Darkfall Read online

  For the first time in his life, Darien felt grateful to have a family. And for the first time in a long while, he knew true happiness.

  But the moment expired quickly, as he was struck by the harsh slap of reason. He pulled away, suddenly regretting his decision. He had forgotten who he was. And what he was. He hadn’t been brought back into the world to form ties of kinship. He’d been brought back for a singular purpose. And when that purpose was fulfilled, any bonds he’d made along the way would shatter painfully.

  Especially for those he left behind.

  13

  Tendrils of Portent

  It had been another five days with no sign of Tsula.

  The Harbinger had disappeared again without warning. Naia had no idea where she had gone, though she had some idea what the woman was doing. Tsula was undoubtedly taking readings from Athera’s Crescent. But where she went to do that—and how she went about it— remained a mystery. So Naia had been forced to content herself with waiting, not knowing how long that wait would last or what would come from it.

  She had spent the past few days in the castle’s vast library, which occupied the upper three floors. The walls were painted white, and the ceiling was a massive series of vaults covered in bright frescoes. Shelves filled with books lined the walls—all three stories—accessible by colonnaded walkways. It was the most beautiful library Naia had ever beheld, and it contained more information than she had ever seen gathered in one place.

  Naia walked the long hallway back to her room with her arms full of books. She deposited her findings on the desk and then went looking for Quin. He wasn’t hard to find; he’d barely ventured out of his own room in days. He’d been carving a staff out of core wood from one of the castle’s many trees. It was a dark and knobby thing, roughly his own height, unadorned. Some kind of artifact, he insisted, and she believed him. She had witnessed the scope of his talents with both the Soulstone and the Crescent’s conduit. Naia had no doubt he could accomplish any task he set his mind to.

  She didn’t bother to knock—he’d told her not to. She entered and found Quin sitting on his bed, sprawled back in a tall cushion of pillows with the staff laid across his body. He had his glasses on and was fiddling with some instrument that looked like a needle-thin probe. His roll of tools lay next to him on the bed, and an assortment of small vials was arranged beside him on a table. The vials contained a diverse collection of tiny crystals attuned to different characters of the magic field.

  Lingering in the doorway, Naia asked, “How is it coming along?”

  Quin raised the staff and looked down the length of it. Naia wasn’t sure what he could possibly be checking for; the shaft was warped and gnarled, hardly straight.

  Setting it back down, Quin shrugged and looked up at her. “Certainly not my best work, but it will have to suffice. I won’t be able to give it enough time to properly season. Here, take a feel of it and tell me what you think.”

  He sat up and offered her the staff. Naia took it and held it vertically. The staff was taller than she was, and lighter than expected. It didn’t feel like core wood.

  Almost immediately, she felt the power imbued in the staff creep up her arm. It felt cold, like a reptile in the morning shade. The feel of it was unnerving, unnatural. Naia handed the staff back quickly, rubbing her hand to rid herself of the disturbing sensation.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Quin grinned, obviously amused by her reaction. “It’s a shadow staff,” he said, laying the artifact across the bed and standing up. “Working with shadow is difficult. It’s contrary to human nature.”

  “I should say so!” Naia thought of the times she had seen Darien weave shadow. She shivered. “I didn’t realize it was so evil.”

  “It’s not.” Quin smirked. “Ever since we were children, we’ve learned to be afraid of the dark. It’s a very primal fear. To work with shadow, you have to conquer that fear. Which is difficult, because it’s very ingrained. Most mages can’t tolerate it.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Changing the subject, she said, “I was just up in the library again. There’s an awful lot of knowledge amassed there.”

  Quin strolled around the bed to scoop up a small cup of coffee from a bureau against the wall. “I should imagine,” he said, taking a sip. “Once they were identified, apprentice Harbingers never studied in the Lyceum or Aerysius. They learned everything here.”

  “Why was that?”

  “It was always a very secretive Order.” Quin shrugged as he sat back down on the bed. “Because there is only one Crescent, it had to be shared by both the Lyceum and Aerysius. So the Harbingers had to go to great lengths to make certain readings from the Crescent couldn’t be used for political or military gain.”

  He reached over to the table and picked up a leaf-wrapped cigar. He bit off the end and sent it flying across the room. He touched the other end to the shadow staff and smiled when a thin tendril of smoke appeared. Bringing the cigar up, Quin closed his eyes and drew in a long mouthful of smoke.

  “I see you’ve been tinkering again,” stated a low voice.

  Naia turned to find Tsula standing in the doorway.

  “Good,” the Harbinger said. “We will be in need of your skills, so hone them well.”

  Quin puffed harder on the cigar, breathing out a great cloud of smoke. “You’re assuming I still want to help you.”

  Tsula folded her arms, looking down the length of her nose at him. “You do not have a choice. If we destroy the magic field, then the Curse shall be lifted. Magic and mages will be gone—but our civilizations will be restored.”

  Quin appeared to mull over her words. “It’s not going to be that easy. Even if the Curse was lifted today, there haven’t been any plants growing in the Black Lands for a thousand years. There’s no seeds in the dirt, and nothing to fertilize them. I don’t imagine everything will come bounding back just the same as before.”

  “No,” Tsula confirmed darkly. “It will take hundreds of years before the affected lands can be resettled. But it’s the only option we have.”

  Quin looked sideways at her. “What if there’s another option you don’t know about?”

  “There are no other options, Quinlan Reis. Or I would have foreseen them.”

  Quin’s eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”

  Naia looked back and forth between Quin and the Harbinger, wondering who the victor of the exchange would be. Both participants seemed equally matched.

  Tsula made a tsking noise with her tongue. “My readings do not work that way. You will have to trust my word.”

  Quin smiled sardonically around his cigar. “I learned a long time ago not to trust the word of people who tell me I have to trust their word.”

  Tsula paced deeper into the room. Naia moved out of her way as the Harbinger strode across the patterned rugs to stand towering before Quin, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, glaring down at him.

  “The only way I could show proof of my claims is to teach you to read the Crescent yourself. Which is impossible. You are not a Harbinger.”

  “So make me a Harbinger.”

  “You know I can’t do that. You are already sealed to your Order.”

  Quin’s eyes shot to Naia. Holding his cigar between his fingers, he said, “But Naia isn’t. You can teach her.”

  Before Naia could protest, Tsula snapped in a tone of disgust, “The magic field will reverse in two months’ time. I could not possibly teach her all she would need to know in only two months.”

  “Who said anything about two months?” Quin ashed his cigar. “I’ll be magnanimous and give you a week. After that, I’m afraid you’ll have to make other arrangements, because Naia and I will be leaving.”

  Tsula gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing in anger. She wrinkled her nose at a puff of smoke that drifted her way. “You cannot leave. I cannot destroy the magic field by myself!”

  “Then I suppose you’d better get started.” Quin smiled triumphantly, poppi
ng the cigar back into his mouth.

  Naia stared at him, wide-eyed and appalled. She did not want to be trained as a Harbinger. She couldn’t imagine living a life of seclusion in the castle. She had other, much more pressing things to do—

  “You are a fool, Quinlan Reis,” Tsula growled.

  Quin blew a long trail of smoke out the side of his mouth. It curled toward Tsula’s face. “Not just any fool, but a persistent fool. And believe me—there is no more dangerous creature on this earth.”

  Tsula backed away, making a face. She whirled around, snapping over her shoulder, “Come, child. Leave the fool to his foolishness.”

  Naia shot a glare at Quin, who responded by raising his eyebrows. She moved quickly to follow Tsula out the door and into the hallway, their steps resounding sharply off the walls.

  Naia walked in silence, following Tsula through the echoing emptiness of the castle’s ground floor, then out onto the long balcony that overlooked the Crescent. The air was cool but not cold, the sky clear, the surrounding mountains gleaming white. Even though the island had been freed from winter’s reign, snow still lingered at the higher elevations. Tsula walked across the balcony to the stone-carved balustrade. Gripping it with her hands, she turned back to Naia.

  “What I’m about to divulge to you is a secret known only to Harbingers. Think very carefully before we proceed another step. Once we start down this path, there is no turning back.” She stood waiting for an answer, her eyes daring Naia to change her mind.

  Naia wanted none of it. But she had a duty to the people of the Rhen. Even the people of Malikar. She had no choice but to blindly follow the woman down a road she would likely regret.

  Squaring her shoulders, Naia said, “Show me what I need to know.”

  With one last, disparaging glance, the woman let go of the balustrade and walked through it. Standing on the air above the Crescent, Tsula turned and beckoned. “Then walk the path, if you dare.”

  Naia gazed down at Athera’s Crescent then looked back up at the Harbinger. No stranger to mysteries, she wasn’t disturbed by the odd circumstance of the woman standing in midair. It could be a trick, she realized. It was possible Tsula was suspended by magic, and there really was nothing beneath her feet to hold her up. Perhaps she was lingering there, taunting, hoping Naia would step off the balcony and plunge to her death.

  But Naia didn’t think so.

  She had no reason in the world to trust Tsula.

  And yet, for some reason, she did. Naia walked forward, passing through the balustrade as if it were made of gauze. She took a step off the balcony and jolted to a halt. Ahead of her appeared an arching path of glass stepping stones, carefully placed with small gaps between. Feeling a sharp twist of fear, Naia cast an accusing glare at Tsula. The woman could have warned her about the broken nature of the path. The Harbinger turned back around with a gloating smile and continued up toward what appeared to be a floating glass orb that hovered over the crescent, opalescent and gleaming in the sunlight.

  “What is that?” Naia asked, staring up at their destination. A cool breeze tossed her hair about her shoulders.

  Without looking back, the woman informed her, “It is the Nexus. It is where the infinite versions of the Story are read.”

  Naia lowered her eyes from the gleaming Nexus, taking great care in the placement of her feet. “How is it possible that I didn’t notice this was here?”

  “Your eyes see the Nexus,” Tsula informed her, stepping onto a thin and invisible ledge that ringed the orb. “But your mind has been instructed to ignore what your eyes are telling it. It is the effect of a ward. It is a last resort, should all other means fail to protect the Crescent.”

  Naia stepped off the path and onto what appeared to be a glass shelf that sank slightly beneath her weight. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the castle far below them. The path had taken them much further than it had seemed. They were hovering suspended in the air hundreds of feet above the liquid surface of the Crescent.

  Gesturing for her to follow, Tsula stepped through the crystalline wall of the Nexus. Naia followed hesitantly, closing her eyes as she moved through what seemed like the thin membrane of a bubble.

  She found herself standing within a spherical chamber made of shadow, interrupted by twisting tendrils of silver. The ambient light came from nowhere and everywhere. The curving walls absorbed every last drop of that light, sucking it out of the air as if feeding their hunger. Only the fine filaments of silver were visible, writhing over the curving texture of the walls. Naia realized they moved as if living things, branching and unbranching, weaving and unweaving, ambling over the walls like a living tangle of silver vines.

  Tsula stopped in the center of the chamber and turned back to Naia. “The Crescent detects fluctuations in the magic field. Any disturbance of the field creates ripples in the patterns. The Crescent magnifies those ripples and interprets them. It separates the probable from the possible. We use the information it collects to read the myriad versions of the Everlasting Story.”

  “That is an interesting way of putting it,” Naia said, moving toward Tsula and the heart of the spherical chamber.

  The Harbinger opened her hands in an expansive gesture. “Every life is a chapter in the Book of All Things that tells the Everlasting Story. As a person lives their life, it is as though the mightiest of all pens is scribing their own personal Story. As long as a Story is not yet complete, it can have any number of possible endings. We call these possibilities versions. But when a Story is complete, the ending has already been written, and cannot be changed. The final version has been penned.”

  Naia concluded, “So a person can only see the possible versions of their own Story?”

  “That is correct.” The Harbinger nodded. She clasped her hands in front of her.

  “But not other people’s Stories?” Naia’s eyes scanned the dark, curving walls, watching the thin silver vines tangle and untangle, twist and untwist. It was dizzying, mesmerizing. It made her stomach edge toward nausea.

  “No,” Tsula answered. “A Harbinger can only read the possible versions of their own Story. That is why Harbingers always lived apart from other mages. To read the versions of the Book of All Things, a Harbinger must be exposed to the world: living it, experiencing it. But no other person should ever know a Harbinger for what she or he is. Such would influence the versions and therefore influence the Story as it is being penned.”

  Naia frowned, reassessing everything she knew about the Order of Harbingers. Or thought she knew. Never was there an order of mages so cloaked in secrets and mystery. And outright misinformation. “So the Harbingers were not isolated, after all. They would have to come and go from the island frequently.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you haven’t left the island in a thousand years,” she protested. “Surely that must affect your Story. How much could you possibly know about the state of the world?”

  Tsula narrowed her eyes, raising her chin. “Nothing about the Reversal or the magic field has changed in a thousand years. The solutions I have seen are still valid.”

  The silver vines twined and untwined, wove and unwove.

  “How can I read my own Story?”

  “When you are ready, the Crescent will show you all possible versions of your Story and separate the likely from the unlikely.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” It was too simple. Naia’s eyes wandered over the scrolling tendrils.

  “Yes. The Crescent interprets the ripples in the magic field and uses those ripples to present your versions. As a Harbinger, you would merely read your own Story.”

  Naia turned all the way around, her mind echoing the confusion of the tendrils. “That’s ridiculously simple. Why, then, would it take years of training to produce a Harbinger?”

  Tsula explained, “It is not reading the Story that is difficult. What is difficult is knowing which knowledge to divulge, and which to hold back—no matter the cost. If used wi
thout wisdom and restraint, the Crescent could be made to work great evil. And a Harbinger must learn how to digest the information that is revealed without internalizing it.”

  “That makes sense.” Naia yawned. She was becoming tired. The vines were beginning to blur and run together, weeping silver tears down the length of the curving walls. It seemed the world wept with them.

  Tsula announced, “That is your lesson for the day. I want you to think very long and very hard on all I have revealed.”

  Naia didn’t respond. She stared transfixed at the writhing tendrils.

  “You have taken your first steps down the path that will make you a Harbinger. You still do not have a good understanding of which knowledge is safe to share, and which knowledge is necessary to hold back. At this point in your training, you shall share nothing. A Harbinger must remain absolutely neutral in all things. You must understand that anything you tell Quinlan Reis could have dire and everlasting consequences.”

  “I understand,” Naia whispered.

  Tsula barked, “‘I understand, Warden Renquist.’”

  Naia’s attention snapped into acute focus. “I beg your pardon?”

  The vines flinched all around the walls, then twinged away into nothingness. The Nexus darkened. Naia’s pulse throbbed, shuddering in her ears. She stared aghast at the woman who stood before her with all the power and dignity of an empress.

  The Harbinger took a step forward then informed her with a graceful sweep of her hand, “You are now my apprentice, so I expect you to address me by my proper title. I am Tsula Renquist, Warden of the Order of Harbingers. When the two of us are alone, you will address me as Warden Renquist. But when we are not alone, you are to address me simply as Tsula. Am I understood?”

  Naia nodded, feeling her face whiten and her extremities go numb. She whispered, “Warden Renquist … if I may ask…?”

  The woman lifted her chin and answered Naia’s unspoken question, “I am the wife of Prime Warden Zavier Renquist.”