It was time to push beyond. With Tsula gone, it was time to forge ahead, to see if there were any more possibilities she hadn’t yet encountered.
Naia closed her eyes and let the silvery tendrils uncoil. She cleared her mind and let the visions seep into her.
The epitome of all storms—the storm that every other storm aspired to be—raged and ripped across the atmosphere. Thunder lashed against the cliffs, and lightning the color of blood sliced wounds in the air. The wind howled a monstrous wail as it rampaged through the mountains, terrorizing the clouds, which fled wildly before it. The world screamed in mortal anguish, and Naia screamed with it.
Kyel was below them in the chamber of the Well of Tears. Wielding his silver talisman against the portal while the Reversal was still maximized.
Sprawled in the center of the Circle of Convergence, Darien lay in an expanding pool of blood. The blood was artery-red and voluminous—far more than one human body could possibly contain. It spread rapidly, as if seeking to saturate the entire Circle. Or the entire world. Or the universe.
A thunderous clap of air sent Renquist hurling to the ground. Naia looked up in terror, in hope, in desperation. She gasped in disbelief.
Blood streaming down his face, Quin stalked toward her across the glowing Circle of Convergence, Kyel’s silver talisman glowing like a beacon in his hand.
“Run, Naia!” he shouted. Hefting the weapon, Quin advanced toward Renquist.
Naia froze. It was wrong. It was all terribly, terribly wrong.
“No, Quin!” she shrieked. “Leave him! Help Darien!”
Zavier Renquist rose to his feet, eyes menacing pools of shadow. He raised his hand and struck out at her with the Onslaught.
Naia screamed as the world around her broke apart, shattering like glass into a thousand tiny fragments, each with its own awful reality. She caught brief glimpses of each, each more terrible than the last.
She lived a thousand lifetimes in a heartbeat.
And a thousand deaths.
Naia collapsed to her knees, bent over in horror. Bringing her hands up to her face, she choked on tears. Quin was right: Tsula had been blocking her.
Now, her block was lifted. She realized why Tsula had placed it there in the first place: to protect her, to save her from insanity.
But she wasn’t insane. Somehow, her mind had survived branching into a thousand different directions, then unbranching to become whole again. And within those myriad branches, she had caught just a glimpse of the one future they desperately needed. But that was all. Just a glimpse.
And that was all she was ever going to get. Naia felt certain she would never survive being shattered like that again.
She sucked in a deep breath through her nostrils and let it out again slowly. She waited there, kneeling, until she got her emotions back under control. Then, wiping the tears from her eyes, Naia stood up and made her way toward the tendril-encrusted wall. She took one last, stabbing glance back, then stepped out of the dark sphere, vowing to never, ever enter it again.
She could never be a Harbinger. She could never approach Tsula’s courage.
Naia fled the Nexus, hardly noticing the placement of her feet as she took the glass stepping stones two at a time. She stumbled back onto the balcony of the castle, then stopped, blinking, looking around for Quin in the harsh glare of the sun.
She found him around the corner, sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree in purple bloom. He looked up, hearing her footsteps. Seeing the expression on her face, he shot out of his seat, coming toward her with his brow furrowed in concern. Naia dove into his arms, the tears already springing back into her eyes.
“I know what we have to do,” she gasped, sobbing quietly against the fabric of his coat. His arms tightened around her, crushing her against his chest. His hand ran soothingly through her hair.
“What is it? What did you see?”
She pulled back and looked up at him. “We can destroy the Well of Tears without destroying the magic field.”
Quin stepped back with a look of confused disbelief. “How’s that possible?”
Naia shook her head as fresh tears spilled down her face. “It’s possible. We can do it. But the price is so high…”
“You’ve seen it?” he asked. His face bled through several shades of pale before settling on gray.
She nodded. “I only saw a fragment of it. Just a glimpse. And that’s all I’m going to get because the chance of it happening is so miniscule. And…” Her voice trailed off.
“And what?” he glared at her suspiciously.
“I think you’re going to die, Quin,” she whispered. “So will Darien. So will Kyel. Your soul will be consigned to hell. And with the Well destroyed … there’ll be no coming back for you. Ever.” She grimaced, bowing her head in grief.
Quin reached out and, with a finger, lifted her chin until she was gazing into his eyes.
“Do you live?” he asked.
“I think so…” she whispered.
He nodded once.
“Then it’s worth it.”
26
Gods Be Damned
Darien slid the oiled cloth down his sword’s blade, applying all of his concentration to the effort. Not that oiling common steel was a demanding task, but it was something to divert his mind from the battle and its aftermath. All around him, tents were being broken down, fires extinguished, his soldiers going about their business with a kind of disciplined efficiency that Darien had never seen before entering the Black Lands. Even after such a harrowing defeat, his men still went about their duties with machine-like efficiency.
Darien wished he could share their focus. As it was, it was all he could do to rub his blade with the oiled rag and try not to think too much. Thinking inevitably led to remembering, and remembering was something he wanted to avoid. But there was only so much oil that could be applied to a blade without gumming it up. Darien slid Valdivora back into its sheath and put the cleaning kit away in his pack.
He looked up, his eyes drawn to the eastern sky, which glowed with the warmth of dawn. A breeze stirred, its breath heavy with the odor of woodsmoke and damp earth. It was a chill morning. He stood and strapped his war belt around his waist, adjusting the scabbard at his side. He scrubbed his hands together to rub the sword oil into his skin and started back to his tent.
Darien’s thoughts turned to Kyel, despite his best efforts at distraction. He was tired of replaying the battle in his head, scouring his memory for things he should have done differently. After days of analyzing his strategy and actions, he kept returning to the same conclusion: that there was nothing he could have done to change the outcome.
He hadn’t lost the battle because of his own lack of competence. The battle had been lost because of Kyel’s superior abilities.
And that’s what scared Darien most. He had control over his own actions, his own men. His own power. But there was nothing he could do to change the fact that Kyel had become far more powerful than himself. And had command of an artifact he had no hope of defending against.
Darien paused, sweeping his eyes over the encampment. He wasn’t surprised when he saw Sayeed walking toward him down an aisle between tents. The man wore the same scowl he’d been wearing for the past four days.
The officer drew to a halt, looking at him critically. Appearing dissatisfied with what he saw, Sayeed made a motion with his hand, indicating a fallen tree that lay sprawled across the ground nearby. Darien took his meaning and walked over to it, lowering himself to take a seat.
Sayeed sat next to him. “Be grateful,” he said. “You are alive.”
Darien found the comment sadly ironic. “Am I?” he asked. His tentative existence was another source of irritation, somewhere between the world of the living and the world of the damned.
“In all ways that matter,” Sayeed said. “You are a man, Brother. And, just like any man, you are fallible.”
Fallible. That was not the term Darien would have used. In
effective had a truer ring to it. He tossed his hands up in frustration. “I don’t know how to counter him. I don’t think I can.”
Sayeed shrugged indifferently. “You’ll find a way. He has limitations. This Oath of Harmony—that is a crippling oath. I do not understand why any mage would swear it. Especially one who is supposed to be a defender of his homeland.” He reached down and scratched his leg, a quizzical expression on his face.
Darien glanced past him toward the encampment, where the last of the tents were being broken down and folded for the march. “It’s supposed to prevent moral degradation. To keep someone like Kyel from becoming someone like me. It does seem limiting—yet in many ways, it’s not. You saw how easily he handled me. There wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Every time I attacked, he just turned my own magic against me.”
“Then next time, don’t attack,” Sayeed suggested.
“What would you have me do?”
“The same thing he does. Think, Brother.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his splayed knees. “What makes him so effective?”
Darien didn’t have to think about it long. He remembered the hopeless frustration he’d felt when he realized there was nothing he could do. “He neutralizes me.”
Sayeed’s eyes locked on his. “Then neutralize him.”
“I thought I had. With the necrators. But then…”
The Zakai officer nodded, his brow furrowing. “That woman. Was she a mage?”
“Aye.” Darien stared down, absently picking at the rough bark under him. “Her name’s Alexa Newell. She was a Naturalist. I didn’t really know her. I just knew of her. She went missing a few years back. It was quite a big thing at the time. There was an enormous search. It took months. They never found a trace of her—everyone just assumed she’d died.”
Sayeed grunted. “Apparently they were wrong.”
“No. Not wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Sayeed’s brow furrowed in incomprehension.
Darien looked past him, toward the tents. He’d spent the last few days in thought, pondering Kyel’s one-sided victory. Alexa’s appearance at the end of the battle disturbed him most. More than anything, he feared what her presence might signify.
He said, “A mortal mage could have never confronted my necrators. Even if her soul was just as black as mine. They’re my minions. She shouldn’t have been able to command them. And she didn’t just command them—she unmade them.” It was a harrowing thought, one that smacked of forces much stronger than himself. The types of forces not Bound by the Oath of Harmony.
“Then make more necrators,” Sayeed shrugged.
“I’ve others I can summon,” Darien said absently, “but that’s not the point. I need to find out what she’s about and what she’s doing with Kyel. I sense another hand at work here. And I don’t like the implications.”
Sayeed stared gravely at him, his dark eyes filled with understanding. “Whatever comes, my sword will always guard your back.”
Darien appreciated that. More than Sayeed would ever know. He said with a smile he didn’t feel, “Then I will never have reason to fear.”
The Zakai officer ducked his head and, patting Darien on the shoulder, stood and strode back to camp. Darien remained behind on the log, watching him go. His fingers picked at the bark, peeling up thin fragments that looked like puzzle pieces. He tried fitting two together, but soon gave up and flicked the pieces away.
Darien rose and made his way toward his tent. They faced another long march that would bring them another day closer to Rothscard. At the pace he’d calculated, it would take them only three more days to reach the city and meet up with the other armies he had sent southward through the Cerulean Plains.
Reaching the tent, Darien stopped and glanced around, looking for Azár. He caught sight of her at last, a short distance away in the direction of the forest. She was kneeling on the ground, bent over her knees.
Concerned, Darien started toward her. She rose to her feet, wiping her mouth. She looked up, noticing him. A change came over her face. Her eyes widened, her jaw going slack. As he neared, she took a step back away.
“Are you ill?” Darien asked, suddenly worried. When she retreated another step, he stopped and raised his hands. He felt like he was stalking some wild creature, one prepared to bolt.
“I am fine,” she said, though her voice didn’t sound fine.
Hearing her tone, Darien felt genuine fear. “Come here. Let me have a look.”
But his wife shook her head. She turned and walked away in haste.
“Come here!” Darien shouted at her back, starting after her.
Azár stopped. And turned around, her eyes full of misery. She bowed her head and stared at the ground instead of him. More than anything else she could have done, that one action alarmed him the most. Azár was not a submissive woman.
Darien strode toward her, fear sharpening his movements. He caught her by the shoulders and stared into her face, groping there for explanation. Azár’s eyes were red and watery. As if she’d been crying. Or sick.
Darien cast his will into her, probing his wife gently with his mind. After moments, he opened his eyes, confused. His probe had returned only a strong sense of health. There was nothing wrong with her. He sagged in relief. Just to make sure, he felt her again. This time, he sensed something else, something he’d overlooked the first time.
There was another presence, deep down inside.
Darien choked, letting go of Azár and stepping back. His mind went numb. His heart stopped. The world crumbled.
“Husband—”
He backed away from her. Azár started after him, panic on her face. Darien raised his hands, fending her off. Then he whirled and strode away, moving across the camp as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. His vision swam, his thoughts paralyzed. He wasn’t aware of where he was going. It didn’t matter; he just needed to escape.
Darien fled the camp and followed a deer trail into the forest, moving like a man walking in his sleep. Or in a nightmare. At last, he staggered to a stop in a small clearing.
There, he fell to his knees. He brought his hands up to his face and allowed the pain to come. He wanted to throw his head back and rail at the vengeful gods.
He’d already lost one child without having the chance to know it. Now he would lose another. And the mother who bore it.
The gods were worse than cruel. They were ruthless.
It was some time before he found the courage and composure to return to camp. Darien walked automatically, striding with his head lowered, eyes locked on the ground in front of him. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t let the men see the defeat on his face.
He found his tent still intact. Darien batted the flap out of his way. Azár was within, sitting cross-legged in their bedding. She looked up as he entered, her face just as raw and devastated as his own.
Darien sank down beside her on the blankets and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her body shudder as she cried softly against him. He closed his eyes, reaching through her to feel the small life within. It was there: a miniscule heartbeat, faint and rapid, like the flutter of hummingbird wings. The feel of it brought a knife-sharp stab of pain. He squeezed her tighter.
“I did not know how to tell you,” Azár moaned against his chest. “I did not know how to tell you that you will have another child who will not—”
“Stop,” Darien growled, choking on the word. He let her go, pulling back. “This child will live! You will both live! I don’t care how many eternities I spend in hell—I am not leaving this world until both of you are safe. Gods be damned, I’ll find a way!”
Azár was sobbing. He clutched her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. He wanted to murder the gods, to take everything from them, the way they’d taken everything from him. He wanted vengeance. But the gods were out of reach, beyond his capacity to cause them pain. So he turned his attention to his wife, instead.
All he could do was hold h
er. And cry with her. So that’s what he did.
27
Sense of Purpose
“Papa, what’s a Sentinel?”
Kyel scooped little Gil off the floor and planted him down in his lap. Smiling sadly, he said, “It’s someone who stands watch. Someone who protects.”
It was hard, putting the essence of who he was into words such a young child could understand. Especially a child who was losing his father. Kyel figured he had to be exceptionally careful about what was spoken and what was left unsaid. Years later, when his son thought back on him, the words said today would likely be remembered best.
“Do Sentinels have magic?”
Kyel nodded, fighting back tears. Gil was asking all the wrong questions, the kind he didn’t want to answer. Or maybe they were the right questions. Regardless, they hurt.
“Yes, Gil. Sentinels have magic.”
The boy’s face lit up. “Do magic, Papa! Do magic!” He bounced up and down in Kyel’s lap, his eagerness too great to be contained in his little body.
But it was not the time for magic.
Kyel ran his hand through his son’s hair. “No, Gil. Not today. Papa’s tired.”
“Pleeeeease?”
“No.” Kyel shook his head. He gazed into his son’s face. At his warm blue eyes. At his soft skin. His full lips. Soft ringlets of hair. Gil was perfect in every way. Kyel took in each feature, one by one, trying to imprint them on his mind. Each was equally important, the most important thing in the world.
“What do you protect, Papa?”
Kyel’s hand was trembling, so he clenched it into a fist. It took him a moment to answer. He knew he had to tell Gil just enough of the truth without being too candid.
“I protect you,” he said finally. “And your mum. And anyone else who needs protecting.”
Gil’s lips twisted, his little eyes scrunching in thought. He sat there for a moment looking very skeptical. Or very concerned.
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