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

  Not army, Gil reminded himself. Armies.

  Looking down at the banners and insignias arrayed across the field, Gil felt his nerves growing cold. The soldiers encamped below were not part of a foreign expeditionary force. They were simply men whose fathers and grandfathers had tilled this self-same land—until they had been routed by the Malikari. The forces below were composed of the regular armies of Chamsbrey and Southwark, augmented by ranks of militia, soldiers who simply aspired to take back the lands of their ancestors. There was no better reason to bring war against another, Gil thought. He couldn’t find it within himself to blame them.

  But he could despise them.

  It was a brilliant but underhanded strategy they were employing. The rulers of the Rhen’s kingdoms had bided their time, letting the Turan Khar pummel the city of Karikesh. Then, when the city walls were reduced to open and bleeding wounds, their generals had advanced their forces and laid siege. Gil knew that if he had been in command of the Kingdoms’ armies, he would have done the same damn thing. But after spending two weeks fighting to defend the city and the people who dwelled within it, it was heartbreaking to realize they had won the first battle just to lose the second. The Malikari had made Karikesh their home for over twenty years, and now, when they were at their weakest, they would be driven from it.

  Gil rested his hand on the haft of the silver weapon he wore at his side, the magical artifact named Thar’gon. The air was crisp, threatening either rain or snowfall, and he could feel the chill of the metal through the leather straps that laced the morning star’s hilt. But the talisman gave his mind no comfort, for he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. The army below was not an enemy he could face. They were his own kinsman—by rights, he should be celebrating their arrival, not dreading it. But his experience fighting the Turan Khar had opened his eyes to the plight of the Malikari, and he couldn’t wish this on them. They had fought well and taken devastating losses. They deserved a respite.

  He glanced at Ashra, who stood across from him, leaning against one of the shattered battlements of the defeated tower. Under her black mage’s cloak, she wore a finely embroidered kaftan with flowing sleeves. He had never seen her in anything so elegant during all the time he had known her at the Lyceum. But ever since the disappearance of the Turan Khar, she had taken to wearing such finery, and her wardrobe seemed to be growing more expensive by the day. The gown she wore looked like it was meant for a formal occasion, perhaps a meeting with dignitaries or an audience before a king or queen. It wasn’t an outfit suited for the city’s crumbling battlements. To Gil, Ashra looked pretentious, and though he knew her reasons, he didn’t like those either.

  She had lost her father to the Turan Khar, along with both of her brothers. As Princess, Ashra was the only member of her family left to continue her father’s legacy. The people of Karikesh had taken to calling her Sultana, and Ashra hadn’t corrected them, despite the fact that she had yet to be properly crowned. That, more than the armies below, made Gil’s blood run hot. Relinquishing his position on the battlement, he crossed the tower to stand at her side.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the rising wind.

  “I don’t know,” she responded.

  “You need to walk away.” He moved closer to her, making sure his voice couldn’t be overheard by the officers who were standing behind them. “Right now, before this explodes in your face.”

  Ashra looked at him with understanding in her eyes, but there was a hard stubbornness there too. She glanced back out over the embrasure, seemingly to observe the ever-changing face of the armies below. “I can’t. It’s not what my father would have wanted.”

  Gil doubted that. He had known the Sultan long enough to guess that he wouldn’t have wanted his daughter up on a tower overlooking a battle waiting to happen. Gil figured that was one of the reasons the Sultan had agreed to Ashra joining the Lyceum’s ranks of mages: to keep her out of harm’s way. But Ashra was just as headstrong as her father, and Gil was quickly growing frustrated.

  “Your father wanted his son on the throne,” he growled under his breath. “Not you.”

  Ashra cast a disparaging glance his way. “Regrettably, none of my father’s sons survived.” Her voice was caustic, as was the look in her eyes. She stood with her chin raised at an infuriating angle, staring down her nose at him, the way she used to do before becoming his acolyte.

  “Ashra. A mage cannot rule.”

  She lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Why not? If there is some law that says so, I’ve never heard it.”

  Gil felt like grinding his teeth. “It’s an unwritten law.”

  She shrugged dismissively. “Well, if it’s that important, then someone should have written it down.”

  She turned and walked away from him, moving to the far side of the tower. For no other reason than to avoid him, he was sure. He wasn’t going to let her get away that easily, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be snubbed by his own acolyte and just let it pass. Moving after her, he planted his hands on the stone of the embrasure at her side.

  “We are mages, Ashra,” he reminded her. “We can’t take sides. Magic shouldn’t be used for battle, but if you assume the throne, that’s exactly what they’ll expect of you.”

  Ashra leaned back against the wall of the battlement, her leather-gloved fingers clasped in front of her. “This city would be ruled by the Turan Khar right now if it wasn’t for magic being used in battle.”

  “That’s different,” he grumbled.

  “How is it different?”

  Inside, Gil felt like screaming. That or batting her over the head and dragging her down off the tower.

  “Because the Khar were invaders.”

  “And they’re not?” Raising her eyebrows, she nodded toward the army below with a look that dared him to contradict her.

  “No, they’re not,” Gil snapped, taking the bait. “You were the invaders. This was their land before your father took it from them!”

  Ashra recoiled as if struck, her dark eyes smoldering with anger and hurt. Stabbing him with a hateful glare, she asked coldly, “So, we’re back to that, now?”

  “Yes, we’re back to that.” Gil wanted to spit. “Gods, you’re infuriating!”

  He turned away from the ramparts, wanting to swipe out at the air in anger. But he halted himself, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes in a last, desperate attempt to find patience. He stood there for a minute until his breathing slowed, chewing on his anger. He decided to start over. Knowing Ashra as he did, he figured he was approaching this from the wrong angle. He decided to try reasoning with her.

  Turning back to her, he said with the gentlest voice he could conjure, “Naia will never stand for this, you know.”

  “I don’t need Naia’s approval. The Malikari Empire was built by my father. It’s my empire now. I’ll rule it as I see fit. And if the Prime Warden doesn’t like that, then she can move her academy to a different city.”

  Gil groaned audibly. Of course reasoning hadn’t worked—it only worked with reasonable people. “It’s not that simple. You’re a mage, Ashra! You don’t have the luxury to do what you want. You gave up that right the day you swore to protect the land and its people. That means all its people, not just the Malikari. A mage can’t rule an empire—it’s a conflict of interest.”

  She stared at him silently for a long moment, her gaze wandering over him. At last, she licked her lips and breathed a deep sigh. “I understand what you’re saying, Gil, and you’re right. It is a conflict of interest. Very well. I hereby resign my position as a mage of the Lyceum.”

  Gil’s mouth flopped open. “You just can’t resign from being a mage!”

  Ashra raised her eyebrows, differing with him imperiously. “I can’t help the fact that I have the gift in me, but I can no longer remain at the disposal of the Lyceum. I am a monarch now. Naia will just have to understand that. I can’t be subject to her and rule the Mal
ikari Empire at the same time.”

  Defeated, Gil blew out the last of the air in his chest, his frustration cooling into something different, something that felt an awful lot like fear. And the more Ashra talked, the colder that fear became. Somewhere, he felt sure, there was an invisible line in the sand, and she was coming very close to stepping over it. He didn’t know what would happen if she did.

  Softly, he said, “I’m telling you, Naia’s not going to allow it.”

  “She won’t have a choice.”

  “Pardon me, Your Grace,” a man’s voice interrupted from behind them.

  Gil turned to find himself staring at Murat, the general in charge of the city’s defenses. He wore a tall, red hat adorned with a feathered plume that looked much more suited to a noble court than it did to the battlefield.

  The general waited for Ashra’s invitation to continue, and then reported. “Madam, I spoke with General Hornsberg and General Knibbs, the commanders of the armies of Chamsbrey and Southwark, respectively. The generals asked me to inform you that they are ready to discuss the terms of our immediate surrender.”

  Ashra shot Gil an accusatory glare. “Do you still believe that now is a good time for me to abdicate?”

  Gil took a step toward her, intentionally caging her in against the corner of the tower. “Yes. Especially now. You can’t do this. We’re talking about war. As a mage of the Lyceum, you can’t lead an army into—”

  “I am no longer a mage of the Lyceum!” She stepped sideways, dodging around him. “I am the sovereign ruler of—”

  “You haven’t even been crowned yet! For gods’ sake, Ashra! I’m saying this as your friend: don’t do this. Don’t start down this road—it’s not going to lead anywhere good. For one thing, it’s taken us over twenty years to regain the public’s trust. If it becomes known that a mage is in command of an army, we lose that trust. Next time, it may take us a hundred years to get it back.”

  Ashra’s shoulders raised and then fell again as she exhaled a deep sigh. Her eyes lowered, and for a moment she stood staring vacantly out across the plain below, the wind rippling her hair about her face. At last, she looked back at him.

  Quietly, she said, “I’m sorry for that. I truly am. But it’s not my problem anymore.”

  She turned to her commander. “Murat Pasha, please go inform the generals of the Kingdoms that we are disinclined to surrender at this time. Inform them that, out of kindness and mercy, they shall be allowed one day to remove their armies to the far side of the river. If for any reason they fail to comply, tell them that act will be interpreted as aggression, and we will retaliate by slaughtering their forces to the man. Remind them that Malikar has never taken prisoners, and never shall.”

  The general brought his hand to his chest in salute. “At once, Sultana.”

  Gil winced at the title. There had to be dozens of people who would make better rulers and who weren’t compromised by a mage’s power. But one look at Ashra told him that the argument was over. She’d made up her mind.

  “Do what you want,” he sighed, “but just understand something. Mages have been executed in the past for defying the will of a Prime Warden.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Are you actually threatening me with execution?”

  “It’s not a threat, Ashra. It’s a fact. And you really need to think about it.”

  With that, he turned away and stalked toward the tower stairs. When he reached the bottom of the steps, the two Battlemages who had accompanied him fell in next to him, their cloaks rippling like banners in the wind. As they gained the street, he paused and cast and infuriated glance back up at the tower, swiping a hand through his hair.

  Turning to the taller of the two mages who accompanied him, he said, “Stay here, Ranick. Send a runner if anything bad happens. Leven, come with me.”

  Ranick screwed his face into a grimace. “What do you consider bad?”

  Gil scowled. “Just about any decision she makes.”

  3

  The Unity

  Rylan touched the silver band on his arm, trailing his thumb across its cold, silken texture. The A’isan was an artifact, just like the chains that linked the rest of the mages of the Turan Khar. Only, the A’isan was the master of all bonds. The silver band defined the Khar Warlord—and he, it. It was what gave the Warlord the power to move armies, conquer cities, and chart the course of an entire society and every person within it. But somehow, he had managed to find a way to block the A’isan, to turn off his connection with the whole of the community. He could no longer feel their sweet emotions in his head, and his heart ached at their absence.

  The Empress Isaerae gazed down at him from her crystalline throne with a look of sympathy. Rylan didn’t understand how she could find compassion for him.

  Tears clouding his vision, he whispered, “How did I betray us?”

  With a forgiving smile, Isaerae informed him, “You withdrew our forces from the Southern Continent before we had a chance to collect enough of their mages. Now, we must sacrifice our own brothers and sisters to feed the hunger of the Sky Portal, and we simply do not have enough. When we run out of mages, the Sky Portal will collapse, and our civilization will crumble into chaos.”

  Isaerae’s smile was a painful condemnation. Rylan couldn’t look at her after such a weighty accusation, so he lowered his gaze to the floor. He clenched his hands into fists, his stomach tightening, feeling the desire to rake his nails across his flesh, knowing that physical pain would be far easier to bear. An image of the Sky Portal filled his mind, even though he’d never seen it. He knew exactly what it looked like, for he had witnessed it through another man’s eyes. The portal was a swirling maelstrom that dominated the sky, casting its menacing shadow over the world.

  “Why must we feed our mages to the Sky Portal?” He shivered as cold fingers of dread traced down his back. He couldn’t imagine such a fate.

  “To uphold the covenant that we made with Xerys.” Leaning forward, she gazed at him, maintaining that strange, enigmatic smile on her face. It was beautiful, just as she was beautiful—and terrifying.

  Rylan spread his hands in an imploring gesture. “I don’t understand. Why would we have made such a covenant in the first place?”

  “To protect ourselves from you.” Isaerae’s smile deepened, a cold thing that seemed frozen on her face.

  “From me?”

  “From Keio Matu.”

  He winced, a cold dagger of shock slipping through his heart. “How?”

  Isaerae narrowed her eyes, staring deeply into his face as if boring into his soul. “Keio Matu was the Custodian of the Wise Council. The core magic was sequestered by his command.”

  Rylan had no idea what she was talking about. Even the name was utterly unfamiliar. He had no recollection of it, and the man inside him wasn’t helping. “I don’t remember. What is core magic?”

  “Residual magic left over from the creation of the universe.”

  He frowned. “Why have I never heard of it?”

  “No one alive has. Since the destruction of Shira, knowledge of the core magic has been lost to the world. But, then again, you are as ancient as I. Everything you need to know is locked somewhere deep inside your head, should you dare to go looking for it.”

  He wished it were that simple. He didn’t have access to Keio Matu’s memories; just the man’s knowledge of magic, along with some of his emotions. He couldn’t speak to him or ask him questions, couldn’t crack him open and take a look inside. Keio Matu was dead in every way that mattered, although something of his ghost lingered on, haunting the recesses of Rylan’s mind.

  Frowning, he asked, “What does core magic have to do with the Sky Portal?”

  Isaerae reached upward with both hands, stretching languidly like a cat. Then she rose from her seat, her fingers trailing across the sharp planes of the throne’s armrests. She stood before him as radiant as a goddess, her spun-glass hair glimmering in the crystalline light. She lingered over him, gazi
ng down at him imperiously as he quailed before her, overawed by her beauty.

  “We were harvesting the core magic before Shira had any knowledge of it. It is the purest form of magic, the perfect power source, lacking the inconsistencies of the magic field or the brutality of the Onslaught. With it, we accomplished the Unification of our society and were able to overcome all of humanity’s innate flaws and limitations. No longer did men have to struggle against each other for survival. No longer were we slaves to the base, self-serving thoughts that motivated our every action. Using core magic, we transcended the limitations of the human condition.

  “But then Keio Matu discovered our power source and desired it for Shira. He created a reservoir and siphoned every last drop of core magic into it, locking it away for his own selfish use. While our society starved, Shiran society blossomed. Keio Matu left us no choice: we had to either act to take back our power source or descend into madness. We decided to act. But we didn’t have the means of fighting a war against a nation as advanced as Shira.”

  “So you made a covenant with Chaos,” Rylan concluded grimly.

  “We needed some way to maintain our Unity in the absence of core magic.”

  Her explanation made him ill. Keio Matu had contributed to the demise of his own society. Had he done so intentionally, or out of ignorance? And did it even matter? Perspiration broke out across Rylan’s brow. How many people had died because of Keio Matu’s actions? How many more lives were yet to be sacrificed? The more he understood about the man living inside him, the more he wanted to take a dagger and carve him out.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the only sound that came out was a raspy gurgle. Clearing his throat, Rylan asked, “So the Khar Unity is dependent on Hellpower?”

  Isaerae nodded. “Yes. In order to maintain the Sky Portal and keep it from collapsing, we must continuously feed it vitrus.”