Flight Into Darkness (2 page)

Bogatyr Kostya, who had stood listening, as still and silent as a statue, unfolded his scarred arms and took a step forward.

“Is that a threat, Lord Arkhan?” He stared challengingly at Sardion.

“Stand down, Kostya,” Lord Volkh growled, as if addressing a disobedient mastiff.

“Join with me, Lord Volkh,” said Sardion suddenly. “Help me drive the Allegondans out of my lands. Lend me your powers.”

Lord Volkh's fist came down on the table like a thunderclap, making Estael jump. “Have you any idea what you're asking?” In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Estael saw his master's gaze harden. Sardion's moods were unpredictable and Estael inwardly prayed that the Arkhan would not provoke the Drakhaon into transforming into his Drakhaoul-form. But then, to Estael's surprise, the blue fire faded from Lord Volkh's eyes and his expression became distant, almost sad. “I had hoped that you would understand, Lord Arkhan. But I see I was mistaken.”

“All I know,” volunteered Estael bravely, “is that the Serpent Gate was sealed by Saint Sergius and the key to opening it, the fabled ruby known as Nagar's Eye, was divided up centuries ago by Artamon's sons. Even if we discovered where Ty Nagar lies, Lord Volkh, there is no way to reopen the Gate—unless the divided shards of ruby could somehow be found and reunited…”

Lord Volkh let out a harsh sigh. “So even you are unable to help me.”

“I fear you have had a wasted journey, my lord.” Sardion smiled, yet there was no warmth in his expression. “But please stay with us tonight and let us entertain you. The sun will soon be setting and the desert nights are cold.”

“I'll not prevail upon your hospitality any longer.” Lord Volkh rose abruptly. “Come, Kostya.”

Estael still sat at the table, unable to move. He realized that his hands were shaking. So even without revealing the daemon sleeping within him, the Drakhaon could induce this deep, visceral fear in everyone he encountered.

“He possesses the power of the last of the Seven,” he heard Sardion mutter, “and he wants to be rid of it?”

A sudden burst of daemonic energy rippled through the air. Heart thudding with apprehension, Estael got up, knocking over his chair, and ran out onto the balcony. Surely Lord Volkh would not attack the palace?

“What is it, Estael?” Sardion cried, following him.

“My lord, look.
Look up!”

Darker than the night itself, a great dragon wheeled overhead, the glittering scales on its body shedding a fine trail, like powdered star-dust. As it winged away, Estael saw it gaze back down at them, and he recognized the proud, bitter look in its moon-blue, slanting eyes.

“Volkh is a fool.” Sardion was still muttering under his breath as he followed the Drakhaon's flight across the moonlit desert until the dragon could no longer be seen against the stars. “He could rule the quadrant.” The Arkhan swung round and gripped Estael by the shoulder. “Do you give me your word never to reveal anything of what I'm going to show you? On pain of death?”

Estael saw the crazed gleam in Sardion's eyes and knew that it would be madness to refuse his master's request.

“Follow me, Estael.”

“Sentient stone?” Estael murmured, watching as the Arkhan made a cut with his dagger in his palm and smeared a little of his blood on the wall. A hidden carving appeared, sigils and the arcane hieroglyphs of Ancient Enhirran. So the hidden door could only be opened by a drop of the Arkhan's blood.

“Now you. Or else the chamber will never let you out again. And you wouldn't want to end your days walled in belowground, would you?”

Estael silently offered his palm to the Arkhan's blade and let a drop or two of his blood trickle down the dark, worn stone. A grinding, groaning noise began and a small doorway opened. Sardion led the way, the magus following down the dark passageway until they came to a second door, where the same blood ritual was repeated.

The chamber beyond was lined in black marble: Even in lantern-light, the atmosphere was somber and stifling.

“My father first brought me down here when I was eight,” said Sardion. “I was terrified. I thought it was a tomb. I imagined there would be dead bodies.”

Estael was gazing around him. “No bodies… but there are carvings in an ancient script.” He began to translate. “‘Seven, they were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction.’” He broke off. “What is this place?”

“It's a shrine to Nagazdiel, the Prince of the Realm of Shadows,” said Sardion. He drew aside a curtain that concealed a mosaic portraying a winged man, fashioned from chips of obsidian, garnet, and ruby. “The most powerful of the Drakhaouls.”

“And this door?” Estael began to feel apprehensive. What was the Arkhan's true motive in revealing these ancient secrets to him?

“It leads into the Rift. My ancestors believed that it also led to the Realm of Shadows. And that anyone who could find his way into the Shadows could summon Nagazdiel to do his bidding.”

“Did any of your ancestors ever attempt such a rash act?”

“We cannot enter the Rift. Those who tried, perished. In agony. Only those with mage blood can survive in the unstable atmosphere of the Rift.” Sardion gazed pointedly at Estael.

“You don't mean
me,
Lord Arkhan?” Estael stared back at him, aghast. “Surely one of the younger Emissaries would be a better choice…”

“Rieuk Mordiern, then. He's the most powerful of you all.”

“Rieuk is still recovering from his injuries. But I beg you to reconsider. If you set Nagazdiel free, can you be sure that such a powerful Drakhaoul would obey you? After all, he— “

“Are you daring to suggest that I am not as strong as Lord Nagarian? That I'm not capable of controlling a daemon from the Realm of Shadows? “

“No, Lord Arkhan, but I was reminding you that the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir was merely one of Nagazdiel's warriors. Nagazdiel himself—”

Sardion quelled his objections with a single look. “Test this doorway for me, Estael.”

Estael steeled himself and passed through the doorway. If the Arkhan was wrong, he would suffocate in the unstable atmosphere. Veil upon veil of shadows parted, like gauzy spiderwebs, as he reluctantly moved forward, not wanting to leave the safety of the doorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a dreary wasteland stretching away into the far distance. Everything was the color of dust. From time to time a chill wind gusted across the emptiness but otherwise nothing stirred.

“What a terrible place,” Estael murmured aloud.

And then he sensed it. A mighty power, darker than a stormcloud, was approaching. He shrank back. His sole instinct was to flee, to get away before it discovered him. Two stars had appeared in the dun light, crimson as fire. No, not stars—eyes, slanted, cruel eyes. And they were coming toward him, bearing down on him, relentless and swift. Estael turned to run back toward the doorway.

“
What are you doing here, Magus?
” The voice pierced him like an icy spear. Trembling, Estael dropped to his knees.
“Have you come to set me free?”

Estael dared to look up. The Drakhaoul towered over him, its crimson eyes burning into him, reading him to the most secret recesses of his soul. Its powerful body was sheathed in scales of black jet that shimmered in the dull light. A mane of charcoal-black hair streamed down its back.

“You're not strong enough to host me, old man,”
it said scornfully. Estael felt its hold over him relax and he fell forward into the dust. And as it strode away into the darkness, he heard it murmur,
“Am I never to escape?”

Part I

CHAPTER 1

Rieuk Mordiern's damaged eye leaked a constant trickle of black blood that ran down his cheek, searing his skin as if laced with acid. And the young magus's good eye leaked salty fluid, as if weeping in sympathy with its ruined twin. He could see little more than a blur of images. Sunlight was a torment, making him seek the shadows.

And scored across his mind's vision was the blinding image of Azilis, her beautiful face superimposed over Celestine's, distorted with rage and loss. He could still hear her cry, harsh enough to lacerate his ears.

“What children would keep their mother imprisoned against her will?”

In his delirium, he relived again and again the moment when Azilis had attacked him, half-blinding him with a single burst of aethyrial energy, whiter than lightning.

I failed. I found Azilis, and she rejected me. After all these years of searching for her.
The feeling of failure was almost as painful as the physical mutilation she had inflicted upon him. For many centuries, Azilis's spirit had kept the balance between the mortal world and the Ways Beyond. But since, as an inexperienced apprentice, he had inadvertently set her free, not knowing who or what she was, the boundaries between the two had begun to break down. And after that his life had become an arduous, unsuccessful quest to bring her back. Bound to protect Celestine de Joyeuse, Azilis seemed to have forgotten her role as the guardian of the gateway between life and death.

* * * 

“Rieuk, I'm cold…
“

Rieuk slowly turns around. There, in the gloom behind him, stands Imri…or a semblance of Imri, his black hair loose about his shoulders, his face half-veiled in shadow.

“Imri? Is it really you?” He has longed to see him so much… yet this feels terribly wrong. “What have they done to you?” Even as he reaches out to the revenant, it begins to fade, leaving him clutching empty air.

As Rieuk burned in fever, he sometimes thought he caught the distant sound of music in the night. Someone was pensively plucking old, sad melodies on an aludh or a dombra, each note falling on Rieuk's consciousness like a drop of cooling rain. Once he called out, “Who's there?” and the music ceased. Perhaps it was a dream…

Someone was gently sponging his damaged face with a soft, damp cloth. It felt unexpectedly, blissfully soothing, as if the water contained some healing balm that was drawing out the infection and lowering his fever.

A shadowy form was bending low over him, turning away from time to time to rinse out the cloth. Rieuk tried to focus with his one good eye to identify who was tending him. A subtle scent arose from the water: cleansing and refreshing, reminding Rieuk of the astringent smell of cucumbers and watercress.

“Where… am I?” Rieuk managed to whisper.

“You're awake!” The voice, a young man's, was soft and dark-toned, slightly spiced with a trace of a foreign accent; familiar, yet Rieuk could not identify the speaker. “I must tell Aqil.”

“Wait.” Rieuk heard his own voice, hoarse and urgent, as if from far away. He reached out blindly, catching hold of his carer's robe, pulling him closer.

“Don't you recognize me, Emissary Mordiern?” The blur loomed closer until Rieuk could make out a bespectacled face gazing curiously into his. Dark olive skin, framed by long, curling locks of crow-black hair, one side braided with crimson thread, Djihari-fashion. The young man removed his spectacles and Rieuk caught the unmistakable glimmer of mage eyes, liquid obsidian, flecked with the scarlet veins of the earth's fires. “I'm Oranir.”