The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  She rolled onto her stomach, forcing herself to her knees and then to her feet. Fists balled at her sides, she shrieked, “You destroyed the Hall! You killed all of them!”

  Aidan shrugged offhandedly, turning his face toward the pillar of light and the ruins of the Hall of the Watchers. Ever so softly, he said, “They were weak. So was Darien … so are you.”

  His eyes locked on hers as he took a confident step toward her. “You’ve played at power nearly your entire life. Only, you have never truly understood its nature. I do.

  “Always, you’ve taken me lightly. When it was time for my Raising, you chose a pitiful first-tier Master to initiate my Transference. You crippled me for life. But when it came time for my dear brother, you arranged it so he would receive the Transference from a strong Grand Master. Darien was a coward, and he was also a fool. He didn’t lift a hand to save his own life—just see how he squandered that gift! I might have made use of that strength to create something truly meaningful. Instead, you chose to waste it on him. And just look what he accomplished with it.”

  “Darien kept his Oath!” Emelda shouted, filled with a sudden gush of pride tempered only by the grief she felt inside.

  “Father kept his Oath as well,” Aidan reminded her, “and see what came of it. My father burned because of your pathetic doctrine! He died screaming, tied to a stake. He begged you to Unbind the Sentinels before Meridan, but you denied him. Father’s death was another meaningless waste. You’ve made a career out of sacrificing our family’s blood in the name of righteousness.”

  He was lecturing her about sacrificing the blood of their family? Aidan blamed her for Gerald’s death, but even that explanation didn’t suffice. Nothing could come close to justifying the atrocities he had committed in that single, terrible night.

  Darien’s words came back to torment her: Unbind the Sentinels. Gerald’s words. Uttered just before he had left her for Meridan by the Sea. Her husband had martyred himself to uphold a vow he didn’t believe in, only because she had told him it was the right thing to do. Now their son had chosen to do the same. Could Aidan possibly be right? Was it really all her fault?

  She knew that couldn’t be true. She was not wrong. And that still did not explain why Aidan had committed such heinous acts. He was deranged. There was no other explanation. And he was advancing toward her once again.

  Emelda glanced at the cliff, knowing there was nowhere else to run. Darien had chosen to make an end on the rocks so far below. Perhaps she could do the same. It seemed fitting. The fall would be terrible, but at least death would come instantly. But she dismissed the thought. She didn’t have that kind of strength. Aidan was right; she was weak. The cliff was not an option.

  Aidan regarded her suspiciously. Predator-like, he stalked the short distance toward her, fixing her with the malevolent intensity of his gaze.

  She allowed his approach. There was nothing left for her to do. But as he reached out for her, Emelda realized she was not yet ready to end her life. Tears of panic welled in her eyes as a shiver ran through her body. Aidan’s hand froze in the air an inch away from her cheek, a hungering smile on his lips.

  She had wanted a cleaner death, something she could face with the dignity befitting a Prime Warden of Aerysius. But she was warden of nothing, and there was no dignity in this end. Emelda couldn’t stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks, couldn’t hide the despair and terror in her heart. The touch of Aidan’s hand on her face was not comforting. It felt soiled, like a clod of dirt torn up from a grave. Emelda closed her eyes, knowing exactly what was coming.

  A stabbing slap of air exploded between them.

  Emelda flew backward as Aidan was hurtled in the opposite direction. Strong arms wrapped themselves around her, twisting her around and hauling her toward the street. She willed her legs into motion, stumbling after the black-cloaked man who had saved her life.

  They ran through the crumbled streets of Aerysius, up a flight of broken stairs. The green light of the gateway was not enough to repel the shadows, and Emelda had no idea who it was she followed in that wild flight. It wasn’t until he pulled her into the dim light of an archway that he turned around enough for her to catch a glimpse of his face.

  At first, she’d imagined it was Darien, miraculously alive and hale enough to save her. But the features she encountered were completely familiar and yet utterly forgotten. Tyrius Flynn grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she regained her senses enough to realize she was still under the appalling influence of the necrators.

  Emelda screamed. As she did, Tyrius clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. She kept screaming into his hand, over and over again, sucking breath in through her nostrils and wailing until there was only emptiness left inside. She collapsed into his arms, weeping helplessly.

  “Emelda.”

  The sound of her name brought her back from the edge. She gazed up into the comforting brown depths of the Grand Master’s eyes, knowing her old friend had now saved her twice.

  “It—it was Aidan,” she stammered. “He opened the Well of Tears. He killed Darien.”

  “I saw.”

  Tyrius’ eyes were full of sympathy. She collapsed into his arms, pouring out her anguish into the soft folds of his cloak. Her body shook as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her head against his chest.

  “We cannot stay here, Emelda.”

  She didn’t want to run anymore. She threw her head back, lips constricting against her teeth. But the scream she felt in her heart was stillborn; she knew he was right. Collecting herself, she pulled away from his embrace.

  Suddenly, she frowned. “Where are Lynnea and Finneus?”

  Tyrius shook his head. “They’re dead, the both of them. We came across a darkmage down by the Citadel. Emelda, Aidan is not alone. The Eight walk abroad again. There are vile beasts ranging all over the city and more necrators than I ever knew existed in the world.”

  “More must have come through the gateway. Tyrius, we were trying to reach the Temple of Isap. The Catacombs—”

  “Yes,” the Sentinel breathed, eyes widening. But then his brow furrowed, and he paused, considering. “The temple is only a short distance from here. But the journey will be perilous.”

  “Surely not more perilous than staying here,” Emelda insisted. “And you’re stronger now, besides. Lynnea and Finneus were both only Masters, but their combined legacies must have doubled your strength.”

  Tyrius shook his head, a pained look in his eyes. “I was afraid to do more than receive the Transference from Lynnea. I’d be fifth tier now, if such rankings mattered anymore. I deeply fear, however, that you and I are the only mages left alive in the world.”

  “Don’t forget Aidan,” she reminded him, shuddering. Emelda had no idea how much her son had managed to amplify his strength in the Hall of the Watchers. Judging by the bridge of power she had witnessed him create, Aidan was easily as strong as any two or three Grand Masters combined. Melding light into such a solid state, even in minuscule amounts, was one of the most difficult acts any mage could perform. It strained the boundaries of Natural Law too far.

  “Oh, I’m not forgetting him,” Tyrius growled. “If it weren’t for my Oath, I’d have thrown a lot more than a ripple of air his way.” The look on her face made him moderate his tone. “I’m sorry, Emelda. I know he’s your child.”

  “He is not the child I bore.” Emelda’s voice trembled. “The son I birthed is dead. Both of my sons are dead.” She could feel the tears trying to come back again.

  Below her in the street, she saw a fleeting glimmer of light. Startled, Emelda glanced back to Tyrius. The gray-haired Sentinel took a step back, staring down at the ruined and empty street.

  “What is it?” Emelda gasped.

  Tyrius didn’t answer. Another flicker rippled across the ground below them, disappearing almost instantly. Immediately, Tyrius was in motion, sprinting inside the partially collapsed building. Emelda followed as quickly as she co
uld around shattered blocks and chunks of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. It was dark within. Without a thought, she produced a soft glow of magelight that pushed away the shadows.

  “Don’t!” Tyrius growled.

  She let the magelight collapse back into darkness, silently berating herself. Any use of the field sent ripples out into the surrounding pattern that could be detected even at a distance. She had given them away by her own stupidity. The necrators would be coming.

  “We must flee!” Tyrius took her by the arm.

  He led her down a littered hallway and around a corner. There, they were forced to pull up short. Before them, the walls and ceiling had collapsed entirely, blocking any chance of escape in that direction. Half a wooden staircase swayed overhead, the lower half ripped clean away. Part of the ceiling dangled precariously, looking like it could break off and fall at any time.

  Growling like a caged bear, Tyrius swung her around with a steel grip, forcing her back into the hallway. He started forward, Emelda running to keep up with him. At last he halted, wrenching open a jammed door and ushering her out into the merciful light of daybreak.

  She glanced around anxiously. They were in a courtyard bordered on both sides by solid rock walls. The rear of the courtyard was contained by a cliff that climbed upward to the next terrace. They were trapped.

  Beside her, the old Sentinel closed his eyes and uttered a protracted sigh. Then he turned away from her, fixing his narrow gaze on the wall to their left.

  “Get down,” he said. He grasped her by the shoulders and pushed her to the ground.

  Emelda covered her head as the wall erupted in an explosion of stone that rained down all around, littering the courtyard. When she looked up again, she saw that Tyrius had razed half the wall, the edges black and smoldering around the rupture.

  “Well, if that doesn’t point out right where we are, then I might as well send up a signal beacon.” As he turned back toward the building behind them, Tyrius added, “I don’t think a beacon will be necessary.”

  Behind them, a shadow fell across the threshold of the doorway. Only, Emelda knew by the now-familiar sense of dread that it was no true shadow.

  This time, she ran first. Toward the ruins of the wall, up and over the rubble, stumbling as her foot lodged between two blocks. Frantically, she tried to wrench her ankle free.

  She fumbled through the terror in her mind, straining to hear the song of the magic field. But the necrator was too close, its dark influence too great. And it was gliding closer by the second. Emelda whimpered, tugging at her leg with both hands.

  Then Tyrius was beside her, stooping down to pry at the stones with all his strength. One of the rocks shifted just a fraction. It was enough. Emelda jerked her foot clear and lurched to her feet as a lancing pain stabbed up her leg. She screamed.

  Tyrius carried her, stumbling across another courtyard and into the building beyond as the necrators pursued. A flicker of light flowed behind them, writhing across the ground like a mass of glistening snakes.

  Tyrius staggered, almost falling across the threshold of the next structure. He carried her up a winding staircase to the third level, only then pausing to set her down on the landing and catch his breath.

  From below them came a strange scraping noise, like chains dragging on stone.

  Emelda looked down at her ankle and choked back a groan. It was bleeding, her foot twisted at an unnatural angle. She couldn’t heal it. She’d never learned and, besides, she didn’t have the strength. But Tyrius pressed his hand against her foot, sending a wave of healing energy through her.

  Emelda felt a sensation like a rush of cold water running up her leg. She watched her ankle straighten, the bone mending before her eyes. The pain vanished completely, as if it had never existed at all.

  The scraping noises were louder, coming toward them up the stairs. Emelda pushed herself to her feet. Tyrius entwined his fingers with her own as he led her forward once more, up another two flights to a level high above the street. They followed a short hallway to an outside balcony, Tyrius leading her by the hand back out into the open air.

  The balcony looked over the courtyard they had crossed five stories below. It jutted out from the building, extending to meet the mountain’s stone face. An opening in the rail against the cliff led to a narrow stair carved into the rock itself. The steps switchbacked up to the terrace above. Holding Tyrius’ hand, Emelda mounted the narrow, treacherous steps.

  There was no handrail to grasp, nothing to prevent a fall if she slipped. Her vision swam. She glanced down at the courtyard, which was a mistake. The palms of her hands broke out in sweat, the soles of her feet tingling. Tyrius steadied her, squeezing her hand reassuringly as he led her up the granite face.

  Emelda turned just in time to see a bolt of fire lancing toward them from the ground. She winced as it impacted with the cliff above them, sending chips of stone raining down on their heads. She felt Tyrius’ hand like an iron vice as another flaming spear shot toward them. Her eyes had only time to widen before it exploded in her face.

  There was no heat, no impact. Emelda reached up and touched the skin of her cheek, amazed she was even still alive.

  Tyrius lowered his hand, and as he did the brilliant shield he had summoned in front of them disappeared. Emelda could only stare at him in open wonder. She was a Chancellor and had never been trained for anything like this. She kept forgetting Tyrius was a Sentinel and had seen the face of war many times in his life.

  Below in the courtyard, a lone figure emerged from under the balcony. Emelda gasped. It was a woman. She stared up at them, platinum hair stirred by a breeze, her silver-blue gown rippling. She was flanked by an enormous demon-hound with eyes that gleamed an unearthly light. The woman raised her arm, palm upward, and a small white flame appeared to dance in her hand. She smiled as she gazed upon it.

  Tyrius raised his hand but then dropped it again. He jerked Emelda toward the last rise of steps, shouting, “Run!”

  The flickering flame rose from the palm of the woman’s hand, hovering for a moment in the air. Then it began spinning. It spun faster, swelling to a brilliant white sphere.

  It shot toward them.

  Tyrius hauled Emelda off her feet as he pulled himself up and over the cliff’s edge, lifting her bodily after him. Emelda got her legs over just in time as the spinning globe slammed into the side of the mountain. The ground heaved, and the air around them became like molten fire. Emelda covered her head, shoving her face into the dirt and holding her breath.

  Beside her, through the fiery din, she could hear Tyrius screaming.

  The screams ended abruptly, as if cut off short. Emelda was too afraid to open her eyes, too scared to move. She was still holding the Sentinel’s hand, but the grip that had once felt like iron was now limp.

  Slowly, the world stopped trembling. Emelda drew a ragged breath, choking on dirt and ashes and the very heat of the air that filled her lungs. She opened her eyes but saw nothing. Her vision swam, the world a disturbing haze.

  A slight tingling sensation stirred within her hand, the hand that yet clasped Tyrius’ limp fingers. The tingling grew, became a throbbing pressure that climbed up her arm and invaded her chest, spreading out to every fiber of her body.

  Emelda gasped as recognition flooded into her, closing her eyes as she wheezed a moaning sigh. The warmth that flooded into her body was like ecstasy, but the sorrow that filled her heart made it seem more like anguish. She felt the conduit close, the last of Tyrius’ sweet legacy absorbed into her shuddering body.

  She rolled over and screamed. The power that raged within her was terrifying. Before, it had been like a flickering candle flame, glowing gently in the back of her mind. Now it blazed like a roaring firestorm. Emelda caught hold of it, finding herself almost swept away by the torrent of energy that raged within. She jerked her mind back, shuddering and faint.

  Reluctantly, she turned and let her eyes fall upon the body at her side. Tyrius wa
s lying in a patch of dirt blackened to ash. Emelda covered her mouth with a clenched fist, choking back a strangled sob that still managed to escape anyway.

  Tyrius was very much dead, although his flesh was still mostly intact. But his gaping mouth was charred, the sockets in his face empty. The boiling juice of his eyes ran down his blistered cheeks. By the look of it, Tyrius had been seared from the inside-out, probably when he had drawn in a mouthful of molten air to make that last, shuddering scream.

  Emelda turned her head and vomited noisily in the dirt. When she thought she was done, her stomach spasmed again, and again, until there was only bile left to bring up. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she rose, trembling, to her feet. She turned and stumbled away from the grotesque corpse, not wanting to ever, ever see it again.

  Like Gerald and their son, Tyrius was now dead because of the Oath. The Oath she had told them all to keep.

  Emelda wept silently as she picked her way through the empty streets. It seemed there was no one left in the ruined city but herself—no one alive, at any rate. Aerysius was now a city of the dead. Where had they all gone—the residents, the servants of the Hall? She crept around the still forms of fallen bodies, and once she stepped on a hand half-buried in a pile of debris.

  There were fires up above on the heights. Thick, choking smoke billowed into the air. Aerysius was silent, the city bathed in a haunting light. And above, the green pillar yet spired, its wraithlike glow consuming even the dawn.

  The Temple of Death was not far; Tyrius had been right. And it was intact, which was more than she’d dared hope. But Emelda gravely feared it would be as silent and empty as the rest of the city. She could think of no reason for the priests to have remained behind when they could have easily evacuated by way of the Catacombs. If they were already gone, then there was no hope. She was now sixth tier, but all of her dreadful strength would not help her open the entrance to the Catacombs. For that, she would need the help of a priest. Or a very brave and clever priestess.