is it?”
Connel laid a hand on his shoulder, steering him back into the dim interior of the tent. “I need you to scribe a note for me.”
“What kind of note?”
“An invitation. To your old friends.”
Darien’s eyes narrowed, but he forced himself to keep walking anyway.
The note didn’t take long to write. But it took a lot out of him, a lot more than he’d ever thought it would. Considering whose hands that scroll would eventually end up, Darien was starting to feel more and more like a traitor. It wasn’t a feeling he was comfortable with.
He’d seen this day coming; from the very beginning, it had been inevitable. But that didn’t mean he had to feel good about his part in it, or good about himself. He knew exactly what he was, had no delusions about it. He was not a man of honor. He was a man of wrath.
He indulged himself in a brooding melancholy as Sayeed and his men led him back through the encampment. He said nothing the entire way. Neither was a word spoken to him; the officers were still angry at him for slipping away. As he walked, Darien took careful note of the camp’s landmarks, taking a survey of banners and numbers. It was quite an assortment of people they’d gathered, most not even regular military. A mixture of men and women, city folk and common villagers. There were small, dirty children running about the camp, laboring at chores just as hard as the adults. It was a sight unlike anything he’d ever seen before. A hard sight.
What surprised him most was the odor of the place. It didn’t smell like any encampment he’d ever been in; there was no reek of filth or human waste. Wherever they’d dug the latrine pits, they were well away from the heart of the camp and well-tended. The efficiency and discipline of these people never ceased to impress him.
Sayeed led him to a large tent raised slightly apart from the rest of the camp, flying the blood-red standards of the Tanisar corps. Darien removed his boots and stepped within, glancing around the dim interior. The space looked comfortable, even opulent, lit by hanging lanterns and oil lamps, the floor carpeted, the walls paneled with cloth. There was even furniture: a low table surrounded by seats and, behind a half-drawn partition, an over-stuffed bed. The posts of the tent were wrapped in spiraling ribbons, creating a chaotic splendor of color.
He moved further into the space, drawn toward the bed’s promise of comfort. In the dim light of the lanterns, Darien undressed and crawled beneath the covers. He extinguished the lanterns with a thought and closed his eyes, letting complete darkness settle in.
A rustling sound made him start.
The mattress shifted as Azár lay down alongside him, her body naked and pressing close against his.
Darien froze, unsure of what to do. Never once had he ever shared a bed with his wife, nor anything more than just a kiss. Her hand stroked his shoulder, sliding down his arm. He closed his eyes and suffered the feel of it.
“I lay with Myria,” he said.
The hand stopped moving.
“Good.”
That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. On the floor, magelight bloomed and spread in glowing azure pools, running over the carpets like a blazing stream. Darien rolled over, taking in Azár’s face in the writhing blue light. He gazed at her steadily, contemplating her non-expression, feeling dread sink deep into his heart.
He sighed. “I think you need your own tent.”
“No.” She shook her head. “That is not the answer.”
“Then what is?”
She gazed at him with that same, indifferent stare that yielded nothing.
“We must build trust between the two of us,” she said at last. “We are alike, you and I. We have both been hurt, and are both afraid of pain. But we will be needing each other very much, very soon. And we do not have much time.”
She was right. About all of it. Only, he had no idea where to begin. “So, what do you propose?”
Her stare ticked upward toward the patterned roof of the tent. Her soft fingertips brushed his skin.
“Kiss me, Darien.”
A cold weight gripped his chest. He couldn’t move.
So she kissed him, instead. Slowly at first, her fingertips tracing the whiskered line of his jaw. He closed his eyes, his muscles going tense. The kiss became deeper, more adamant. Her hair fell forward, filling his nostrils with the fresh scent of her. He could feel her soft skin pressed against his.
She pulled back. “Is this affecting you?”
“Aye,” he admitted. “But probably not in the way you’d like.” His body was stirring, awakening, very aware of her presence and disposition. He was reminded of Myria’s practiced touch.
“Hold me.” Resigned, she collapsed against him.
He couldn’t deny her. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. She lay there cradled against his chest, staring straight ahead into nothing. She felt so small, so fragile in his arms. He wondered how she could possibly survive the firestorm that was surely coming.
Then he remembered that she wouldn’t.
The Reversal was coming. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Something inside Darien clicked. Deep down inside, that realization brought about a subtle but significant change.
He held her tighter.
He pressed a kiss against her hair then closed his eyes, letting the magelight fade softly into darkness.
20
Rabid
Raindrops splattered the stone pavement as thunder rumbled overhead. The musty smell of rain and wet masonry lay heavy on the air. It was cold. Kyel rubbed his aching fingers, trying to work some heat back into them. The continual darkness was already miserable enough; the damp weather made it intolerable. Rain soaked his cloak, streamed down his face. He paid little heed to the groups of roving soldiers that patrolled the fortress, backs stooped, necks bent under the oppressive weight of the endless gloom. It was stretching too long. It was starting to wear on all of them.
He looked to Cadmus and Meiran, who were standing by his side. He caught just a glimpse of Meiran’s face beneath the shadows of her cowl. She looked pale. To Kyel, she’d seemed frail of late. Perhaps he’d done of poor job of burning the poisons from her system. Or perhaps it was something else, the threat of war taking its toll. He didn’t know. She was quiet, quieter than she’d ever been. She barely spoke to him of late, and when she did, her tone was usually biting.
A stab of lightning glared white off the stones of the tower as a rumble of thunder rattled his bones. Kyel ducked through the tower’s entrance, waiting for Meiran, then made his way in silence as he blinked away the after-glow. By the time they reached Craig’s quarters, only a few motes still danced across his vision. That strike had been close. He could still smell the sharp stench of charged air.
Meiran reached up and rapped hard on the force commander’s door. The door clanked and then groaned, shivering open. Kyel moved in and glanced around, noticing the table in the far corner with its scattered maps and haphazard trinkets. A melted candle with pearls of wax leaking down its sides provided meager light.
Commander Craig beckoned them in, shutting the door behind them.
“What is it?” Meiran asked, drawing back her cowl as she moved deeper into the room.
Craig raised his hand, offering out a scroll. Kyel saw that the wax seal had already been broken. “Our presence is requested at a parley tomorrow,” Craig said. “It’s signed by Darien.”
Meiran took the scroll from his hand, unfurling it slowly, as if wary it would bite. Her eyes scanned over the page, her expression darkening. “It’s his signature,” she confirmed, handing it back.
“I know.” Craig tossed the summons down on the table, peering deeply into Meiran’s face. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Meiran locked eyes on him. Her pale, smooth features tightened like a compressed spring. “Yes. Whatever it takes.” Her voice was dull like lead.
“No second thoughts?”
“None.”
Kyel glanced back and forth between the two of them, an unsettling feeling of trepidation creeping under his skin. He didn’t like where this was going, what this was coming to. He was starting to wonder if they would even give Darien a chance to negotiate.
Craig cast a piercing look at Cadmus. “What about your part?”
The cleric squared his shoulders, clasping his pudgy hands in front of him. “I’ve summoned a priest to assist us. He should be arriving sometime in the night.”
Kyel frowned. A priest? What need had they of a priest? Surely they could use a blessing, but this seemed extreme. Unless they were preparing for annihilation. Even then, a clerical blessing wouldn’t matter much. But Craig just nodded, distilling this new information with a glower. He turned to Kyel.
“I want you with us tomorrow,” he said. “You know him best.”
Kyel shook his head, moving away from Craig toward the wall. He turned around, leaning with his back up against the uneven stones, crossing his arms. “That would be Meiran, not me. I don’t know him at all anymore.”
Craig disagreed. “You were there with him at the end. You watched him turn.”
“Meiran met with him,” Kyel argued. “Of all of us, she knows him best—”
“That’s not the same,” Meiran insisted, moving forward. She clasped Kyel’s hand, gazing intently into his eyes. “He only showed me what he wanted me to see. But you actually know him, Kyel, the way he is now. Better than any of us.”
Kyel supposed she might be right. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly with a shrug. “I suppose I could…”
Craig nodded. “Report to the armory. Get yourself fitted with some gear. You’re the only Sentinel we have, and we’ll be needing you alive.”
Kyel started across the floor but paused and glanced back. He saw that neither Meiran nor Cadmus were following him toward the door. They stood paused by the map table, watching him go. Seeing the looks on their faces, he had a strangling feeling. Like he was being purposefully sent away.
Darien had sent him away too. To protect him.
This didn’t feel anything like that.
He could still feel their eyes on his back as he pulled the door closed behind him.
He walked across the courtyard to the armory, where he procured a padded gambeson. The armorers had him try it on right there in front of them to make sure it fit. He left the armory and found his way to his own quarters, ignoring the pointed stares that followed him everywhere he went.
That night, he had a hard time sleeping. The rain rattled the roof above his bed, splattering and clawing at the window. The door leaked something fierce; cold air whistled under it as the wind ripped and howled through the corridors outside. The small fire in the hearth fed little warmth into the place. The wind chased the heat away as quickly as it was made.
Kyel tossed and turned on his straw-stuffed mattress. All night long, his dreams eluded him. He finally fell asleep sometime very late, or perhaps very early; he couldn’t tell. He woke up cold and sad and more than a little bit afraid.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair. Perspiration beaded on his brow even though he sat shivering. He raked at the sweat with his cloak, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t understand what he was feeling. Or whether he should trust it.
The pavilion had been raised on the rise of a low hill, against the backdrop of Orguleth’s bell-shaped dome. Kyel checked his horse, drawing back on the reins. The gelding snorted and stamped, nervous about being so far from home. At his side, Craig sat astride a brown destrier, a white cloth held in his chain-gloved hand. Meiran rode alongside the priest summoned by Cadmus. The priest had been introduced to Kyel as Brother Desco, a quiet and oily man whose stare tended to linger in one spot far longer than was appropriate. He’d arrived late in the night with a supply caravan up from Wolden. Kyel wasn’t even certain which temple Brother Desco was ordained to. He’d taken an instant dislike to the man.
Ahead, armored figures emerged from the pavilion.
Kyel remained on his horse as a group of mailed soldiers approached their position. They all wore helms, so he couldn’t make out faces. It took him a moment to realize that the approaching party carried no weapons. Craig raised his arm, holding up the white fabric in his hand for all to see. The Enemy soldiers halted in front of them, helmed faces regarding them. Then their ranks opened, parting fluidly.
A lone man moved forward through the tight press of armor and bodies.
Kyel
felt his face go slack as he recognized who it was. Cold ice encaged his heart, numbing his limbs until all he could do was sit his horse and stare.
Darien Lauchlin strode toward them with a dangerous grace, his face cold and terrifying. He was garbed all in black, in a style as foreign as his features. He was surrounded by the same cloak of confidence Kyel remembered so well.
Darien’s gaze locked on Meiran and stuck there.
Kyel swallowed, unable to move. Unable to react. He shot a sidelong glance at Craig, seeking reassurance. But the look on the commander’s face was anything but reassuring. Kyel reached within, latching on to the magic field. He drew at it slowly, taking comfort in its feel.
Darien stopped in front of them, his eyes moving from Meiran to Kyel to Craig.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
His voice was not harsh. The familiar sound of it startled Kyel from his thoughts, sent his head roiling in a turbulent mixture of emotions. It took him instantly back. Back to his pledge to Darien in the pass, back to his trial in the vortex, back to the sinister chamber that housed the Well of Tears. He remembered the master who had never doubted him, not even once. Darien had always trusted him, even when he couldn’t trust himself.
He stared hard at the demon standing before him, and felt afraid.
Darien Lauchlin turned to Craig. “I have nothing to say to Meiran. I’ll speak with you and Kyel alone. No one else.” He cast a significant glare at the priest, who favored him with a slight nod, as if from one adversary to another.
Craig sat frozen on his horse, arm still holding the long strip of white cloth. At last, he gave the slightest nod. “Very well.”
He draped the banner over his saddle and swung down from his horse’s back. He turned to Meiran and the priest as Kyel followed him to the ground. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”
Kyel wasn’t sure he believed that. Looking at that dark pavilion, he rather thought it had been erected for a purpose far more substantial than a minutes-long dialogue. He considered the small retinue of black-mailed guards, uncertain that he trusted them.
Darkrise Page 20
