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  “Gladly.” Darien answered Ranoch’s smile with his own. Then he grew serious. Now that the treaty was secured, he could waste no time in ironing out the details. He said, “I’m going to need to divide our forces. Together, there are too many people for us to feed. If we split our numbers, we split our need for resources.”

  Ranoch nodded. “That is wise.”

  Darien continued, “The army of Maridur will remain behind to defend our train. The army of Bryn Calazar will continue southward and lay siege to Rothscard. I’ll take a smaller force south through the Vale of Amberlie to assault Glen Farquist. I ask that you divide your riders and travel with our armies.”

  Ranoch took hold of his arm, clutching it in a two-handed grip. Solemnly, he promised, “We are yours. And you are ours, as it was a thousand years ago. The lost tribes of Caladorn have been reunited. We will always ride where you lead.”

  15

  Versions of Calamity

  Naia stepped through the swirling colors of the membrane into the dark inner sphere of the Nexus. The transition reminded her of entering the Catacombs of Death: there was just a moment’s disorientation, as if the world shuddered and then stabilized. The curving walls within were the quintessence of black, and they enclosed her like a womb. The silvery tendrils pulsed once as if welcoming her into their midst, twirling and untwirling.

  Tsula had arrived before her. The Harbinger stood in the dim nonlight that came from everywhere and cast no shadow. Folded in a bronze kaftan and absent her signature turban, Tsula looked like a cast human sculpture, standing bald and daunting in the center of the chamber. At the sight of Naia, Tsula gestured with her hand, commanding her forward.

  “Today, I will teach you how to read.”

  Naia knew Tsula wasn’t referring to letters or words. Her stomach twinged its apprehension. The Harbinger set her hands on Naia’s shoulders, turning her gently but firmly around and moving to stand behind her. Naia could feel Tsula’s breath against the back of her neck as her hands slid from her shoulders to grip her arms.

  “Empty your mind, child.”

  Naia closed her eyes and pushed her thoughts aside, until the only thing she saw within was blackness. In the absence of thought, her breathing became more relevant. Each swell and release of breath was like waves breaking and then retreating along a shoreline. She could feel her heartbeat in her temples: a serene and stately rhythm.

  “Now, you must read each version of your Story in order.” The Harbinger’s voice was a low, whispering echo in her ear. “You cannot begin reading another version until the previous is complete. You cannot skip a version that might be painful and simply move on to the next. The Crescent will select the most probable versions first, but there can be thousands of subtle variations of each. You must learn to distinguish between them. Now. Prepare yourself. The first time is always the most difficult. For some, it is unbearable.”

  Naia clenched her jaw as she felt the stabilizing grip of Tsula’s hands leave her arms. In her mind, there was only absence. Even the tides of her breath fell out of reach. Then, a faint glimmer of light slithered out of the blackness of nothing. A vine-like tendril uncurled before her, twisting and twining. It wound through the darkness, winding and coiling, the coils constricting around her. The darkness bled away, and her mind ran like quicksilver.

  She groveled within a universe of agony, a downpour of tears raining from her eyes. Her fingers clawed at her scalp, trying to scrape away the infinite pain that seared her head. Quin clutched her tight against him, his hands running frantically over her in a vain attempt to soothe. But any comfort he could give was woefully inadequate. She was dying in agony, in terror. In futility.

  Outside, the epitome of all storms—the storm that every other storm aspired to be—raged and ripped across the atmosphere. Thunder lashed against the windows, and lightning the color of blood sliced wounds in the air. The wind howled a monstrous wail as it rampaged across the earth, terrorizing the tree limbs, which fled wildly before it. The world itself screamed in mortal anguish, and Naia screamed with it.

  “I’m here! I’ve got you!” Quin shouted over the fury of the wind.

  But he didn’t have her. She was fading. The world was fading. And though it hurt, it didn’t matter. All was lost—they had lost—the world was lost. It was her fault. No, Quin’s fault. No, Kyel’s fault for abandoning them to the violence of the Reversal. Now all the men and women of Malikar would be beaten back into the Black Lands to starve in eternal darkness. Every mage was dying in torment, and every wonder they’d ever created would be erased from the world’s long memory. All was fading, all was dying. And she was dying with it.

  “I can’t stand it!” she shrieked to the absent gods.

  She could feel the magic field stretched around her to its thin limit. It cried out in protest, in defiance, in outrage. And then it ripped. Naia screamed her life away, feeling her mind heated to boiling inside her skull.

  She opened her eyes, sobbing uncontrollably. A hand reached out and collected her into a cold embrace.

  “What was that?” she wailed through terror and shock and inconsolable grief.

  Tsula said without emotion, “That was the most likely ending of your Story.”

  Naia shook her head against the woman’s shoulder. “No! That can’t happen! We can’t let that happen!”

  Tsula drew back and, reaching up, wiped Naia’s tears from her eyes. Her face was as bland and expressionless as always. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “The Reversal was happening. All the mages were dying. Magic was ending. And we didn’t break the Curse.”

  The Harbinger simply nodded. “That confirms what I have seen. There are other versions still available to us, but for every second that passes, the more complete our Story becomes. And the more versions will be denied us. Soon, there will be only one version left to pen.”

  She turned Naia back around. Taking her by the shoulders, Tsula commanded, “Try again.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Naia closed her eyes.

  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.

  Quin was gone. He couldn’t help her anymore.

  Sprawled in the center of Aerysius’ great 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 flowed into the gaps and crevices of the Circle’s rays, delineating the marble tiles with heightened contrast. The blood continued to advance, as if seeking to saturate the entire Circle. Or the entire world. Or the universe.

  Zavier Renquist stood behind Naia and pushed her to her knees. In his hands, he held Quin’s scimitar. His face was slicked with blood, and his eyes gleamed with triumph. He drew the sword back over his shoulder, preparing to strike the death-blow that would end her life.

  “Let the reign of Xerys begin!” he snarled, and cleaved Naia’s head off.

  Naia opened her eyes, gasping for breath. She whirled back to Tsula. “Oh, gods! Do we have any chance at all?”

  “We do,” the Harbinger assured her. Reaching up, she stroked a strand of hair back from Naia’s cheek. “What did you see?”

  “Renquist sacrificed Darien on a Circle of Convergence. Something about his blood… He was trying to bring about the reign of Xerys. I didn’t understand any of it.”

  “I think that is enough for one day,” Tsula said and turned away, her dark eyes wandering over the walls. All around the spherical room, silver tendrils curled and uncurled in infinite variations.

  Naia nodded, feeling defeated. She did not want to read another version of her Story. At least, not today.

  She fled back to Quin.

&nbs
p; He wasn’t in his room. She found him in the library, sprawled across one of the sofas. He was leafing through a text with one hand, the other absently flipping a feathered quill.

  “What is it?” he asked, seeing her face. He snapped the book closed and sat upright. “Did you see something…?”

  Naia drew in a deep, steadying breath. She couldn’t tell him, not everything. Practically nothing. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered why she had sought him out at all. Wearily, she sank down beside him on the sofa.

  He reached up and gently turned her face toward him. “Tell me what you saw.”

  Naia pulled back, grimacing. “I can’t. If I do, then the things I saw might come to pass. And we can’t let that happen.”

  Quin stared at her a long, hard moment, looking deeply into her eyes. At last, he nodded. “I’ll kill Tsula tonight, then.”

  Naia gasped. “No. Not tonight—I still need her!”

  Quin sucked in a cheek, looking uncertain. “But if you want to avoid the options you saw—”

  “Give me one more day. I want to make certain I’ve learned everything I need to know from her.”

  He looked decisively skeptical. “Do you die in every vision you have?”

  “Of course.” Naia threw her hands up in exasperation. “That is the only way my own Story can end.” All he ever seemed to care about was her safety. Never mind what the stakes were, or that the future of an entire population might be in jeopardy.

  “What about me?” he asked. “What do I do in these visions?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.” Naia bent over and picked up the text Quin had been reading. She glanced down at the title, but it was written in a language of glyphs she’d never seen before. She set the book aside.

  Quin grumbled, “You’d better start telling me some of the things you see, before I destroy the world all over again out of ignorance.”

  “I will when I find the right version for us,” Naia promised. She looked at him sadly, still haunted by what she saw. “Until then, there’s no sense worrying about futures that might never happen.”

  “Come here,” he said, and pulled her down on the sofa with him. His hand rubbed her back soothingly. “You’ll get through this,” he assured her. “It might not seem like it now. But you will. And if you need me, I’ll be here for you. Like it or not.”

  Naia rose with the dawn and made her way up the crystalline path to the Nexus. The sun had just started its climb into the sky, casting its light in vibrant hues of gold. The shadows clung to night’s chill, but the sunlight felt fierce and warm on her skin. Naia smiled, looking out across the volatile beauty of Athera’s Crescent, at the rippling patterns that swirled over its surface.

  She wasn’t surprised to find Tsula already waiting for her.

  “Are you ready to read another version of your Story?” the Harbinger asked. She smiled invitingly, an expression that seemed out of place on her face. Naia was taken aback. She tried to remember another time she had ever seen the woman smile and couldn’t think of one.

  “I’m ready,” she said, adding with a sigh, “It is daunting, though. It seems we are destined to fail.”

  Tsula shook her head. “There are versions still left to us, and all versions are governed by our choices. We will not run out of options until we run out of choices. And, until then, we cannot run out of hope.”

  She beckoned Naia closer, her face growing grim. “I was a bit disturbed by one of the versions you read yesterday.”

  “Which version?”

  “You must remember to address me by my title,” Tsula reminded her.

  She’d forgotten. “Which version, Warden Renquist?”

  “The version in which my husband ends your life over a spreading pool of blood. It aligns with a version of my own Story that has always been highly unlikely… until now. Now, the Crescent deems it by far the most probable.”

  That did worry Naia. Of the two versions she had foreseen, that was the one she feared most. She wasn’t sure why. Something about the images of the blood and the sword terrified her. It was almost as though they were symbolic of something much more visceral.

  “What do you think it means?” she asked.

  Tsula glanced at her sharply. “It means that my husband has found a way to halt the Reversal of the magic field. Just as he tried to do a thousand years ago.”

  Naia stood shocked. For a moment, she couldn’t react. That had never been a possibility before, at least none she had considered. Renquist had attempted such a feat a thousand years ago and had failed then—disastrously. And he no longer had Eight Servants nor eight Circles of Convergence to accomplish the act.

  “How is that possible?” she whispered.

  Tsula paced away, a frown of concern on her face. “I do not know. It would take the power of eight grand masters combined to stabilize the magic field. I do not know how, but it seems that my husband has found a way around it.”

  Naia asked, “Pardon, but… Zavier Renquist is your husband. Do you not know his plans?”

  The woman looked at her sideways, cocking an eyebrow.

  Naia decided to press the issue. “To be blunt, Warden Renquist—I assume you are trying to help him.”

  “Pfft!” the woman spat, scrunching up her face as if tasting something awful. “Of course not! Zavier Renquist is my husband. But any love I ever had for him died the day he murdered our daughter. Ever since then, I have not once looked upon his face.”

  Naia gasped. “He murdered your daughter?”

  Tsula regarded her flatly. “You do not know?”

  “No….” Naia shook her head. “Why would I know?”

  “Did Quinlan Reis never mention Amani?”

  The name didn’t sound familiar. Until it did. Naia blinked, suddenly remembering the story Quin had told her when they’d first met. About a woman he’d loved, who had loved him back. But she had been forced to marry his brother and had died at Braden’s hand.

  “Oh, gods…” Naia whispered. “Amani was your daughter?”

  Tsula nodded. “It took me many years before I was able to admit the truth: that it was my own husband who had conspired to have Amani slain. Quinlan Reis and his brother were both merely pawns in Zavier’s many intrigues.”

  Naia stared at her in horrified incomprehension. “Why would Renquist murder his own daughter?”

  Tsula drew in a deep breath, face twisted into a grimace. “Because Zavier needed Braden’s strength to complete his Circle of Eight. And, unfortunately for Braden, he was a man of integrity. He would never sink to the moral depths necessary to channel the Onslaught. So Zavier decided to put him in an impossible position to force the issue.

  “He sent Quinlan to Aerysius under the pretense he was to assassinate Cyrus Krane. Predictably, Quinlan was captured. My husband made sure Amani knew her lover was slated to be executed unless an appropriate ransom was paid. Krane demanded documents that were in Braden’s possession, and Braden was duty-bound to deny him. Amani stole the documents and delivered them to Cyrus Krane herself.”

  Naia shook her head, feeling sickened.

  Tsula continued, “When Amani returned to the Lyceum, Zavier declared our daughter a traitor and sentenced her to death. And, for Amani’s executioner, he picked Braden, who was bound by duty to murder his own wife.”

  The Harbinger drew in a deep, shuddering breath, bowing her head in grief. “All of this horror to corrupt the morals of one honorable mage who would never stand again at Zavier’s side.” She looked up then, her eyes filled with wrath. “My husband was the most despicable man the world has ever known. And now, fueled by Xerys’ vast power, he is the most dangerous demon. So, no. I do not support him.”

  The weight of her words seemed to drag the whole world down. Naia stared at the floor in silence, respecting the doleful quiet that comes when a mother mourns her child. As a priestess, she had seen it before, many times.

  Eventually, Tsula looked up and offered the smallest, s
trongest smile.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Naia said after a moment. “If you are Amani’s mother, how could it be that Quin didn’t recognize you?”

  Tsula scoffed, turning away. “I never met him. I’m a Harbinger. I exist only in secrets and in shadow. Even my own daughter never knew my face…. But I knew hers. I lived my entire life through her. Now, enough of this.” Tsula waved her hand. “It is time to read the next possible version of your Story. Close your eyes. Now. Try again.”

  Naia didn’t want to. But, prompted by the unyielding iron in Tsula’s gaze, she collected her strength, closed her eyes, and tried again.

  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.

  Quin was below, in the chamber of the Well of Tears. Trying to wrench the portal full open before the Reversal could maximize.

  In front of her, Kyel Archer advanced across the Circle of Convergence, wielding a silver morning star in his hand.

  In the center of the Circle—in full command of it—Zavier Renquist swept out a fist. A blinding glare of light whiter than bright and brilliantly powerful assaulted Kyel from the sky. He brought the talisman up to deflect it, but the strike was indomitable—it impacted with all the fury of the vortex. It overwhelmed the talisman’s power, hurling Kyel backward to the ground, ripping the weapon out of his hands. Another magical assault drilled down from the clouds, stabbing into him.

  The blow threw Kyel across the terrace. Another strike lifted him again, slamming him against the cliff. Zavier Renquist raised his arms, summoning the energies of the vortex for one last, mortal strike.