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  “Yes. Everyone. All must leave…”

  “Everyone? You mean every man, woman, and child of the Black Lands?”

  Firat nodded, then turned to glare at Craig. “Yes! Yes, everyone! Everyone must leave!”

  Craig’s hand squeezed a fistful of the man’s hair, eliciting a scream. Kyel stood stunned, looking on in revulsion. He wanted to intervene. But he couldn’t do anything but watch, transfixed by Craig’s brutality.

  “Who’s in charge of your armies?” Craig demanded, grabbing Firat’s flayed and blistered shoulders. “Who?”

  The prisoner let out a strangled moan, clenching his fists in pain. “Byron Connel leads the legions of Bryn Calazar … and there is a new overlord, another Battlemage. He’s rallying the legions of the Khazahar….”

  “Do you know his name, this new Battlemage?”

  Firat glanced fretfully at Kyel.

  “His name, Firat!” Craig bellowed.

  The man grimaced, glaring fiercely. “I do not know his name. But it is said he was once a Sentinel.”

  With a growl, Craig released him. Firat moaned a ragged gasp then sagged in his restraints.

  Craig straightened and stood back, wiping his soiled hands on his gambeson. He nodded at the old-timer. “See what else you can get out of him. I think he looks hungry.” He glanced down. “I don’t think he needs his ball sack anymore. Why don’t you fry it up and feed it to him.”

  “Aye, Force Commander.”

  As Firat began to scream, Craig’s big hand grabbed Kyel by the nape of his cloak and swung him around, propelling him toward the door. Kyel lurched across the chamber, gagging as he passed the cauldron of boiling human fat. Firat’s screams followed them out, all the way into the stairwell.

  Back on the steps, Kyel jerked away from Craig, whirling to confront him. His heart pounded in his chest, his face heated by outrage. He felt like he was going to throw up, was actually surprised that he hadn’t yet.

  Firat’s shrieks gurgled with agony before collapsing into muffled, strangled sobs.

  “You all right?”

  Kyel glanced up at Devlin Craig, eyes brimming with hatred. He shook his head as he righted himself, leaning with one elbow against the cold stone wall. “No, I’m not all right. That was despicable.”

  Craig just looked at him. “This is war, Archer. We do what we have to. Get used to it.”

  Kyel clenched his hands into fists, taking a step back away from him. His face burned with pent-up rage. He realized that he hated Devlin Craig. Hated him more than he’d ever hated anyone in his life. “He told you what you wanted to know. So why are you still torturing him?”

  Craig shrugged. “Trust me, Firat’s got a lot more stories to tell. Sheb will get them out of him.”

  Kyel just stared at the man hard and long, groping to understand how a person could be so callous. He’d been a Greystone soldier once himself. He remembered war being brutal. But this wasn’t war—at least, it didn’t have to be.

  “What you’re doing isn’t right,” Kyel maintained. “You should kill him cleanly.”

  Craig shook his head. “No. Information saves lives. That’s the plain and simple truth. And the life of just one of my men is worth every second of Firat’s pain. Do you have any idea what they do to our own captives?”

  Kyel nodded, remembering the rumors. He could feel Craig’s eyes boring into him, piercing through the shadows of the stairwell. He felt suddenly deflated. “I’ve heard.”

  Craig pressed on, “Every man here is under orders to never leave a living man behind for the Enemy. There’s good reason for that. I’d do the same for you. I hope you’d do the same for me.”

  Kyel shook his head, spreading his arms in a gesture of futility. “I can’t use my power to take a life…”

  “But you can use your hands.”

  “I…” Kyel tried, but couldn’t finish. He wasn’t sure where the commander was going with this. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to like it. He studied Craig’s face resentfully.

  “Here.” The soldier stepped forward, plucking a knife from his belt and planting its hilt squarely in Kyel’s outstretched palm.

  Kyel flinched, almost dropping the weapon. But for some reason, he clung onto it. It was a long, thin-bladed dagger with an ebony hilt. It looked familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he’d seen it before. He stared down at the weapon, face aghast in silent denial.

  “I can’t carry a blade,” he said.

  “Yes, you can. Your Oath doesn’t prevent you from using a weapon. Only tradition.”

  He knew Craig was right; that’s how Darien had justified keeping his sword. Only, Kyel had a lot of respect for the slippery slope Darien had thrown himself down. It had all started with a single blade … a blade he’d refused to give up.

  “It’s called a mercy knife.” Craig nodded at the wicked-thin dagger in Kyel’s hand. “Look, there’s no easy way of putting this, so I’ll just state it plainly. You don’t want to be taken alive. Remember what they did to Darien? For you, it’d be a whole lot worse.”

  Kyel swallowed, squeezing his palm around the hilt of the dagger. It felt like an iron weight in his hand. He remembered watching Enemy soldiers hoisting Darien over a flaming pyre. He remembered the sounds of his screams.

  “I don’t understand,” Kyel said. “Why would it be worse for me…?”

  Craig placed a steadying hand on Kyel’s shoulder. “Because with Darien, they were pressed for time. But they wouldn’t be with you. Their mages can heal you while you burn. They can keep you alive for hours, perhaps days. I want you to think about that. Really think about it.” He paused, giving Kyel a moment to do just that.

  Kyel did. The numbness in his hands and feet spread up his arms, chilling his insides. In the dim silence of the stairwell, his own thundering pulse rumbled like thunder in his ears.

  “Right here.” Craig reached up, drawing two fingers across his neck under his left ear. “And here.” He repeated the motion on the other side. “You’ll bleed out in seconds. You’ll go right into shock; it won’t even hurt.”

  Firat’s last, agonized scream echoed atrociously through the stairwell.

  “Keep that dagger close,” Craig whispered.

  10

  Vintgar

  “Your petition was denied.”

  Darien paused in the action of pulling on a worn leather boot. He glanced up at Sayeed. “Why?”

  The Zakai officer took a step toward the bed Darien was sitting on. He held his hat tucked in the crook of his arm. The expression on his bearded face was dour.

  “The Omeyan Clan perished,” he explained in a voice devoid of emotion. “You are allowed to claim the blood of your ancestors, but that claim alone does not suffice. You have no men of your own bloodline who will follow you.”

  Darien tugged the boot on over his heel then stood up from the bed. He reached for a linen shirt and wormed his arms into the sleeves. Then he wrapped the warbelt around his hips, fixing it in place.

  “I have the Tanisars.”

  “The Tanisars are not blood of your blood.”

  Darien nodded. He fastened on his cloak with a silver brooch then reached up to tie back his hair.

  “What are my options?”

  Sayeed shifted his weight over his feet, screwing his face into a thoughtful grimace. He stood there for some time while Darien waited, gazing at him steadily. In the corner, the demon-dog scratched at an itch, its foot hammering on the floor. The coal-fire in the hearth crackled and popped.

  “You should accept your Lightweaver’s offer of marriage,” Sayeed said. “Then you would have the Jenn Asyaadi behind you. The Asyaadi have great respect among the tribes. Their blood is very ancient, and they have long controlled the Khazahar’s trade routes.”

  Darien stood frozen, staring at the fire in the hearth. It cast an oily light that blurred across the walls of the bedchamber. At last he blinked as if waking from a trance. “Marriage is not an option.”

  S
ayeed looked patently uncomfortable. A host of conflicted emotions ranged over his face, settling finally into a look of grave concern. He took another step forward, shifting his hat to his other hand. “May I speak frankly?”

  “Of course.”

  Sayeed’s tongue traced over his lips. He seemed to be searching for the right words. Or perhaps he already knew the words he wanted to say, but was reluctant to utter them.

  “What your woman did to you was cruel,” he said at last. “But it was also deserved.”

  Darien frowned. He hadn’t expected to hear that. Neither did he agree; he had done nothing to deserve such treatment from Meiran. He’d given everything for her. All he’d ever wanted in return was a trace amount of understanding. Or compassion.

  She’d given him neither.

  Sayeed went on, “You betrayed every cause you ever championed. Including hers.”

  Darien felt as though he were a straw man with a straw soul, and the stuffing inside him had just been ripped out and thrown asunder. For it was true; Sayeed had a point. He had abandoned Meiran’s cause and taken up another.

  “But it’s not your fault,” the officer continued quickly. “You were ignorant. Your eyes were closed. And now that they are open, you cannot help but see things differently.” He paused, his expression quite serious. “It is said that a wound that bleeds inwardly is the most dangerous of all. You have such a wound, Darien Nach’tier. I see you struggle with it. I fear what will happen if you don’t find a cure.”

  He walked forward and placed a hand on Darien’s arm. “Take my advice: forgive the woman who betrayed you, knowing that you also betrayed her. Then marry your Lightweaver.”

  Darien sidestepped Sayeed and retreated across the chamber. He couldn’t help it. He was just as repelled by the man’s proximity as he was by his advice. He didn’t like to be touched.

  Sayeed withdrew, understanding in his eyes. By now, the man was more than aware of Darien’s peculiar idiosyncrasies. The people of Malikar needed much less personal space than he was accustomed to. It had taken Darien some time, but at last he’d convinced Sayeed of his need for distance.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Aye.” Darien scooped up his sword from where it hung by his bedside, drawing the baldric on over his shoulder. It was the sword Meiran had given him. More than once, he’d come very close to throwing it in the lake. But each time he’d stopped himself just shy of committing the act. He couldn’t bring himself to give the blade up; it was too much a part of him.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Sayeed said as he cast open the door. “The caverns are still wet and very treacherous. We should send an expeditionary party down first.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Darien said. When he moved toward the door, the demon dog rose and made as if to follow him. But Darien raised his hand. The awful beast circled its cushion once then lay back down again. It stared up at him with its muzzle between its paws, looking dejected.

  Once out in the corridor, Darien was surprised to find Azár there waiting for him. She stood beside his door next to the retinue of Zakai that followed him everywhere. Darien shot an accusatory look at Sayeed, who just shrugged in reply.

  Raising his eyebrows, Darien asked, “Aren’t the krill in need of your magelight?”

  Azár had assumed the duties of a palace Lightweaver, so every few days she rotated in from the lightfields to tend to the true riches of Tokashi: the krill ponds beneath the fortress, beneath even the swirling energies of Tokashi’s vortex. Deep down in the depths of the ice warrens existed enormous salt pools teeming with krill that could only be supported by a constant input of magelight. The krill were harvested and used in place of meat to feed the Tanisar corps. They were also exported for their weight in riches, which accounted for the enormous wealth the Tanisars had amassed.

  Seeing Darien’s irritation, Azár smirked, managing to look both arrogant and innocent.

  “The ponds can go hours without light,” she assured him, gazing defiantly into his face. She wore a single red ribbon draped across her brow that wound down through the length of her braid. A small stone dangled in the center of her forehead. Darien had seen the style before on some of the serving women. It lent a softness to her features he wasn’t used to.

  He asked, “Is there something you need?”

  “I came to speak with you.”

  Darien indicated his retinue of Zakai. “We’re on our way down to the chasm. I can speak with you upon our return.”

  Azár smiled as she shrugged. “I will go with you. We can speak along the way.”

  Darien felt the heat of frustration rise to his cheeks. He glared at Azár. Then he glared at Sayeed.

  “As you like,” he muttered, then turned and strode away down the corridor.

  His men fell in behind, hurrying to catch up. He didn’t turn to see whether or not Azár was following; he knew that she would. Sayeed hastened to match his pace, face stern, hand resting on the sword hilt at his waist. When their group reached the stairs, Darien relented and let the senior Zakai move ahead of him, the rest lingering behind. He followed after, Azár silently fuming as she fell in at his side.

  The men lit torches, passing around a flaming rag soaked in lamp oil. They descended the staircase, the air becoming chill and moist as they moved farther into the subterranean glacier. Darien could see his breath like a fog before his face. He shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold; the chill of the air provoked memories he’d rather leave forgotten. They continued downward until the ice eventually gave way to rough, dark stone.

  The stone below the glacier was weeping, the steps covered with oozing mud that leaked water in small, gushing streams. They had arrived at a level of the warrens that had been submerged by the lake only days before.

  The going was slow, the path murky and uneven. Darien struggled through spongy silt pebbled with rocks, slogging along after Sayeed and his men. The walls bled mud and slime down their surfaces. Water ran down the stairs, eroding the deposits of silt. Soon they were walking through what amounted to a rushing stream fed by frigid water from the glacier.

  Ahead, the officers drew up and stood consulting in whispering echoes. Darien moved forward through the press of bodies, interested to find out what they’d discovered.

  “What is it?”

  Sayeed pointed at a small, circular indentation in the wall. Darien’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of a small button. It had a glyph carved on it, one he knew well. Beads of sweat broke out across his brow despite the chill.

  “Everyone, move back,” he warned.

  When the soldiers had yielded him room, he reached down and depressed the ancient switch. There was the slightest clicking noise followed by the sound of a mechanism moving somewhere within the wall. For a moment, he held his breath. When nothing happened, Darien sighed, feeling a heady surge of relief.

  “That trap would have killed the lot of you,” he said. “I’ll lead the way from here.”

  “Darien.”

  Turning, he saw that Azár had come up silently beside him. She had drawn her shawl up over her head, her arms wrapped tightly around herself for warmth.

  “You should let me go first.” Her tone was much softer than he was used to hearing from her. “Most of the Lyceum’s knowledge was lost. But not all. What remains has been passed down to me. I have experience with this type of device.”

  That surprised him. He hadn’t known any of the Lyceum’s vast troves of knowledge had been retained by the mages who were the descendants of that culture. As long as he’d known her, Azár had professed only ignorance of even the most basic knowledge of magecraft. He hoped she knew what she was doing.

  But he deferred to her with a wave of his hand, motioning her to go first.

  Azár walked forward with an almost regal grace, parting the group of Zakai who stood in front of them. Darien watched her for a moment, admiring the confidence she projected. Then he moved forward, following closely on her heels
.

  Azár led them down the mud-encrusted stairs, pausing every so often to depress some of the trigger switches, ignoring others. Some appeared to be nonfunctioning. Others would have resulted in deadly consequences if they’d been tripped. As Darien walked, he studied Azár carefully. He took note of the way she moved, trailing her fingers along the wall at her side. The deliberate placement of her feet among the rubble with never a misplaced stride.

  She led them deeper into the warrens, shadows and silt collecting under their feet. The cold was relentless, clawing its way through his wet garments. Darien began to shiver despite his thick cloak.

  Azár paused to disarm the next device they encountered. There was a small click in the wall. Then she turned to look back at Darien, eyes glinting with excitement. “Do you feel that? We must be nearing the eye of the vortex.”

  Darien didn’t feel anything; with his mind walled away, he had no sense whatsoever of the magic field. Azár must have a rare talent to sense the field’s currents while shielded. He hoped she was right; he was anxious to find out if all the risk he had taken to drain the lake was worth it.

  The silt-slick stairs they trudged down eventually ended in a tunnel encased by mud. Water had collected on the floor, forming deep pools. Up ahead, a blue-green light filtered in through an opening in the rock. Darien squinted, wondering where that gush of cool light could be coming from.

  Azár started forward, feet slogging through water and oozing muck. The claustrophobic space they were in opened up into a vast cavern, the path they were treading leading toward an arching stone bridge that spanned a gaping chasm. Chill air wafted up from far below, carrying a fresh riverine scent.

  Darien moved quickly past Azár, out onto the arching span of the bridge. A wind seized his hair, rippling his cloak. Turquoise light streamed upward, saturating the cavern in a scintillating dance of color. The chasm was enormous, both continuing upward and cutting down into the depths. Darien walked to the edge of the bridge, to a low wall that was chipped away in places. He leaned over, staring down, seeking the source of the light.