The woman reached out and tugged on Kyel’s arm. “Listen to me! Your Oath doesn’t matter anymore! This is your chance! You can slay him right here!”
In defiance of the necrators, Darien mustered the last, fraying thread of his courage. He taunted Alexa, “Why don’t you do it? I’m here. Take my soul.”
He spread his arms, inviting her to attack. The woman narrowed her eyes, visibly seething. But she did nothing.
“You can’t, can you? That’s why you need him.” Darien dropped his arms and said to Kyel, “She’s Renquist’s insurance, should I turn against him. He needs one of us dead.”
He turned his glare back to Alexa. Staring at her and her only, Darien pronounced with confidence, “She’s not living, Kyel. She’s like a necrator herself. She’s Renquist’s minion.”
Kyel backed slowly away. “Then why didn’t she just kill me herself?”
Darien stood focused on Alexa. “She’s a conduit. A soul-siphon. She needs us together, in close proximity. That’s the only way she can wrench the gift out of one of us and Transfer it to the other.”
The woman’s smile grew slowly exultant. “So you found me out, fool. I applaud you. Only, you’re wrong about one thing.”
“What is that?” Darien asked.
She scoffed. Then she spread her hands. “I can kill you myself.”
The ring of necrators swept forward. Darien threw his hands out to stop them—a futile effort. There was nothing he could do. But they didn’t touch him. Instead they surrounded him, containing him.
The woman walked toward him, confident, triumphant.
She parted the ring of shadows and stepped inside the circle.
She raised her hand.
Darien doubled over as vicious agony clawed at him from the inside, tearing rapidly through every fiber of his being. He knew what it was—and the terror of that knowledge was incapacitating. The woman had captured him in a terrible link that was ripping his newfound gift out of his soul. Darien dropped to the floor, howling in mortal anguish as he thrashed in his death throes.
With a cry, Azár sprang in front of him. A wave of Alexa’s arm sent her flying backward.
A jarring thump was followed by a shrieking scream.
Life and power crashed back into him. The song of the magic field surged, soaring with fury in his head. He was filled to bursting with power, but it wasn’t a power he could use. It collapsed into silence as swiftly as it rose, held in check by the presence of the necrators.
Darien lay twitching as the pain slowly released its grip. At last, his body relaxed, and air returned to his lungs. He thrust out a hand and pushed himself upright.
He sat blinking, too shocked and too weakened to move. It took him long seconds to realize what had happened. The woman knelt on the floor, her fingers groping at the hilt of Sayeed’s sword, sunken like a lance through the center of her chest. Alexa’s face went slowly slack, her eyes rolling back. She slumped forward, driving the blade in further.
Still, the necrators remained. She hadn’t commanded them to leave.
“Darien…”
It was the smallest, weakest sound. He turned and glanced behind him.
Azár lay sprawled on the floor, her lids heavy, her eyes staring upward. She wasn’t moving.
“No.”
Darien shook his head in denial even as he scrambled toward her. He collapsed at her side, pulling his wife into his arms. She was alive, but barely. Blood drained from her scalp, her nose, her mouth. Her eyes stared up at him, her lips moving wordlessly. He had no idea what she was trying to say. All he knew was that she was dying. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He was losing his wife. He was losing his daughter. He was losing them both.
Darien lifted Azár’s head until her face was pressed against his. He closed his eyes and silently begged her not to go.
But she was going. He could feel her dying.
So he did the one thing he could. He kissed her softly and told her he loved her.
His voice was the last sound she heard. A slight smile touched Azár’s lips as she died.
Immediately, Darien felt the stir of energy in his arms as the conduit of Transference between them opened. Power gushed into him from his wife’s broken body, invading his own. Darien’s muscles locked rigid—he couldn’t let go—as Azár’s body shed its two tiers of power like a parting gift.
He screamed in outrage, in defiance, in futility.
When it was done, he collapsed on top of her, weeping scalding tears of grief. He clutched her tight in his arms and pressed his face against hers.
“Brother. Come away.”
Hands encircled him, tugging at him gently. He jerked away. He wasn’t ready to let her go.
“I’m so sorry, Darien.”
That was Naia’s voice.
His tears flowed freely, wetting his wife’s soft cheeks.
“Take him somewhere he can mourn,” Naia whispered.
Hands encircled him again.
“Leave me alone,” he rasped, and clutched Azár harder.
Naia sank down beside him and set a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her touch was a rude invasion. He tried shrugging it off.
“Let me care for her, Darien,” Naia said in the compassionate and composed voice of a priestess.
For some reason, her words made him weep harder.
“Come away, Brother,” Sayeed said.
Darien didn’t fight him. With one last kiss, he let his wife’s body slide out of his arms and settle on the floor. Then he rose from the ground, trembling and broken, a thin fragment of the man he’d been just moments before.
Leaning heavily on Sayeed, he let his brother guide him out of the ring of necrators.
38
Broken
Kyel took a step into the shrine.
Beneath his feet, the floorboards gave an exhausted groan. The sound startled him. He jerked to a halt, planting a hand on the cold stone wall. Standing rigid in the doorway, he gazed straight ahead into the dimly lit shrine, a small room with oppressive walls, not much more than a niche carved out of the temple’s long nave. The shrine was filled with a gloomy light shed from dozens of small candles spread across the floor. Kyel lingered in the doorway, a silent and uninvited spectator, not wanting to infringe on the privacy of the scene playing out within.
“You can come in, Kyel.”
He winced at the sound of Naia’s voice. Swallowing, he moved hesitantly toward her, stepping with care through a meandering forest of flickering candleflame. Naia knelt at the far end of the shrine over the body of the dead woman. With the patient care of a sister, she fussed over every detail: smoothing fabric, arranging hair, painstakingly composing every feature. Kyel stood in awe of Naia’s talents. In a short span of time, the former priestess had transformed a broken and bloodied corpse into an exotic beauty that seemed reposed in peaceful slumber.
“Who was she?” he asked, watching Naia stroke a silken lock of hair into place.
“His wife.”
“I know that,” Kyel grumbled. “But who was she?”
Naia didn’t respond immediately. Her hand stopped moving. She knelt quietly, gazing down at the woman with a whimsical expression on her face. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Someone very special, I think.”
Kyel believed that. He knelt beside Naia, pondering the woman laid out before them. She was small, even dainty. But there was something about her face that hinted at something stronger within. He thought Naia might be right. Darien had chosen an exceptional woman to love.
He sat down on the floor. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About Alexa. She was killing him, and Darien couldn’t do anything about it. Her necrators had him paralyzed. I wonder if that means…?”
“That he’s not evil anymore?” Naia shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Darien’s the same man you met at Greystone Keep, the same man I fell in love with. In all this time, he’s never changed. The only thing that’s different are the c
ircumstances surrounding him. Darien has pulled his support from Xerys. Nothing more. And now his master has abandoned him.”
Kyel looked back down at the dead woman. He sat there in silence for a long time, contemplating Naia’s words. Pondering his own emotions, which surprised him. He realized there was still a small part of him that held out hope for Darien. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse about himself.
Suddenly, the floor beneath him lurched.
Kyel started, groping at the wall for stability. Naia pushed herself off the ground. She stood glancing about, her face paling.
Kyel could feel the entire magic field quaking, like a powerful aftershock. He rose to his feet, his hands clutching his head. The field lines grated against each other, raking like a dull knife down his nerves.
“It’s getting bad,” he gasped.
Beside him, Naia turned in a slow circle, staring up at the ceiling. “It is. We need to be getting up the mountain. I fear our time is running short.”
Kyel was thinking the same thing. “I hope Darien is up for this.”
She shrugged dismissively. “He doesn’t have a choice.” Her gaze trailed over the dead woman. “She’s ready. I’ll go get him.”
Darien stared at the passionless flames in the hearth, feeling trapped in a universe of nothingness. The nothingness was like a thick cotton blanket that enveloped him, encasing him completely, muffling out the world. He was dimly aware of time sliding past him. But it had nothing to do with him, so he paid it no mind. He thought perhaps he might be cold but couldn’t tell for sure. He could feel the creeping fingers of madness groping over him, and welcomed them in.
“Darien.”
A hand settled on his shoulder. He resented the feel of it. The touch was an invasion he couldn’t bear and couldn’t ignore. He moved slightly, pulling away from it.
“It’s time.” It was Naia’s voice, knifing through the comforting layers of detachment. “We have to be going. Would you like to say goodbye first?”
Hurt stabbed through him. He wanted to retreat back into the world of nothingness and dancing flame.
“Come, Darien. Let me help you up.”
Hands eased him to his feet. He followed where those hands led, lacking the will to resist. He let Naia guide him away from the hearth and back through the sitting area of the suite. Vaguely, he was aware of Sayeed standing and moving toward him, a deep scowl of concern on his face. But Naia shook her head, and the officer came no closer. Darien gazed at him dully, as if through a thick screen of lead.
The door closed behind them softly.
Naia’s hand on his arm kept him moving. It was the only thing that did. Darien followed her along corridors and down flights of stairs. Out into a dark and blustery night. Wind raked his hair, clawed tears from his eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t the wind. He didn’t know. Smoke rode the scourging currents of air, thick and caustic. He thought perhaps the city burned. He hoped it did.
The wind whipped his senses back into focus, and he became slowly aware of his surroundings. He realized Naia had led him out of the palace grounds, that they were moving through the city streets. Frantic citizens hastened by, their children and possessions in their arms. In the distance glowed a luminous orange cloud. He could hear the sounds of screams.
Naia swept a door open and closed it behind them. Darkness settled around him, lit only by a soft, wavering light. And silence. Darien closed his eyes, savoring the quiet. Naia led him forward, moving through a gauzy haze of muted light.
Her hand released him.
“I’ll wait here,” she said softly.
Darien could feel her moving away. He knew what lay before him. He didn’t want to look. But he did anyway.
Azár lay on the floor, surrounded by a sea of candles glowing with a timid light. At once, his shield of detachment fell away, and he was instantly engulfed in a holocaust of grief. Darien sank to his knees, taking his wife’s limp hand into his own. He sent his will plummeting into her, probing, seeking, to find only emptiness. An emptiness more eternal than the world that imprisoned him.
He closed his eyes and let the despair come. But it was fleeting, replaced quickly by rage. A savage anger consumed him, burning away reason.
Growling, Darien clenched Azár’s hand and sent a violent deluge of healing energies flooding into her body. He forced his will into her, prying and tunneling into every sinew and tissue, assaulting her violently. He pulled with all his great might at the magic field, filling himself to the point of pain, channeling every last drop of power he could wrest into her. Until she glowed with brilliant energies that streamed off her in sad, radiant waves.
“Stop, Darien!”
He ignored the command, intensifying his efforts, until the pain became excruciating. With a cry, he released the magic field and slumped forward.
“You have to let her go.” Naia’s voice was filled with compassion and good sense.
He knew she was right. The knowledge defeated him, forcing him to give in to the futility of it all. Darien released Azár, laying her down to rest. Then he turned and glared up at Naia with wrath in his eyes.
“I’m so tired of this world,” he grated. “I want nothing more to do with it. People say hell is a place of torment. Well, I’ve been there. And believe me, hell’s a much kinder place.”
He surged to his feet and made for the door of the shrine. But he halted as something caught his attention: a frieze of the Goddess of Death, carved into the wall beside the doorway. The sight of it tore him wide open.
“Damn you, bitch,” he snarled as he fled.
It took Naia long minutes and many steps to catch up with him. She wove through Rothscard’s frantic streets, dodging panicked mobs of citizens. Ahead of her, Darien carved his way through the densely packed avenues. His very presence radiated dark power, inspiring enough fear to clear a path ahead of him. Naia jogged in his wake, at last closing the distance to walk at his side.
Darien didn’t appear to notice her. His long, forceful strides propelled him toward the castle, while Naia had to jog to keep up. Seeing their approach, a group of Tanisars guarding the gates rushed forward. Darien stormed through their ranks without acknowledging them. He didn’t slow until he reached the courtyard of the palace. Then he finally relented and looked at her.
“Do you have a plan?” he demanded, angling toward the steps.
“We’ll use the Rothscard portal to transfer north to Orien’s finger,” she informed him, hurrying to keep up. “From there, we’ll take the stairs into the warrens, just as we did before.”
“What then?”
They entered the castle and crossed the foyer. “Then Kyel destroys the Well.”
“And what about Renquist and Krane?”
Feeling a terrible, sinking ache, Naia halted in her tracks. Darien continued on a few steps before stopping to turn back. Choking on sorrow, Naia shrugged helplessly. “Quin never returned,” she whispered. She had foreseen Quin’s death in one variation of this future. They still had a chance of success. A chance that would have to be purchased with blood.
“Your plan isn’t going to work,” Darien grumbled. “Without the magic field, we’re defenseless. But Renquist will still have the Hellpower.”
Of course, he was right. She’d put so much faith in her vision, she hadn’t thought of that.
“You’re a darkmage,” she said at last. “What do you suggest?”
Pacing slowly back and forth, Darien stared at the ground with a relentless scowl. “We need to distract them long enough for Kyel to reach the Well.” Continuing to pace, he went silent for a long moment. Then he halted and said without looking at her, “I think I can manage that.”
Naia felt a surge of hope. “How?”
Darien’s expression collapsed into something that looked an awful lot like shame. He admitted, “Before you arrived, I agreed to help Renquist with a proposal.”
“What proposal?” Naia asked warily.
He turned
away. “I agreed to help him stabilize the magic field by absorbing enough power to release Xerys from the Netherworld. I was supposed to start with Kyel.”
Naia stood speechless, staring at him in revulsion. “And you thought this was a good idea?” she finally managed. She felt throttled by disappointment. Like Kyel, she had allowed herself to hope Darien’s soul might be salvageable. But his admission was a painful reminder of his nature. A reminder she dared not ignore.
He glowered at her. “At the time, yes. I thought it was a good idea, considering the alternatives.”
“And have you changed your mind?” Naia pressed, angry now.
“I have. But Renquist doesn’t know that. I’ll tell him I killed Kyel and absorbed his gift. He will have no reason to doubt me, so he won’t be guarding the Well. I’ll keep his attention focused on me. That should give Kyel time to act.”
Naia felt somewhat reassured. “Then this is the version I saw. We’re on the right path with this plan.”
“That’s well and good.” Darien’s gaze drifted back down the hallway.
Just then, the magic field sprang taut, making the world teeter. Naia’s stomach took a downward plunge. Her gaze shot to Darien.
“It’s now or never,” she warned.
He nodded. “I’ll meet you down by the Citadel. There’s something I have to do first.”
He turned and strode away. Naia stood watching him go, daring to hope.
Darien retrieved the small bronze cylinder from the desk and, pocketing it, left the steward’s office. He walked up the stairs to the guestrooms and found Sayeed’s door. He entered without knocking.
Startled, the officer bolted out of his chair. He crossed the floor in three great strides, catching Darien up in a crushing embrace.
Darien stiffened. But then he relented, taking what comfort he could from the gesture. After a long moment, Sayeed let him go, and stepping back, regarded him with an expression of boundless sympathy.
Darien ignored the man’s unspoken question.
Reaching down, he removed the two sheathed blades that hung from their belt-hoops at his waist. He unbuckled his war belt, the one he’d inherited from his ancestor, Braden Reis. The belt came off with a clatter of steel rings, heavy with the combined weights of the implements it bore. Very deliberately, Darien wound the leather strap around both scabbards. Then he offered the weapons and belt to Sayeed.
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