The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien’s eyes settled on Kyel’s, fixing him with a significant look. “Don’t try to get a sense of the field from this point on. Not till I tell you to. Without training, even the very margin of a vortex could do you harm if you stroke it the wrong way.”

  Kyel had read enough to know what a vortex was and what it meant. It was like a hurricane of power, a place where the lines of the magic field swirled and converged. He felt a shudder of foreboding as he stared down at the grasslands, which suddenly seemed to have diminished in their beauty.

  Before, when he had trekked up this way, a vortex had meant nothing to him. But now that he’d started exercising his mind to consciously sense the magic field, reaching out toward it was becoming second-nature. Still, he didn’t understand. He was not a Master, so how could the vortex possibly harm him?

  But if Darien sensed his question, he didn’t say anything. With one last admonishing glance, the Sentinel sent his horse forward at a lope down the mountainside. Kyel’s mount wanted to break after it, but he held it to a walk with a firm hand on the reins. He looked over at the priestess and saw that she was staring at him.

  “You never told me your name,” she said.

  Kyel felt a flush of embarrassment. Beside her, he felt so insignificant that he really hadn’t thought it mattered to her, one way or the other.

  “I, uh. Kyel Archer, that is. That’s my name.”

  Beneath her veil, the woman’s lips drew upward in a smile. Kyel couldn’t believe he’d just fumbled over his own name.

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Kyel Archer.” The priestess was still grinning in amusement. “You may call me Naia, if it pleases you.”

  He wasn’t sure if it did please him. For the second time since coming to Lor-Gamorth, a person with an imposing title had asked him to use their given name. The first time, he’d earned himself a chain on his wrist. But at least the mark Darien had placed there was out in the open, where he could stare at it and consider its implications. There were many types of chains.

  But the priestess seemed to be regarding him casually, a wistful expression on her face. “Is he a hard master?”

  Kyel found himself thinking that question over for a minute, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, he really didn’t know. His apprenticeship was only just beginning.

  He shrugged, responding, “Darien is harder on himself than he is on anyone else.”

  Naia appeared to be considering his words, glancing down at the place where the mage had drawn his horse up and was staring out across the plains.

  16

  Wolden

  Wolden was just as Darien remembered it: a large, ramshackle town that marked the end of the Great Northern Road. The very fact of its existence was something of a puzzle. Wolden had originally been established as a waypoint in the movement of supplies and soldiers to the Front, just an outpost of Greystone Keep. Yet, as trade to the pass had dwindled over the years, the town had continued to thrive and had even grown. Other than Rothscard, Wolden was the most populated settlement in Emmery. And it was directly in the path an invading army would take, snug up against the foothills that climbed into the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.

  Darien could not conscionably skirt the town without giving its people some type of warning. So he ignored the urgency that made him want to bypass the settlement.

  The priestess was quick to figure out what he had in mind. She drew up beside him on her roan mare, adjusting her veil and saying in a lowered voice, “You must take great care in how you handle this. You’ll not wish to create a panic.”

  Darien suppressed an urge to tell the woman he was well aware of what he was doing. Instead, he swallowed his ire, saying, “I intend to find the mayor. I’ll give him the information and let him figure out what he wants done about it.”

  The priestess nodded, though her eyes still looked troubled. He was starting to get the feeling he was in some odd sort of power struggle with the woman.

  The trail they were following widened as they approached the town’s north gate. Being situated so close to the Front, Wolden was fortified, ringed by a crenellated wall broken in places by guard towers. But Wolden had grown too big to be contained within the wall, and a good deal of the town had spread beyond it.

  The first cottage they rode past looked dilapidated. A woman sat in a chair on the porch. Beside her was a basket of yarn and a small child that squatted next to it, intent on the basket’s contents. The woman glanced up at the sound of their horses, a look of casual interest on her face. But then her expression crumbled, turning to a look of fear. She shot out of her chair, gathered the child into her arms, and bolted inside.

  Darien frowned. What had prompted the woman to react that way? It was more than just the glimpse of his cloak. Most people of the Rhen were familiar enough with what that cloak represented not to be overly startled whenever they saw one.

  As they approached the gate, every person they came across was just as startled by the sight of them. They drew a broad variety of reactions, ranging from shock to dismay, even terror. Darien was used to people deferring to him, moving out of his way on the street, or staring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. But he had never experienced anything like this.

  Even the guards stationed at the town gate gawked at them as they passed through, gazing at him as though he were Zavier Renquist himself. They made no move to bar his way but edged away from him as far as they could. Darien turned to look over his shoulder, watching as a man with a bow abandoned his post and fled down a side street.

  Darien cursed himself. He had been a fool not to consider the swift wings of rumor. No doubt word of Aerysius’ fall must have preceded their arrival in Wolden. If the people of this town thought every last mage was dead, then he could imagine their shock at seeing him riding in with a priestess of Death.

  Their party was quickly surrounded by mounted guardsmen. And even though their weapons were sheathed, Darien didn’t like the look of the guards who ringed him. They were afraid. Frightened men could be desperate men. And he was powerless within the perimeter of Orien’s Vortex.

  A guard with graying hair approached on his horse. He looked Darien up and down, dipping his chin in a stiff greeting. “Your pardon, Great Master, but the mayor would like a word with you. You are advised to come with us.”

  Darien ran his gaze around the tight circle of men, then nodded. The guard leaned forward and caught his reins. Immediately, two more guardsmen drew their mounts around to flank him. Another kicked his horse forward, insinuating his horse between Naia’s and his own.

  The mayor’s house was not far from the gate. It was not a house at all, really, but rather a small palace. In the North, elected offices turned over about as often as Southern kingdoms changed dynasties. The mayor of Wolden had probably enjoyed his position for decades.

  The guardsmen guided them through an iron gate to a path that wound through a garden of symmetrical flower beds. The whole affair reminded Darien of the Queen’s palace in Rothscard, only on a miniature scale.

  The guards ordered them to dismount before a flight of marble steps. Darien climbed down from his horse, studying the guards warily as he waited for the priestess and Kyel. His new acolyte looked a little unsure about what to do with his bow. Darien shook his head at him, indicating with his eyes that he ought to leave it behind with the horse. Kyel reached up and hung the bow from his saddle.

  The guards led them up the steps and through a large door. A foyer spanned the entire front of the mansion, with a white staircase that curved upward to a balcony on the second floor. The room was elegantly furnished, every piece of furniture a work of fine craftsmanship. Letting his gaze wander, Darien discovered what looked like a priceless collection of oil paintings mounted high up on the walls. One in particular, a nude of a woman sitting alongside a bath, had the unmistakable broad strokes and bold contrasts of a Gabrizi. Darien swallowed, wondering how in the world he was going to convince the owner of this collection
to leave it all behind.

  They were led down a short hallway and into a snug room with a large table entirely too big for the space, leaving scant room for anything else. A man was already seated behind the table, his hands folded neatly on its polished surface. He made no move to stand, instead just gestured with his hand at two chairs across the table from him.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Darien paused before making a move toward one of the chairs, taking a quick survey of the man in front of him. He assumed it was the mayor he was looking at, although the man was younger than he had expected, with short brown hair and a plumpish face. He wore a simple tan jacket, though the cut looked well-tailored and expensive.

  “Mayor Blake Pratson.” The man nodded by way of introduction as Darien removed his sword and took the seat across from him.

  By the rules of etiquette or even common courtesy, the mayor should have risen to greet his guests. Naia’s presence alone should have been enough to demand it. But the mayor of Wolden just sat back in his chair and waited until Darien and Naia were seated, Kyel lingering awkwardly on his feet. The priestess looked furious, her dark eyes glaring through her veil. Kyel appeared to be making a conspicuous study of the wood of the tabletop.

  Darien thought about demanding an explanation for the treatment they had received but decided against it. He needed this man’s cooperation. Instead, he leaned forward, extending his arm toward the man across the table and supplied his name, leaving off his title. Pratson looked down at his offered hand with a look of disdain. At last, he reached out and clasped it in a tentative grip.

  Darien said, “May I introduce First Daughter Naia Seleni of the Temple of Isap. And this is my acolyte, Kyel Archer.”

  He let go of the mayor’s hand, noting the clammy feel of the man’s skin. Like the guards, Blake Pratson was afraid of him, which made no sense. As mayor of Wolden, the man should know that Darien was powerless here within the turbulence of the vortex. The entire town of Wolden was effectively mage-proof. Yet, if the feel of his hand betrayed his apprehension, the mayor’s face was a study in unruffled self-assurance. Sitting back in his chair, Pratson folded his arms across his chest and regarded Darien with a skeptical expression.

  “You’ll have to forgive my shock, Master Lauchlin,” he said. “You see, I’ve had word from the Queen of Emmery that Aerysius has been completely destroyed. Begging your pardon but, by all reports, you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Darien nodded thoughtfully, thinking that, while such news might give the man pause, it still didn’t explain Pratson’s anxiety or the outright fear on the faces of so many of Wolden’s citizens. There was something else going on here, but the man was being slow to let on about it.

  “The report is accurate. To my knowledge, I’m the only survivor.”

  Outwardly, Pratson’s face conveyed a look of polite interest. Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes gave away his doubts.

  The priestess shifted in her seat, her fingers stroking the back of Darien’s hand under the table in warning. Glancing up, he saw that another man had moved into the room behind him. He had come in so quietly that Darien hadn’t noticed his presence. Which was alarming. His ear was trained to pick up on such noises. Either he had slipped in his vigilance, or this newcomer was not an ordinary guard.

  Something about the man reminded him of the blademaster he had studied under in his youth. It wasn’t a physical resemblance, more in the way the man held himself and the air of casual confidence he projected. Unless Darien missed his guess, the man was a Guild blademaster.

  He found himself liking this situation less and less. Pratson was openly studying him now, analyzing his reaction. Darien could no longer pretend to ignore the insult of the guards. Striving to keep his voice as even as possible, he said to the mayor, “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about.”

  Pratson shook his head. “First, you tell me what brings you to Wolden.”

  “As you wish,” Darien allowed softly, folding his hands on the table. “I bear ill tidings from Greystone Keep.”

  Darien described the size of the Enemy host waiting on the other side of the pass while the man listened blandly. As he spoke, he had the growing feeling that not one word of his account was being taken seriously. Pratson just sat there, leaning back in his chair and looking almost bored. When he was finished, the mayor reached a hand up and rubbed his temple.

  “Do you have a shred of proof that this army does, in fact, exist?”

  The statement sent Naia bolt upright in her seat, hands gripping the edge of the table as she gasped in disbelief, “You dare question the word of a Sentinel?”

  Pratson shrugged. “I fear I’m left with little choice.” Turning to Darien, he said bluntly, “Your very presence here is a mystery to me. I find almost everything about you troubling. For one, I’ve always heard that mages were forbidden to bear weapons, and yet you come to me carrying steel at your back. What do you think, Broden? Is that sword just the fancy decoration it looks?”

  “No.” The tall guardsman shook his head. “He’s had Guild training.”

  Darien’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the man behind him. Broden hadn’t been with the other guardsmen who had escorted them through town. In fact, Darien hadn’t seen him at all, not until he had so silently entered the room.

  “Broden’s good,” the mayor said with a wry grin. “Give him a few more minutes, and he could probably name the blademaster you studied under.”

  It was scarcely a secret anymore. “Nigel Swain was captain of Aerysius’ guard. He taught me the art of the blade.”

  Broden nodded warily, sucking in a cheek. “I remember Swain.” He glanced at Pratson. “He left the Guild for Aerysius some years ago, just as he says. You know him too. He’s captain of the Queen’s guard now.”

  But the mayor still didn’t appear convinced. Slowly, he said, “And then there’s also the mystery of your name.”

  His words caught Darien by surprise. “What of it?”

  “Everyone knows Emelda Lauchlin was Prime Warden. Are you claiming to be a relation?”

  “I am her son.”

  Pratson’s eyes ticked toward Broden. Instantly, the man was in motion. Darien rose halfway out of his seat, hand reaching for his hilt. But he was taken by surprise, his reaction too slow. The cutting edge of Broden’s sword was already frozen at his neck. Slowly, Darien retracted his hand, keeping his eyes fixed on Broden. Beside him, Naia was on her feet, glaring at Pratson in outrage.

  The mayor explained, “In her note to me, Queen Romana mentioned that the downfall of Aerysius was brought about through the betrayal of the Prime Warden’s own son.”

  Darien blinked in shock. That explained everything. They had mistaken him for Aidan. He felt a sickening nausea in his stomach at the thought of it. No wonder the people had stared at him that way on the street.

  Beside him, the priestess addressed Pratson in a near-whisper of threat, “In most provinces, it is considered a capital offense to detain a Master against his will.”

  But the mayor simply dismissed her words with a wave of his hand, smiling confidently. “The town of Wolden is well within the protective margins of Orien’s Vortex. A black cloak means nothing here.”

  Naia looked down, her long veil brushing the surface of the table. Darien watched her from the corner of his eye, his gaze still locked on Broden. Slowly, the priestess raised her head, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

  “What if we can offer the proof you require?”

  Pratson shrugged. “Then, by all means, please do so.”

  Darien couldn’t imagine what Naia was talking about. He listened to her as he stared into Broden’s eyes, watching for any subtle change. Usually, where the eyes moved, the blade followed.

  Naia explained in a patient, almost lecturing tone, “Prime Warden Emelda had two sons. It was Darien’s brother Aidan who sacrificed his Oath of Harmony in order to bring about the destruction of his home. As yo
u can imagine, if Darien had committed such an act, he would no longer bear the chains of the Oath upon his wrist.”

  Pratson pursed his lips, turning to Darien with eyebrows raised expectantly. Darien sighed, feeling disgusted. It always came back to his Oath. Always. Glaring at Broden as if daring him to strike, he raised both hands and shook back his sleeves, the material falling away to expose the hated markings there.

  Darien shuddered as he looked at those twin chains. He found just the sight of them repulsive. He had to force himself to keep his arms raised as Pratson sidled out from behind the table, walking around Naia to take Darien’s right arm into his hand. The mayor’s palm was even clammier than before. Darien closed his eyes in loathing as the man raised his wrist up almost under his nose, inspecting the emblem closely.

  He wanted to strangle Naia.

  The mayor released his arm. As he did, Darien heard the guard’s blade sliding back home into its scabbard.

  “You have my most humble apologies,” Pratson told him, drawing away. “And my most sincere condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Darien muttered, falling heavily back into his seat. The priestess regained her own chair beside him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. When he looked over at her, he saw Naia’s eyes were full of regret.

  Pratson remained standing, bringing a hand up to rub his brow wearily. “One week, did you say?”

  Darien nodded, feeling drained. “If that. Proctor has less than a thousand men under his command. It all depends on how well he can make use of tactics to slow them down.”

  The mayor looked as if he simply didn’t understand. That, or he just flat-out refused to believe. “Surely, Greystone Keep can hold its own in a siege far longer than you give them credit for.”