Flight Into Darkness (5 page)

“Sardion won't let you go. You know too much. If you were to sell his secrets to his enemies—”

“I really don't care anymore.” At that moment, it felt as if the fast-melting ice crystals of Imri's body had chilled all feeling in Rieuk's heart.

“He may even send one of us to destroy you.”

Rieuk shrugged. “I'll take my chances.”

“I won't be able to protect you if you break your bond.” Lord Estael's face looked suddenly drawn and old; the fierce mage fire in his eyes had dimmed. “But then, what does it matter now, anyway?” he said. Rieuk heard a bone-deep weariness in the magus's voice. “It's all over for us. The longer
she
is absent from the Rift, the weaker we become. Our Emissaries will fade first… and once they're gone, our powers will diminish too. Our time is over, Rieuk.”

“Magister! Emissary Mordiern! Wait!”

Rieuk turned, shading his vision against the harsh sun. The crimson dunes still reflected the fierce heat, even in the late afternoon, making the desert air shimmer with a bloodied haze. A man was coming toward him over the sands, his head and face protected by a loosely wrapped burnous. Below him, the strange excrescences of earth-colored rock, the Towers of the Ghaouls, wavered in the dry heat.

“Where are you going?” As the man came nearer, Rieuk recognized the dark eyes burning accusingly above the folds of the black burnous. Oranir.

“I haven't decided yet.” He turned away, knowing that he was lying.

“You and Lord Estael quarreled. Didn't you?” Oranir had almost caught up with him, walking with the loose, swift stride of those
accustomed to desert life. On the ridge, Ondhessar loomed above them, the hated crimson flag of the Rosecoeurs fluttering from every watchtower, a constant reminder of the foreigners’ presence. “What happened?”

“That's between me and Lord Estael.” Rieuk didn't want to pick over the bones of that painful encounter just yet.

“You're leaving.” It was an accusation, not a question.

Rieuk kept on walking.

“Answer me! Don't I deserve an answer?”

Rieuk stopped and turned to confront him. Oranir would not be satisfied with half-formed excuses. “Yes. I'm leaving. I can't stay here and you know why.”

“Then take me with you.” He heard the breathless eagerness in Oranir's voice, and caught the echo of another passionate young man begging Imri Boldiszar to take him as his apprentice. He banished the memory from his mind; such strong emotions would only cloud his judgment.

“If you come with me now, you throw away everything you've worked so hard for. You become an outcast. A wanted man.”

“I want to go with you.” There was a stubborn note in Oranir's words that Rieuk had not heard before. “Besides, you're not fully healed yet. You need me.”

Rieuk almost smiled. “So you have Lord Aqil's permission to accompany me?”

Oranir shot him a sullen, defensive look.

“And what of your vow to the Arkhan?” Oranir did not reply. Rieuk took a step closer to him. “You have such a promising career ahead of you, Oranir. Don't ruin your life for my sake.” He let his hand rest on Oranir's shoulder. “Forgive me. I should have told you I was leaving. You've taken such good care of me. Thank you.”

Oranir struck his hand away. “I don't want thanks.” He backed away, feet slipping in the sand. “Why don't you understand? Why must you be so stubborn? Why can't you share your troubles?”

Rieuk turned away with a regretful little shrug. “Too many years of working alone, I guess. Farewell, Oranir.” He slung his travel bag over his shoulder and set off again, climbing up the side of the ridge without once looking back.

Rieuk had plenty of time to reflect on what Oranir had said as he took the merchant route to the Djihari port of Tyriana. He passed
himself off as an itinerant jeweler, making use of his skill with crystals to hire himself out to merchants and traders along the way.

He ended up working for Barjik, a diamond merchant from Serindher. From time to time, Barjik's wife, Serah, would shuffle into the stuffy back room of the shop, bringing little cups of bittersweet coffee, or date-and-almond cakes shaped like shells. From time to time, the heavy curtain separating the workroom from the shop would twitch, yet no one came in. He knew that he was being watched. And yet he did not mind. He was handling a precious commodity, after all, and no merchant could afford to be too trusting.

As Rieuk concentrated on the rough stones before him, seeking to expose their hidden potential, he kept seeing the look of wounded incomprehension in Oranir's dark eyes.

Why did I reject him again? I'm free now. Was I trying to protect him, or myself?

He selected a diamond from the pile and examined it.

At that time he had been in a daze, still trying to come to terms with the loss of Imri. Yet the moment when Imri's crystallized body had melted into a million glittering grains of ice, he had felt as if a shadow had lifted from his mind and his heart—and a heavy burden from his shoulders. He had been carrying the guilt of Imri's death for far too long.

So why had he turned away from Oranir? It had seemed the selfless thing to do. Yet the truth was that he had been traveling alone for so long that the thought of having a companion terrified him.

Not ready I'm just not ready.

The dry aroma of turmeric and frying onions wafted into the room; Serah must have begun preparations for dinner. Sometimes the old couple invited him to share their evening meal; their own sons were far away in Serindher, looking after the business there, and Rieuk suspected that Serah missed her boys. Sometimes she'd murmur that he was about the same height as Chorpan… or that Itakh liked to drink his coffee sweetened with honey and cinnamon.

Rieuk became aware that he had been staring unseeing at the diamond for some while. He laid it down and wiped the sticky sweat from his forehead and fingers. The air in the back street was stiflingly hot by late afternoon.

Why couldn't I bring myself to accept Imri's death until now? Because Lord Estael fed me false hope? And if I've finally accepted that he's dead, why am I going to Azhkendir?

“To make certain that his soul is truly free,” he muttered to himself. It was the last thing he could do for Imri. He concentrated on the rough diamond before him, piercing to the heart of the stone with his mind's eye. A swift burst of energy, sliver-sharp… and the first flawless facet was revealed. “I have to do this alone.”

“You want a passage to Azhkendir?” The ship's captain shook the contents of Rieuk's money bag out on the table. “Why d'you want to visit that godforsaken country?”

Barrels of Smarnan wine were being unloaded from the ship moored alongside with much shouting and whistling from the crew. Rieuk had to raise his voice to make himself heard. “Trade must be good for you to venture so far north.”

The captain shrugged as he counted out the coins. “It's a living.”

The midday sunlight sparkled on the dark azure of the sea, impossibly bright. In this intense, burnished heat it was difficult to imagine the desolate snows of Azhkendir, cut off by frozen seas for a third of the year.

A shadow flitted across the sun. Rieuk glanced up, feeling Ormas stir uneasily within him. An Emissary? Were the magi tracking him? White-winged gulls were wheeling overhead but, as he shaded his damaged sight against the dazzle, he could see no trace of a shadow hawk.
Perhaps I imagined it.
Even though he was in Djihan-Djihar and out of the Arkhan's jurisdiction, his escape seemed to be going just a little too smoothly.

The captain of the
Satrina
had taken on a number of passengers, mostly merchants bound for the port of Vermeille in Smarna. Thanks to Barjik's contacts, Rieuk was traveling as a merchant too, trusted to carry out one final errand for his master.

As the ship left the port, Rieuk stood on deck, gazing back at the haze of heat hanging like a dusty fog above the ochre-and-sand-red buildings.

Gulls still wheeled and screamed overhead as the sails filled with wind. Out beyond the calm waters of the port, the waves grew choppy and the
Satrina
began to pitch and roll.

Once Rieuk would have been unable to stay on deck, relishing the fierce gusts that left a tang of salt on his lips and tongue. He would have slunk below, groaning as the first pangs of seasickness overcame him. But Imri had cured him of that curse, opening up a whole new
world of experiences to him, and for that alone, he would always be thankful.

As the
Satrina
sailed into the turquoise vasts of the Southern Ocean and the coastline of Djihan-Djihar dwindled to a twilit blur on the horizon, Rieuk felt as if he was finally leaving behind all the long years of servitude. He leaned on the ship's rail, watching the sinking sun set the waves on fire.

Time to study the maps of Azhkendir he had bought from a dusty bookseller in Tyriana.

He turned from the rail to make his way below, taking care where he placed his feet; coils of thick rope lay strewn across the deck as the crewmen changed tack. A man was coming directly toward him from the lower deck, his tall frame silhouetted against the fiery glow of the setting sun. Rieuk stopped.

“O—Oranir?” he stammered.

“Did you think that I would let you go without me?” Oranir's face was in shadow, although Rieuk caught a smolder of scarlet from behind his lenses. “You can't send me back now. The
Satrina's
not putting in to port until we reach Smarna. I checked with the captain.”

“How long have you been following me?”

“Long enough. You covered your trail well.”

“So did you, for me not to have noticed.” And for some reason not wholly clear to himself, Rieuk began to laugh. As the last gilded rays of the setting sun faded, the sea darkened from blue to inky purple and the sailors began to light the lanterns on the rigging.

Oranir moved closer. “I'm coming with you. To Azhkendir. Or wherever you go.”

“Even though you'll be a fugitive too?”

Oranir's mouth took on a stubborn set. “I'd rather be on the run with you than back in Ondhessar serving a madman.” He glanced at Rieuk over the top of his spectacles and Rieuk caught another warning glint from his fire-riven eyes. “So don't try to talk me out of it.”

“You can still take a ship back from Smarna—” Rieuk began.

“And didn't you do the same?” Oranir drew closer still, his voice softer. “Didn't you abandon your college to follow Imri Boldiszar? Lord Estael told me so once. That must have taken some courage.”

“Courage?” Rieuk heard the taint of ironic laughter in his voice. He was about to say,
I was all but expelled for disobeying my first master,
but for some reason, the confession would not come. Only then did he realize that he wanted to look good in Oranir's eyes.

“Make me your apprentice.” Oranir reached out, placing his hands on Rieuk's shoulders.

“But you're already apprenticed to Aqil—”

“Make a new bond with me now.” Oranir's face was so close to Rieuk's that he could smell the faint sweetness of caraway on his breath.

“Is this truly what you want?” Rieuk murmured.

“Do it.”

Rieuk drew Oranir's head toward his and gently pressed his lips to Oranir's. As he did so, he felt a shiver catch fire within him as he sensed Oranir's powers.

“Teach me,” Oranir said softly. “Teach me everything you know.”

CHAPTER 3

The empty moorlands, stretching into the misty horizon, were a living tapestry embroidered with the vivid purples of heather and the coppery brown of the dying bracken.

Rieuk and Oranir had been tramping across the moors for days, skirting the barren, burned land the locals called the Arkhel Waste. At night they had taken shelter in ruined crofts or shepherd's huts.

Whenever they asked anyone they met—a lone shepherd herding his ragged sheep, or a hunter with a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder, the answer was always the same. “The old shaman woman? They say you can only find her if she wants you to.”

“Look.” Oranir pointed to the sky. “Is that smoke?”

A thin plume rose into the pale sky, so faint that it could have been mistaken for a trail of mist or cloud. They hurried toward it but soon stopped, bewildered, seeing no sign of a hut or a cottage.

“I know you're here, Spirit Singer!” Rieuk cried into the desolate landscape. As if in answer, there came the distant peeping of a small heathland bird, perched on top of a tall clump of reeds. “I won't give up. I'll go on searching until I find you.”

A breeze, tinged with the sulfurous tang of marsh mud, suddenly stirred the white wispy heads of bog cotton.

“Rieuk.” Oranir nudged him. He turned to see the air rippling as though a heat haze were lifting from the mossy ground. Where there had been nothing but gorse bushes, Rieuk saw a little cottage, with a thin ribbon of blue smoke rising from its awry chimney. Hens scuttled about in the stony yard, scratching for food.

“You young mages need better training,” said a querulous voice. “It took you long enough to find me!” An old woman with a shock of windblown grey hair was leaning on the cottage gate, watching them with beady eyes.