“Let her be.” The harsh voice behind him stopped him short. “Trust me; it is better this way.”
Anger like red heat suffused his vision, clenching his throat. He glared back up at the woman as if trying to sear her with rage. She remained indifferent, her stare penetrating. Drowning in hopelessness, Quin leaned down and pressed a kiss against Naia’s cold forehead.
Then he rose to his feet and moved away. He was shaking again, and this time not from cold. Naia was a lovely woman, and this was a cruel mistake. He swallowed a hard lump of anger in his throat as the door to the cold room swung shut behind him, sealing her in. The lock clicked, making him flinch. He cast a glare of reproach at his stern companion.
The mysterious woman awaited him in the corridor, appraising him with an indomitable gaze. Her dark face shimmered with gold, some type of powder, he suspected. She turned her back on him and preceded him down the hallway. He followed her up a rise of flagstone steps into a sprawling room that dominated the entire bottom floor of the castle. It was warm, even summery. Radiant light streamed in through windows set high above.
Quin glanced over the room, which was filled with rugs and furniture arranged in intimate clusters. Hundreds of people could have easily filled this hall and never felt pinched for space. Many hearths girthed the chamber, promising warmth and comfort to prospective visitors. It was a space designed for the specific purpose of bringing many people together.
Eerily, they were alone.
The unoccupied chamber resounded with emptiness. It stank of dust and abandonment. Even the light coming in from the windows seemed bereft of energy. Quin paused, arching an eyebrow as his eyes scanned the hall.
“Obviously, not all is as it should be,” his guide answered his unspoken question. “Come.”
She started forward past clusters of chairs and couches, striding over to a door recessed in the far wall. She pulled it open, ushering him within.
He moved through a tinkling clatter of beads that hung in the doorway, parting them with his hand. He stepped into a dim, confined space that screamed color from every wall. Quin stood still, staring around, letting his eyes wander over the variety of tapestries and decorative items laid out on shelves or dangling from the ceiling. Some of the patterned textures he recognized. He turned back to the woman in front of him, finally understanding.
“You’re from Aeridor,” he observed.
“I am. Aeridor as it was a thousand years ago.”
She smoothed her silken robes and settled into a chair, beckoning for him to take the one opposite. He did, running his hand over the woven texture of the chair’s fabric that echoed the colorful patterns of his memories. It occurred to him that no other room like this probably existed anywhere in the entire world. It was a saddening thought.
“What was your name again?”
“I am Tsula daughter of Mundi,” she reminded him.
“Why are you here, Tsula?” He shifted nervously in the chair, reaching up to adjust his hat. The room was warm, and he could feel prickles of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
The woman folded her hands in her lap and stared at him flatly. “I am here because I have no choice. As are you.”
His gaze wandered over the cluttered, claustrophobic space. Tsula’s bed was tucked into a corner, piled high with blankets. Tables littered with knick-knacks defined the small space. Chests and slender cabinets of polished wood, candles and oil lamps, aglow with wavering flames. And a fragile scent lingered in the air, putting him at ease.
“You’re a Harbinger?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And just how old are you?”
“As old as you are, Quinlan Reis. Like you, I was born before the Desecration.”
Reaching to the table at her side, she removed the lid from a woven basket and produced a loaf of bread. She broke off a piece, setting it on a plate. This, she offered to Quin.
He didn’t have to think twice. He snatched the plate from her hand, stuffing his cheeks full. There was no oil to dip the bread in; it was dry. But even still, it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted in his life. He was literally starving, he realized. When the bread was gone, he licked his finger and dabbed up every crumb on the plate before setting it aside.
He glanced up to find Tsula watching him.
“That was delectable,” he said at last. “Your baking staff should be commended.”
He looked around, wondering what other food could be stored in the room’s various baskets.
“We are alone in the castle.”
“So it seems. Forgive me for my prying ways, but … where does your food come from?”
“The food comes from the cold rooms down below. When I am hungry, I simply thaw, cook, and eat.” She rose and picked up Quin’s plate, clearing it away to a basket by the door. Quin stared after it, wishing she’d offer him more. But instead, Tsula returned to her chair.
From the small table at her side, she picked up a pair of jaw-like tongs and used them to hold a small clump of charcoal over a candle’s flame. The charcoal eventually grayed, the smell of it filling the air. Tsula set the smoldering lump in a small copper brazier that looked very much like a wine goblet. On top of the charcoal she placed chips of wood. They began curling and smoldering with a rich odor that quickly filled the room.
“I’m sure you have many questions,” she said, setting the tongs down and turning back to Quin. “You may ask.”
“Why, how very gracious of you.”
Quin closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, his emotions stirred by the vivid odor. Flickers of reveries traced his closed eyelids, along with the profound sentiments that accompanied them. A sharp pang of loss stabbed his chest, making him stiffen in his seat.
“It’s been a thousand years since I last smelled the scent of agarwood,” he said at last. “It evokes such powerful memories. Some beautiful. Some despicable. It leaves me feeling … quite conflicted.”
“Good,” Tsula said. “Conflicted is exactly the state you should be in.”
Quin opened his eyes and looked over to her. At her side, the smoke from the small brazier drifted upward in a thin trail toward the ceiling. Tsula stared back at him without expression.
“What do you want from me?” Quin asked.
“I am going to ask for your help in bringing about the end of the only world you’ve ever known.”
She said it as easily as if asking him to carry water for her. She reached for a tea pot beside her chair and poured two cups, one for him and one for herself.
Quin accepted the cup and brought it to his lips, never taking his eyes off her.
He said, “Pardon me if I seem skeptical, but the last time someone asked me to help bring about the end of the world, things didn’t work out so very well.”
“That is because you were only halfway committed to your cause.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, is that why Caladorn ended in darkness and ash? And all this time, I’ve been thinking it was because I helped open a gateway to hell.”
Tsula set her tea down and raised her hand. “Hear me out. Let me tell you my story.”
“By all means.” Quin took a long, loud slurp of tea, watching her reaction over the cup’s brim. But Tsula didn’t react. Instead, she simply waited for him to set his cup down before continuing.
“A thousand years ago, I was the Warden of Harbingers. When the Reversal came, I was here in this castle, operating Athera’s Crescent at the very moment the magic field reversed itself over the isle. That’s how I came to be frozen.”
“I don’t understand,” Quin admitted. The field hadn’t fully reversed. And, if it had, Tsula would have been dead, not simply frozen.
“Of course you don’t understand,” she snapped. “Athera’s Crescent is the largest and most sophisticated artifact ever to exist in the history of the world. You would need to know something about its workings to understand anything I have to say.”
Quin grimaced. “I am an Arcan
ist, you know. I do know some things.”
“But you are not a Harbinger,” she pointed out.
“No. Not a Harbinger.” He rolled his eyes and gestured with a flourish. “By all means. Proceed.”
She nodded. “Athera’s Crescent is like a bowl, collecting rivers of information from every corner of the world.” She cupped her hands in demonstration. “Any use of the field—any disturbance anywhere in the world—sends echoes throughout the entire magic field like ripples in a pond. These variations are collected and analyzed here by Harbingers. Or at least they were—before every last Harbinger was killed.”
“How were they killed?” Quin took a loud slurp of tea.
“Athera’s Crescent requires a tremendous amount of power in order to operate. It harvests this power by siphoning field energy away from specific locations across the world. Places you know of as vortexes. The power of a vortex is harvested by its Circle of Convergence and then delivered here through a series of conduits.”
Quin frowned. That was new information. He’d never heard anything like it before, and it was jarring that he hadn’t. “So … you are saying that Athera’s Crescent is the reason why every vortex in the world exists?”
If that were true, he couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t learned of it long ago. Perhaps it was some secret of the Order of Harbingers; every order had them. But a secret of that magnitude…
Tsula nodded. “That’s right. A vortex is simply a whirlpool created by harvesting a magical reservoir. When the Lyceum’s Circle of Convergence was destroyed, that cut off a significant supply of power to the Crescent. Fortunately, there was enough power coming in from the other vortexes to sustain it. At least, there was … until Aerysius fell.”
“What happened then?” his voice was a mere whisper.
“When Aerysius was destroyed, its conduit was severed. After that, there simply wasn’t enough power to sustain the Crescent. The Harbingers did everything they could to try to redirect power back to it. They even resorted to tampering with the vortex here on Titherry, altering it so that it sucked the heat right out of the air, converting it into flux. Their plan didn’t work. All they succeeded in doing was destroying themselves in the process. It was too much, all at once. It created a surge that killed every last mage on the isle.”
Quin nodded, thinking of the frozen corpses they had discovered in the root cellar. “So that explains the cold. But that doesn’t explain you. Why is it that you thawed out while everything else froze solid?”
Tsula lifted the tongs and used them to flick some of the blackened ashes off the charcoal. She then added fresh chips of agarwood.
“I was frozen by magic,” she explained. “When the power failed, so did my containment.”
That made sense. Quin breathed in the heady odor of incense, the smoke becoming quite thick in the small chamber. “Well, that’s fortunate. At least there is one surviving Harbinger left in the world.”
“No, Quinlan Reis. That is most unfortunate,” Tsula corrected him.
Quin frowned. “And why is that?”
“Because it has become my duty to rid the world of magic.”
He blinked as her words sank in. He folded his hands in his lap. His eyes traveled from her face to the swirling tendrils of smoke that rose from the burner.
“Well, I do hope you’ve got something stronger to drink around here,” he muttered finally, setting the tea aside.
Tsula stared at him with those eyes that only accused and never forgave. She rose and made her way toward a cupboard set against the wall. From within, she produced a golden flask. With a glance at Quin, she poured the liquor into a cup, then began adding water from a pitcher. He raised his hand quickly.
“Stop.”
She righted the pitcher, handing the cup to Quin. He gazed down at the milky color of the arak, contemplating it for a moment.
“Here’s to apocalypse,” he murmured. Then he tilted his head back and tossed it down. The liquor burned his throat, the strong spices awakening his senses. When it hit his belly, it lit a warmth that shot excitement through every nerve. It had been a long time since he’d taken a drink.
He offered the cup back to Tsula, motioning for more. She refilled it with a scowl, this time without any attempt to dilute it. Quin savored the taste. He closed his eyes, swirling it about on his tongue before swallowing it down.
“You have no idea how good this feels,” he said. Then he drained the rest, setting the cup upside down on the small table at his side. “No, thank you,” he said when Tsula went to refill it.
“So why do you feel the need to end all magic?” he asked, still with his eyes closed. “Isn’t that sort of like biting the hand that feeds you?”
“Not when that hand is responsible for the oppression of half the world’s population,” the woman said, settling back into her chair.
“And by oppression, you mean…?”
“I speak of the curse that blackens both Caladorn and Aeridor. I have seen it through the mirror of Athera’s Crescent. I’ve seen what it’s done. To your people … and to mine.”
“I wasn’t aware that the curse had affected Aeridor.”
“Aeridor was consumed by darkness. But unlike Caladorn, we had no mages to provide us with light. No lightfields. My people starved to death long ago, trapped on a continent with no light and no means of escape.”
Quin hung his head. His memories of Aeridor were dim. Palaces sprouting from jungle, covered in flowering vines. Fountains and reflecting pools, manicured gardens and acres of lawn where exotic creatures roamed and grazed.
Lost to darkness because of him.
His mouth went dry. The effects of the arak evaporated from his mind. The once-fragrant incense now smoldered, reduced to char and ash.
“That’s why I came here,” he muttered. “To find a way to break the curse. There must be a way to do it.”
The woman stared at him with those merciless eyes. Hands clasped in her lap, she told him, “Athera’s Crescent must be brought back fully online. Then, we will search for that way together.”
Quin nodded. It wasn’t a nod of agreement. More like resignation. “What do you need?”
Tsula sat forward, her eyes claiming him entirely. “I need an Arcanist. Someone with the skills and knowledge that were lost a thousand years ago when the Lyceum burned to the ground. In short … I need you.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to repair the conduits that were severed when Aerysius fell to dust and rubble.”
Quin reached down and fingered the stoneware cup. He didn’t turn it over. He just let the pads of his fingers trail over its cold smoothness. His gaze wandered to Tsula’s hands, hands that looked so familiar. Amani had been born in Aeridor. Her mother had been a prominent mage from the Empire. Amani had favored her mother in both looks and grace. Quin stared at Tsula’s lovely hands with bittersweet sorrow.
“I’ll need my tools,” he said finally. “And I’ll need Naia.”
“Why do you need the girl?”
“Moral support.” Quin picked up the empty cup, turning it back over.
“No.”
“Why not?” Leaning forward, he plucked the pitcher off the table and poured the undiluted liquor into his cup. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he took a long, savoring gulp.
The look on the woman’s face was contemptuous. “Because. The world needs you to perform this service. A service which, if successful, will kill every last mage that still exists, including the girl. I can’t risk having your emotions conflicted.”
Quin cocked a cynical eyebrow. “Didn’t you say conflicted was exactly the state I should be in?”
Tsula’s eyes hardened to stone. “I misspoke.”
“Why should I help you at all?” Quin tossed back more of the potent liquor. “Call me deranged, but I happen to like the world exactly the way it is. Mages and all.”
The smoldering glare she leveled at him was venomous. But with the liquor
to fortify his courage, Quin didn’t heed the warning in her eyes.
“Because,” Tsula snapped as she rose from her chair. “Destroying the magic field is the only way to free the skies over Caladorn. And over Aeridor. This is your duty, Quinlan Reis. You brought about the curse because of your inability to face the consequences of your actions. For a thousand years, the world has suffered those consequences for you. No longer. You are the last Arcanist this world knows, and I am the last Harbinger. Together, the two of us will endeavor to repair that which you tore asunder.”
Quin stared up at her as he drained the last of his cup.
“Not without Naia.”
22
Surrender
Darien stood looking up at the dark and jagged ridgeline. A light breeze ruffled his hair and chilled his skin. The gloom of the stark landscape seemed more oppressive than it had just moments before. He glanced at the clouds, frowning at the faint traces of light that flickered there. He was tired of darkness, tired of the constant melancholy that filled his soul.
He wanted to see the sun again. Even if it was just one last time.
The crunch of Connel’s boots alerted him to the man’s presence at his back. He didn’t turn around, just stood gazing upward at the devastation in the sky.
“You did well,” the darkmage remarked. “I know how hard that had to be for you.”
Darien nodded. It had been hard, much harder than he’d expected. He wasn’t sure which had been worse: having to look in Meiran’s eyes or admitting to Kyel his shame. In a way, he was responsible for them both. Craig too. Their friendships were casualties of his own self-destruction.
“I don’t trust the commander,” Connel said.
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