Darkfall

by M. L. Spencer

  Quin’s breath hitched. He sat frozen in his chair, shocked into rigidity. His mouth went dry. His thoughts hung suspended in the air, waiting for impact.

  He whispered, “You’re Amani’s mother?”

  “I am.”

  His heart broke open. Quin lurched from his chair, overcome by mindless rage. He towered over Tsula, fury sweeping away what was left of his rationality.

  “And you knew? You knew she was going to Aerysius? You knew she was going to be executed?”

  “I did.” Tsula’s expression was glacial.

  Quin wanted to howl. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Why didn’t you warn her? Why didn’t you stop her? You let her die!”

  “I already told you,” Tsula said, calmly. “There is a reason why all Harbingers were trained in seclusion on this isle. We are called upon to make difficult choices. Sometimes, those choices are unbearable. I knew Amani would die. And I knew her death would destroy you. And yet I could do absolutely nothing to save either of you. Otherwise, the reign of Xerys would have already come to pass.”

  Quin shot forward, planting both hands on the back of her chair, his face an inch away from her own. Gritting his teeth, he growled, “Amani meant everything to me! Everything!”

  “I know.”

  “She didn’t have to die!” His voice shook just as hard as the rest of him. His vision blurred. He pushed off from the chair, whirling away.

  Almost gently, Tsula said, “I hope someday you can forgive me, Quinlan Reis. As I forgive you.”

  It was too much. He lashed out with the magic field, ending her life in a heartbeat.

  21

  The False God

  Darien raised his practice sword, catching Azár’s strike on his crossguard.

  “Don’t let the blade get ahead of you,” he instructed. He stepped back, bringing his blade up into a high ward above his shoulder. “Again. Move together with your sword.”

  Azár took a step back, then repeated the action. This time, her blade impacted solidly with his.

  “Like that,” Darien said. “Again. This time rotate your left hand. Watch your structure.”

  Azár stepped back, brought her sword up, then moved forward with a downward cut. Darien moved crisply to block, noting the difference in her blade’s impact. There was a lot more power behind her strike than there’d been before.

  “Better.”

  He smiled, lowering his guard. “Why don’t you practice that a few times?”

  Azár grinned back, resuming her stance. Darien tossed the practice sword down on a rug beside the other dulled blades the Zakai had brought out for morning drills. He stood watching Azár rehearse her cuts, her feet now in time with the rhythm of her blade. Satisfied, he turned and strolled back across the encampment in search of Sayeed. As he walked, he realized he was smiling. He took enormous pride in his wife. He couldn’t think of another woman he’d ever admired more.

  He crossed the entire encampment in less time than it had taken him a week ago. The attack in Amberlie had greatly reduced their numbers. There were less soldiers, and therefore less tents. He’d healed all the men and women he could, making certain they’d suffer no further losses on the march. Even so, it had taken them longer to reach Glen Farquist than he’d anticipated.

  He found Sayeed conferring with his senior officers. The men stopped talking as soon as they caught sight of him, their gazes slipping to the ground. Even after all the time he’d spent amongst the Tanisars, their eyes had never lost the formal deference that had been there from the outset.

  Sayeed left his men to intercept him, guiding him away with a hand on his arm. Darien still found it peculiar, the lack of personal distance Sayeed and his people were comfortable with. He’d never liked being touched. He’d liked it less in recent months. There were only two people in the world he could endure being in close proximity to: Azár and Sayeed. Everyone else knew better and kept their distance.

  At the top of a low rise, Sayeed let go of his arm and gestured downhill at the valley below. They stood in the shadow of the Craghorns, the mountain’s snowy summits blocking the warm rays of the morning sun. Below, the forest thinned to grassland. Beyond the ridge, the grassland thinned to sand. The valley below was a microcosm of desert surrounded by mountains and rolling, heathered hills, protected by a horseshoe ring of golden bluffs. Highly defensible geographically. In all of recorded history, Glen Farquist had never fallen.

  Sayeed asked, “What are your thoughts?”

  Darien stared down at the opening between the cliffs, remembering the last time he had ridden between those sandstone walls. It had been with Naia, the same day he had forsworn his Oath of Harmony. He still remembered the harsh face of Naia’s father, the High Priest of Death, who had tried to convince him to abandon his course. Darien wondered how his life would have been different if he’d listened to the man.

  “It’ll be well-defended,” he said. “They don’t have a standing army, but they can raise a competent force of clergy and laymen. A few of the temples have monks trained in the martial arts. They’re also in possession of several artifacts that might give us problems.”

  Sayeed’s face grew very serious. “And will they yield?”

  Darien shook his head. “No.”

  Sayeed blew out a long sigh, then bit his lip thoughtfully, his gaze travelling over the valley. His face ranged through a variety of emotions, finally settling on trepidation. “If these are men and women of the cloth, it is ill luck to strike them down.”

  Darien turned his back on the valley. “They struck first.”

  Kyel strode beside Alexa down a narrow tunnel that plunged beneath the cliffs rimming Glen Farquist. The silent cleric who guided them carried a flickering torch in his hand that cast a rippling plume of light. The massive expanse of rock above them seemed to bear down on the roof of the tunnel, so much so that Kyel felt like he had to duck as he walked along. The air was frigid and smelled of wet clay, an odor Kyel found nostalgic.

  In the weeks before the Battle of Orien’s Finger, Darien had sent him on a mission to find a way to seal the Well of Tears. There was no greater library in the world than the vast warren of Om’s temple. Kyel had spent three days leafing through texts and documents in the belly of the temple, only to find out his search had been merely pretense. Darien had already known the text he needed. The search had been just another of the infuriating lessons Darien had contrived for him.

  Alexa hadn’t spoken a word since they’d entered the tunnels. She walked at Kyel’s side looking utterly serene, as if she had been in the warrens of the temple a hundred times before. Perhaps she had. Along their journey south, she’d shared tidbits of her life, like crumbs scattered before him on the floor. But the same way crumbs did a poor job of describing the loaf they’d been broken from, Alexa’s scraps of information yielded surprisingly little about her life before Aerysius’ fall.

  At the bottom of the tunnel, they reached a broad avenue carved from rock. There, they were passed off to another cleric, who led them along a subterranean highway past a tall water clock. They followed their guide through several corridors filled with silent men and women carrying armloads of scrolls and books. They turned down a whitewashed hallway that led to the High Priest’s personal chambers.

  Their brown-robed guide knocked on the door then swept it open before them. But when Kyel moved to enter the room, the cleric stepped between Alexa and himself, preventing her from following. The balding old man shook his head.

  “It’s all right,” Kyel assured Alexa. “They’re funny like this. I’ll catch up with you when I’m done here.”

  Alexa’s eyes clouded with doubt, but at last she nodded and followed their guide back in the direction they’d come from.

  Kyel had good reason to trust the clerics. And good reason not to. He’d spent a lot of his time in their warrens during the past two years. They had helped him make the transition from commoner to mage, helping him locate information he so desp
erately needed to increase his knowledge. And they’d cared for his son and seen to Gil’s education, something Kyel hadn’t been able to do alone. Even after what had happened to Cadmus, he had every reason to believe the priesthood of Wisdom would still support him.

  He hoped.

  He entered the High Priest’s chambers and found two men waiting for him within. The first was a middle-aged man Kyel had never seen before. He was slender, except for his cheeks, which looked mottled and swollen. He wore a pair of spectacles that hung off-kilter too far down his nose. But it was the man sitting beside him who commanded Kyel’s attention.

  Kyel moved into the room, nodding formally at the High Priest of Wisdom.

  The priest returned the gesture, his long white beard dipping to brush his steepled fingers. He wore elegant robes of rich brown, along with a bronze stole draped over his shoulders. His vibrant blue gaze came to rest on Kyel’s cloak.

  Kyel turned to the gangly cleric sitting on the stool next to him. “I’m Kyel Archer,” he introduced himself. “Pardon, but I don’t believe we’ve met?”

  The cleric’s glasses slipped further down his nose. He pushed them back with a finger. “My name is Arvel. I am the Voice of His Eminence.”

  The man was Cadmus’ replacement, Kyel realized. “Your Eminence, where did you have Alexa taken?”

  It was Arvel who replied. “Your companion has been escorted to a guest room, where she may recover from her journey.” He adjusted his posture on the stool, sliding his bare feet up to rest on the crossbar between the stool’s legs. “We are glad you have returned. Events have transpired that—”

  “I want to see my son,” Kyel cut him off.

  The High Priest shook his head.

  Arvel stated firmly, “You may see your son after we have spoken. There are many issues that are of paramount importance, and—”

  “No.”

  Kyel shook his head firmly. When he’d first met the High Priest of Wisdom, he had allowed the man to unsettle him, and in doing so, allowed himself to be manipulated easily. No longer. He was done with being controlled.

  “Whatever you want to say, it can wait,” he told the two men, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I want to see my son first.”

  Arvel stared at him unblinkingly. Tense moments wore by. At last, the cleric shook his head. “Our warrens extend for miles. A small child could easily get lost within,” he said softly, dangerously.

  Kyel froze, rooted by fear. They had anticipated his arrival and had prepared for it. He sank back into his seat, glaring at Arvel with a raptor’s intensity.

  “Be warned,” Kyel said. “I’ve lost any patience I ever had with the temples of Glen Farquist. This temple, in particular. Bring my son to me. Now.”

  Arvel turned and looked at the High Priest. The two stared at each other a long moment. They were conferring, Kyel knew. The Vicar of Om had taken a vow of silence and could only express his thoughts through the medium of his Voice. That Voice had once been Cadmus. Apparently, it was now Arvel.

  “We are willing to make a compromise,” Arvel said at last. “If you address two of the issues we wish to speak of first, then your son will be brought to you. You may spend the remainder of the day in his company. Then tonight after supper, we will gather here again to address the remainder of the issues that confront us.”

  Kyel glared at him a moment longer, stewing. At last he nodded. The compromise was likely the best offer he’d get. He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Very well.”

  Arvel looked pleased. He set his hands on the table, knitting his fingers with a smile. “We shall first address the abhorrent amount of power in you.”

  Kyel blinked. He hadn’t expected that. At least, not right away. They had jumped right to the most damning subject they could confront him with. Perhaps it was an attempt to throw him off balance. If so, it was working.

  “What about it?” he asked warily.

  The man leaned forward in his chair, smiling at Kyel apologetically. His glasses had slipped down his nose again. This time, he didn’t bother pushing them back. “Before we begin, we wish to apologize for our lack of sensitivity on these issues. However, it is not possible to discuss—”

  “Just get on with it,” Kyel growled.

  Arvel stared at him in silence for a moment, then said with a flick of his eyebrows, “To be very blunt, you have eleven tiers of power in you. If you were any other mage, and this were any other time, we’d already have your execution prearranged. However … we wish to assure you that is not the case. We have no plans to harm you.”

  Kyel shrugged dismissively. “That’s because you don’t think I’ll live long enough to be a threat.”

  Arvel smiled. “I’m glad you understand. Considering the situation, there can be no secrets between us.” With one hand, he slid the spectacles from his face and set them on the table. Reaching up, he massaged the bridge of his nose.

  When he lowered his hand, Arvel’s face had transformed.

  Sitting across from Kyel was a different man entirely, one of robust stature and imposing presence. Kyel stared at him in stunned silence as seconds ticked by. His eyes went to the old man. Then back to the man who had just been Arvel.

  Kyel didn’t know how he knew. He just knew.

  “You are Om,” he whispered.

  “No.” Arvel shook his head. “Om does not exist. He never has. Like almost every other deity, Om is merely an inception, an archetype of an ideal. Which explains my existence: I am the incarnation of what Om would be. Through my network of historians and spies, I have access to limitless knowledge and can conduct limitless surveillance. I have access to artifacts that expand my mind, my sight, and my hearing. I listen to all the mutterings and grumblings of the world. I feel the flutter of every butterfly wing. I am aware of every birth and every death. Every cry of misery and every gasp of joy. For all intents and purposes, I am a god. The only thing I lack is the spark of divinity.”

  Kyel sat back, folding his hands. Part of him felt anger, betrayal. Another part was just relieved to hear the truth. At least, now, he had something to work with.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked. “Why now? Why me?”

  Arvel stood up, turning his back on the old priest, who now sat staring at the surface of the table, looking decisively irrelevant. He said to Kyel, “All the rules have changed. We are now reaching the end game. And now, more than ever before, we must play to win. In the coming days, you will be tested more than any other mage in history. You must stand firm. It is the only way the Rhen will survive the coming crisis with any remnants of civilization intact. Unfortunately, you have no choice.”

  Kyel disagreed. “I do have a choice. Don’t ever for a second think I don’t.” He narrowed his eyes. “And while we’re at it, let’s get one damn thing straight: I’m not on your side. I’ve never been. I’m on my own side—and I’m not convinced our goals are compatible.”

  Arvel folded his hands. Softly, he asked, “And what are your goals, Sentinel Archer?”

  The man was trying to intimidate him. It wouldn’t work. What Arvel didn’t understand was that Kyel had already accepted the inevitability of his own death—a feeling that was oddly liberating. Very few things could scare him any longer. Certainly not the robed creature in front of him.

  Kyel responded in an even tone, “My goal has never changed: to serve the land and its people.”

  “Ah,” the false god smiled. “The Acolyte’s Oath. Very noble. But very pedestrian. Even you must agree: the wording is rather vague.”

  “That doesn’t change its intent.” Kyel smiled bitterly. “What that oath means is I’m not your tool. I’m a servant of the land and the people of the land. And I’ll be the judge as to which land that applies to, and which people that includes.”

  Arvel looked at him and drew in a long, expansive breath, his face menacing. “What exactly are you implying?”

  Kyel sat forward, resting his arm on the table. “
For a thousand years, your temple and its ‘limitless knowledge’ has known the truth about the Enemy. But instead of coming to their aid, you walled them away in the Black Lands and beat them back whenever they’ve emerged. What you’ve done is nothing short of genocide. I won’t tolerate it anymore.”

  The man stiffened. “Then you have decided to align with Xerys against us?”

  “No.” Kyel shook his head firmly. “Not with Xerys. I’m taking the side of common sense and decency. I’ll help you stand against Renquist and his Servants. I’ll help you drive them from this world. But I will not help you destroy an entire population of people. I’ll fight you to the death first.”

  Arvel cocked an eyebrow. “Are you aware there are three Enemy armies ravaging the North even as we speak? One less than a day’s ride from here?”

  “Of course, I’m aware of it,” Kyel snapped. “I’ve done everything I can to slow them down and deplete their numbers. But we have to end this. We need to negotiate with them. Strike a treaty. Find a way we can peacefully coexist.”

  Arvel stared at him sidelong. “They’re murdering and ravaging the very people you’ve sworn to protect.”

  “They’re led by a demon,” Kyel acknowledged. “But that doesn’t make them demons.”

  Arvel slid back in his seat. He peered over the waxed table top with ice blue eyes that burned like coldfire. “So, what do you propose?”

  Kyel shrugged, thinking the answer should be obvious. “I propose we get rid of the demon.”