Chains of Legacy (The Chaos Cycle Book 2) Read online

  Chains of Legacy

  The Chaos Cycle #2

  ML Spencer

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  CHAINS OF LEGACY

  Copyright © 2020 by ML Spencer

  STONEGUARD PUBLICATIONS

  Cover by J Caleb Design

  Edited by Morgan Smith

  World Maps by Rela Similä

  ISBN 978-1-951452-00-1

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  What Came Before

  1. Imprisoned

  2. A Conflict of Interest

  3. The Unity

  4. Besieged

  5. Father of All

  6. The Enemy

  7. Nazapor

  8. A City Overrun

  9. The Core Magic

  10. Slaughter

  11. The Hungering

  12. Surrender

  13. The Nature of Threat

  14. Bloodbath

  15. The Salt Flats

  16. Flight

  17. Dark Ability

  18. The Crossing

  19. The Marks

  20. Survival

  21. Journey to Cardish

  22. Outlaw

  23. The Priesthood of Seer

  24. Deliverance

  25. The Road to Akai

  26. Embassy

  27. The Temple of Akai

  28. Bryn Calazar

  29. The Custodian

  30. Andigar Shadeem

  31. Impasse

  32. A Gift

  33. The Sickness

  34. The Lyceum

  35. The Mokona Highlands

  36. A United Malikar

  37. Karadun

  38. Lack of Purpose

  39. The Thirteen Fortresses

  40. Sultana

  41. Shadows of the Gloam

  42. The Battle of Bel Arun

  43. The Tower of Morning

  From the Author

  Also by the Author

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  Glossary

  The Pantheon

  The Orders of Mages

  Acknowledgments

  What Came Before

  Rylan Marshall’s young son was murdered, his daughter kidnapped, and a mage’s power forced into him against his will. Gil Archer and his acolyte Ashra were charged with protecting Rylan. They brought him to the Lyceum in Karikesh, where Rylan learned he was the son of the infamous darkmage, Darien Lauchlin.

  But before Rylan could settle into his new identity, the Turan Khar, a collective entity who uses mages linked by magical chains, laid siege to the city. Rylan was taken captive and whisked away to another continent, where a mage named Xiana was tasked with teaching him the use of magic. In order to do so, she led Rylan to Suheylu Ra, an ancient city populated only by dead, petrified people, so that he could merge identities with Keio Matu, the ancient Custodian of Shira who had brought his city to ruin in order to save the rest of the world from the Turan Khar.

  While Gil was fighting a losing battle in Karikesh, the mages of the Lyceum were being captured and chained—made into willing weapons to be used against them. Because of Gil’s poor choices, Ashra was captured. Plagued by guilt, Gil went alone into the Khar stronghold on a mission to get her back.

  Across the world, Rylan joined with Keio Matu and inherited more than he bargained for: not just Keio’s knowledge, but also his memories and emotions. But Xiana had been manipulating Rylan all along into becoming a weapon for the Turan Khar—the most powerful mage in their arsenal. Using his daughter as leverage, the Khar Warlord forced Rylan to don the chains that would connect him to their entire society.

  Rylan and Xiana, linked, returned to the city to attack its defenders, including Gil and Ashra. Rylan was able to break free of the Warlord’s control over him, killing Xiana in the process. He defeated the Khar Warlord and assumed his title, which ended the assault on the city. Linked indelibly to the Turan Khar, Rylan chose to depart with them.

  1

  Imprisoned

  The darkness went on forever, infinite and unyielding. There was no sound. No substance. No texture to the world, no odor to the air. His prison contained no walls, either physical or ethereal. Like the darkness, it was never-ending. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there: days… weeks. Possibly months. Whichever—it didn’t matter. The relentless darkness was accomplishing its purpose: he was going insane, and the faster, the better.

  It was no more or less than he deserved, and certainly far better than the alternative. Sanity, as far as he was concerned, was a more grueling punishment than this prison of absence. He had suffered the memories too long already, far beyond his point of breaking. At first, he had yearned for death. But in time, it had become clear to him that death was likely no escape. What was death, but eternal emptiness? He had already looked upon the face of paradise, and then he’d betrayed it.

  The only sensation left to him was pain, and he had learned to savor the experience. It had started with him digging his fingernails into his skin. He’d found the pain a welcome distraction, so he began clawing at his arms until they bled. At first, he did it just to deter his mind from the ache of the memories, to give himself something else to think about. But soon the pain became a staple, a necessity. An accomplishment. In the absence of other sources of stimulation, it had become the only thing grounding him in reality, the only way he could tell he was still alive.

  Not that he wanted to be.

  He had killed the woman he loved. No amount of physical suffering could distract him from that anguish. And yet, for some reason, he endured. The prison of nothingness hadn’t defeated him yet, no matter how much he wanted it to. So he drifted forever in darkness. Sometimes sleeping, sometimes wakeful—it was hard to tell the difference. The nightmares were the same in both cases. They never went away; they scourged him always.

  The face of his beloved haunted him still. As did her words: The harder you try, the worse you’ll fail, and the more people you’ll hurt.

  No.

  Those hadn’t been her words.

  They had belonged to another, someone else he had loved. Someone else who had died. Someone else he had failed.

  Or perhaps the words had been spoken only in his nightmares, like the one he was presently inhabiting.

  It was best not to think about it too hard.

  He dug his fingernails deep into his flesh, finding the pain euphoric.

  A light splintered his darkness.

  It expanded slowly, yawning open like a doorway. He flinched at the intensity of the brightness and brought his hand up to shield his eyes. The light swelled until it enveloped him completely, pouring into his prison like scalding liquid. He edged away from it until he ran into a wall that hadn’t been there before. A silhouette appeared in the light, tall and featureless, vaguely human-shaped. A hand clenched his wrist and urged him forward.

  He staggered into the light, compelled by the rigid grip on his arm. Tears flooded his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. They had nothing to do with the light, and everything to do with the fact that something had changed. He had been delivered from the darkness. The touch of another’s fingers on his skin after so long in isolation was overwhelming and exquisite.

  He kept his hand raised in front of his face as he walked, but lowered it gradually as his eyes acclimated to the brightness. The man leading him down the corridor had skin the same color and texture as the walls. He was tall and thin, his features exceptionally angular, and he wore his silver hair
in long braids threaded through metal rings reminiscent of chainmail. His dark robe was made from the hide of an animal that was utterly unfamiliar. It was smoothly scaled, like snakeskin, yet soft, like suede. He kept his eyes averted, his attention riveted on the corridor in front of them.

  The sharp sounds of their footsteps echoed forcefully in the passage, ringing louder at every stride. The flood of sensations, though welcome, was also daunting. He felt lightheaded and unstable, like he could topple over at any time. Without the man’s totalitarian grip on his arm, he probably would have collapsed already.

  The long corridor ended at a door unlike any other he had seen. It was circular and spoked, like a wagon wheel, held together with iron fittings. Instead of knocking, his escort tugged on a long velvet rope that hung from the ceiling, and the faint sound of a bell echoed from the other side of the doorway.

  They waited in silence.

  His gray-skinned escort stood glowering at the door, conspicuously avoiding eye contact. There was a bracelet on the man’s wrist, thick, like a shackle. It was made of bronze and etched with a geometric pattern, and it had a ring affixed to the band that a chain could be attached to. That was significant, though he couldn’t remember why. And that bothered him. He stared harder at the band on the man’s wrist, struggling for recollection.

  In a moment of insight, his eyes went to his own arm. He wore a similar band, though his was silver. The A’isan, it was called. An ancient artifact that connected him to the whole of the community. He couldn’t feel them, though. Something must have happened during his long interlude in darkness. His eyes traveled to the skin of his arm, which was broken and scabbed over, and dark with dried blood where he must have raked it with his nails.

  A cold feeling made him shiver. Made him sweat. He glanced at the man next to him. A Darl, a voice whispered in his mind. A man from the northern continent of Tur.

  He winced.

  The voice in his head hadn’t belonged to him. It belonged to another man. He shivered harder, sweat dribbling down his forehead.

  There was a grinding noise, and the door rolled open, revealing a large chamber lit by swarming colors that streamed in from stained-glass windows that ringed the walls. Dozens of lanterns hung suspended from a crystalline ceiling, emitting a muted, chaotic light. The walls shimmered as though carved from smokey gemstones.

  The Darl man tugged on his arm, compelling him forward, and the door rolled closed behind them. He led him to the center of the room, where they paused under the equivalent of an indoor pagoda. He stood, wavering, his mind mired in a slimy haze. His gaze drifted from the crystalline walls to a floor carpeted by crimson rugs. Everything was a riot of glimmering light. It was too much. The colors and textures swirled together in a blur, overwhelming his ability to process it all.

  “Leave us,” a voice cut through the chaos.

  A woman rose from a chair that appeared to be carved from an enormous, smoky crystal that looked grown from the wall behind it, just part of the shimmering tapestry. Not a chair, he realized, but a throne.

  Not a woman, but an Empress.

  Isaerae.

  He dropped to his knees, bowing his head deeply. Her footsteps whispered toward him over the soft carpets. He squeezed his eyes closed, dreading her approach, and couldn’t bring himself to look up. She paused, lingering over him, her proximity causing his body to tremble. Unable and unwilling to do anything else, he cowered before her. He clenched his hands into fists, squeezing them tight to stop his shivering. When it didn’t work, he dug his nails into his flesh.

  Isaerae reached down and lifted his chin.

  Her mere touch scalded his face, and he winced. She wanted him to look at her, but he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t possible. She was too beautiful, and such an act would be profane.

  “Open your eyes,” she commanded.

  “No…”

  “Yes. Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Reluctantly, he peeled his eyelids open and forced himself to look up. Above him stood a young and beautiful woman with pale gray skin and eyes the deep purple of mountains at sunset. Her hair was long and silken, white and iridescent, glimmering, as though made of spun glass. Her presence radiated a frightful power almost painful to behold. Lowering his gaze, he trembled harder.

  She smiled. “Rylan Lauchlin. Welcome home.”

  Was that his name? He frowned and thought about it for a long moment before deciding that it was. One of his names. One of his many, many names.

  “Rise, and be at ease.”

  He obeyed automatically, though he kept his head lowered, staring down at his Empress’s feet. She wasn’t wearing shoes. Her toenails were lacquered the same deep crimson as the rugs. The ermine-trimmed hem of her dark robe brushed the skin of her feet.

  “Please. Sit.”

  She motioned to a half-circle of cushions spread out before her throne then turned and took her place before him, claiming her crystalline seat with regal grace. Rylan sank to the floor, purposefully avoiding her gaze. He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his thighs, his stare locked on the rug before him. It occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing any garments. He sat naked before his Empress, clothed only in raw wounds and crusted scabs. A sudden heat seared his cheeks.

  The shame was excruciating. Isaerae was beautiful, and he was wretched. The wounds on his body were an outward extension of the damage within. He couldn’t heal what was inside; nothing could. But he could do something about his appearance.

  Rylan reached out with his mind and clasped hold of the magic field. A tingling sensation filled him, making him tremble. He stared down at the injuries on his legs and arms and imagined them gone.

  And, suddenly, they were.

  The dried blood and scabs disappeared as though absorbed back into his body, leaving only new, pink skin behind. He wasn’t aware of how he had accomplished the act, or of all the millions of little details his mind had attended to all at once in order to achieve that single instant of accelerated healing. If someone had asked him what he’d done, he wouldn’t have been able to explain it. He just knew what to do.

  Or, rather, Keio Matu knew.

  Rylan scowled, staring down at his intact skin. He cringed at the thought of the other man who inhabited his body. That man had faded somewhat during his time in the darkness. Faded, but not gone away. All of Keio Matu’s knowledge remained inside him, easily accessible, right there at his fingertips. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember a thing about Keio’s life, other than what had been shown to him directly in the vision he had received in Suheylu Ra. It was better that way. It made living with the man a lot easier.

  Rylan flexed his fingers, testing the elasticity of his new skin. His hands were smooth now, his skin almost like a child’s, lacking the fine lines and blemishes two decades of work and age had etched there. Shifting his gaze to his legs, he saw that the rest of his flesh was likewise renewed. All of the injuries he had inflicted upon himself had been erased, at least outwardly. On the inside, though, he still bled.

  He asked, “Why did you torture me?”

  There was a long pause bloated by silence.

  “We didn’t torture you, Rylan.”

  He took a moment to ponder that answer. “Then who did?”

  “You tortured yourself.”

  He glanced up at his Empress, regretting the action instantly. The strength of her presence quickly overwhelmed him, and he looked back down again. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have been unconscious for weeks.”

  Rylan went cold. He fumbled through his memories of the darkness, but they were already waning. He glanced back down at the naked skin of his thighs.

  “If I was unconscious, then where did these injuries come from?”

  There was another pause.

  “You wounded yourself, Rylan, but not with your hands. You turned your power on yourself. It was all we could do to heal you faster than you were flaying the flesh off your bones. The
only reason you still live is because somehow, in your suffering, your mind managed to block the A’isan.”

  He glanced down at the silver band on his wrist. He felt suddenly lightheaded, his pulse drumming against the inside of his skull. “Why would I do that to myself?”

  “Because you betrayed the Unity, Rylan. You have sentenced us to death.”

  2

  A Conflict of Interest

  Above in the skies, a storm was brewing. Down below the city walls, spread out across the battle-scarred plain, another army was gathering, its appearance just as ominous as the darkening sky.

  When Gil had first seen the long columns of soldiers cresting the horizon, his first thought was that it was the Turan Khar returning to finish them off. But this new army had no chained mages and had arrived before their walls in the usual way, which is to say, marching up the road before taking up position behind hastily erected earthworks, which they then spent the next several days reinforcing. Perhaps if Karikesh had even the semblance of their own army remaining, they could have done something before this new enemy became too entrenched. But after losing two-thirds of the city guard only a month before, the defenders of Karikesh hadn’t had time to shore up their walls well enough to repulse an army of the size gathering below.