The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (13 page)

No doubt the sensation the statues were watching him was solely due to his own imagination, but there were plenty of real eyes looking at him, Makala’s and Emon’s among them. Diran stepped toward the table and stopped when he reached it. He assumed he’d done the right thing, for Quellin’s smile grew wider and more sinister. Quellin spoke, his voice pitched at normal volume but nevertheless echoing throughout the chamber.

“Diran Bastiaan, welcome to the Chamber of Joining. Today you will take your last step toward becoming a full member of
the Brotherhood of the Blade.” Quellin gestured toward the obsidian table. “Lie down.”

Diran knew better than to ask what would happen if he refused. He would be slain, perhaps even by Emon himself, but Diran didn’t want to refuse. Though he didn’t know what this ritual might require of him, whatever it was, it would be worth it to at last be accepted into Emon’s brotherhood. He climbed on top of the obsidian table and lay down. There was a smooth depression for the back of his head, and the cold, hard table made Diran feel as if he were a corpse laid out on a slab.

Quellin stepped around the table and stood by Diran’s head. “Today you are going to receive a great gift, Diran Bastiaan. After this day, you shall be stronger than ever before, your mind will be clearer, your senses sharper, your resolve more firm and your heart cold as frost-covered steel. After this day, you shall never again be alone.”

Obviously Quellin was much more than a simple librarian and scholar, Diran thought. Was he a wizard? A priest? A deluded madman? He supposed the next several moments would tell the tale.

Quellin turned and faced the ugly statues on the black stone altar. “We do the work of the Six, and to help us serve Them more efficiently, They imbue us with a small measure of Their own majestic darkness.” The old man turned back to Diran. “You have been deemed worthy of being granted the gift of the Dark Six, Diran. Do you accept it of your own free will?”

A part of Diran, perhaps the deepest part of him, wanted to say no, but the word that came out of his mouth was, “Yes.”

“Excellent,” Quellin said, almost hissing the world. He turned back to the altar and lifted his hands over his head.
“Here me, oh Six! Your servant comes before You once more and asks that You crack open the Gates of Oblivion and permit Your shadows to join with this willing vessel. Diran Bastiaan has proven himself worthy. Under his master’s tutelage, he has become a strong, swift, and cunning killer. All he lacks now is the touch of Your dark hands. I beseech You, reach out to this youth and grant him the fell blessing I ask, so that he might walk the face of this world as small reflection of Your own magnificence!”

As Quellin intoned his prayer, Diran had the impression of darkness gathering, pooling thickly around the base of the table, manifesting as a tarry black substance. The chamber grew colder, so cold that his breath came out as curling wisps of mist. Quellin stepped around to the table’s side, and Diran was able to look at him without craning his neck. The elderly man leaned closer and whispered, “Whatever you do, do not resist.”

Quellin straightened, reached between the fold of his robe and took out one of the daggers that hung from his belt. The old man pressed the blade’s hilt into Diran’s right hand.

“Two clean, quick cuts, one on each wrist,” Quellin said, “not too deep, but enough to open the arteries. Once you’ve made the cuts, return the dagger to me, then place your bleeding wrists into the runnels carved into the sides of the table. Do you understand?”

Diran nodded and felt the familiar sensation of a dagger hilt resting in his right palm. He closed his fingers around it then hesitated. If he did as Quellin commanded, he might well bleed to death, but if he didn’t do it, then he certainly would be killed for his defiance. He turned his head and looked at Emon and Makala. The master assassin was still smiling, but Makala’s face
remained expressionless, as did those of all the others nearby. Then Makala gave him a wink and he knew that, whatever was about to happen, it was going to be all right.

He was surprised by how little it hurt to make the cuts.

Quellin took the knife, and Diran lay back, putting his arms in the runnels as he’d been told. Seconds went by without anything happening as he slowly bled out his life’s blood onto the obsidian table, but then he sensed the darkness pooled around table’s base become alert, almost scenting the air like an eager hound. He felt it sliding up the side of the table, ebon tendrils probing as it came. He looked down at his feet. The runnels ended in shallow basins at the foot of the table, and the blood flowing from his opened veins had already filled them halfway. Dark tendrils stretched up over the edge and dipped into the basins, as if tasting the thick, red fluid they held. The darkness must’ve found what it tasted to be sweet, for it flowed up the sides, over the edge, and into the basins, splitting in two as it did so. The darkness absorbed the blood in the basins and then, hungry for more, flowed up the runnels, following the blood trail to Diran’s cut wrists. He watched as tendrils emerged from the leading edge of the darkness to brush against his wounds, their touch freezing cold on his flesh.

On each side, tendrils wormed their way into his wounds, and Diran screamed as he experienced a pain more excruciating than anything he had ever imagined. It took several minutes for the darkness to finish entering his body, and he screamed the entire time, until finally his throat was too raw to make further sound. Then it was over.

Diran lay on the table, breathing slowly. The runnels were dry and clear; not a speck of blood remained on them. Diran sat
up and examined his wrists. The wounds had healed with no sign of scarring. He felt healthy, strong, bursting with energy. He leaped off the table and landed lightly on his feet. He was hungry enough to eat a whale, and at the same time he felt ready to take on an army single-handedly, armed with nothing more than his wits and a sharpened stick.

He looked at Makala with new understanding. This was why she was seemed so different over the last year. She’d already undergone her Joining, and now so had he.

Emon Gorsedd stood and clapped. He was joined by Makala, then one by one all the other assassins. Even Quellin was grinning and clapping.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood of the Blade, Diran!” Emon shouted.

Diran smiled, and if somewhere in the midst of all the clapping and cries of congratulation he heard a small dark voice whispering to him from the most shadowy corner of his soul, he thought nothing of it. It felt natural, felt right …

Felt
good
.

Diran’s eyes opened. At first he didn’t know where he was, but that didn’t matter because for the first time in years he felt complete again. Like an amputee who’d gotten used to the loss of a limb, he’d forgotten how good it was to be whole.

All too soon the feeling began to fade. Diran felt wind rushing on his face, smelled salt in the air, heard the gentle whisper of soarwood runners cutting through water. He looked up, saw stars, moons, and the Ring of Siberys, all illuminating
the night sky, and he knew that he had been dreaming. With that realization, the last lingering feelings of completeness vanished, and an empty space opened up in Diran’s soul. He let out a long sigh.

“Uneasy dreams, my friend?” A woman’s voice, coming from the stern. Yvka.

The last of the dream fog lifted, and Diran remembered everything: the Black Fleet, Onkar, the
Zephyr
, Flotsam and Nowhere, and most of all, Makala. He turned to Ghaji. The half-orc sat with his arms crossed, head down, snoring softly. Diran rose quietly so as not to wake his friend and moved back to sit cross-legged on the deck facing Yvka.

“At least Ghaji is having no trouble sleeping,” the elf-woman said.

“Ghaji and I are both veterans of the Last War. One of the first things a soldier learns is to grab any opportunity for sleep. You never know when—or
if
—you’ll get another chance.”

The night air had grown chilly, especially with the wind kicked up by the
Zephyr
’s swift passage. Diran and Ghaji had broken out their bedrolls and wrapped them around their shoulders like shawls while Yvka was content to make do with a light traveler’s cloak. She’d offered to let them sleep in the
Zephyr
’s cabin, cramped though it might be for two, especially when one of those two was as big as Ghaji, but the two companions had declined. Not only did they want to remain on deck in case of trouble, they still weren’t sure how much they should trust Yvka.

“Speaking of sleep,” Diran said, “you’ve been piloting the
Zephyr
without rest since we left Nowhere. I was raised in the Principalities. I learned to sail almost before I could walk. It’s been a
while since I sat at a tiller, but I think I can remember enough to take your place so you can get some rest.”

“I’m holding up fine. My people don’t need as much rest as yours. Besides, I want to maintain our best speed. The sooner we reach Dreadhold, the sooner we’ll be able to track down Erdis Cai.”

Diran looked at the column behind Yvka, atop which sat the metallic containment ring that kept the air elemental bound and servile. The interior of the ring glowed with shimmering blue energy as the elemental continued producing wind to fill the
Zephyr’s
sails.

“Are you certain?” Diran asked. “I would think that an enchantment this powerful would take a great deal of energy out of the pilot.”

“Controlling the elemental takes effort, but the magic’s primarily in the ship itself,” Yvka said. “The ring, the column, this chair … the hand-link carved into the arm has been keyed especially to me, though the spell could be broken by a wizard or even an especially skilled artificer. All I have to do is remain in physical contact with the hand-link for the elemental to stay active. It would remain so even if I slept, though I would be unable to work the tiller of course.”

“Then I
can
take over for you,” Diran said. “It would mean my standing next to your chair since I couldn’t sit in it while you slept, but I—”

“Again, you have my thanks, Diran, but as I said, there is no need.”

“You don’t trust us, Ghaji and me, do you?”

There was enough moonlight for Diran to make out Yvka’s features, and he saw her sad smile.

“It was how I was trained,” Yvka said. “Trust no one. Surely
you
understand.”

Diran frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You and Ghaji have been traveling in the Principalities for weeks now, and your presence has not gone unnoticed by the people I work for.” Another smile, but one of amusement this time. “You and Ghaji don’t exactly keep a low profile.”

Diran couldn’t help smiling himself. “I admit we have a tendency to stand out at times, so … how much do you know about us?”

“One of the primary goods my employers traffic in is information,” the elf-woman replied. “It would be simpler for me to tell you what I
don’t
know about the two of you.”

“I see.” Diran paused for a moment before going on. “In that case, yes, I had similar training, but I’ve learned how to trust over the years.” He cast a glance back at Ghaji, but the half-orc was still asleep.

“You two make a good team,” Yvka said. “Is Ghaji also a follower of the Silver Flame?”

“Ghaji tends more to the orcs’ belief in the divinity of nature, when he thinks about religion at all, that is.”

“I would think that might prove a source of conflict between the two of you.”

“Why? My order believes that the Silver Flame is the source of all that is Good in existence and that in the end, all good things will rejoin the source from which they came and become one with the Silver Flame. Ghaji’s belief in the sanctity of nature is simply a belief in one aspect of the Silver Flame. At least, that’s what I keep telling him. I don’t think he believes me, though.”

Yvka laughed softly. “I’ve never met a priest like you before Diran.”

Diran replied in all seriousness. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

They sailed on in silence for a time after that, and Diran found himself thinking again of his dream. Though he was glad to be free of the dark spirit Quellin had implanted in him, part of him still missed its presence within his soul and always would. Not for the first time he wondered if by devoting his life to the Silver Flame, especially with its belief in rejoining the source of all good after one’s death, he simply wasn’t trying to replace the loss of his dark spirit with a different brand of spiritually. He knew what Tusya, his mentor in the Church and the priest who exorcised the dark spirit from his soul, would say.

When in doubt, look to your heart, Diran. Your heart is your connection to the Silver Flame, and you’ll always find the answers you need there
.

He also knew what Emon Gorsedd would say.
You’ve just traded one addiction for another, Diran, that’s all. You’ve never truly been your own man and you never will be. You’ll always be one of my children
.

To take his mind off these troubling thoughts, Diran resumed his conversation with Yvka. “Do you truly believe we’re on the right track?”