The priestess stopped in an alley between two rows of sarcophagi, gaping around as if lost. Kyel felt a moment of panic, clinging fiercely to the reins of the two horses.
“What do we do?”
“There is only one place to look,” she said. “The walls would take him for a lost spirit and direct him to the Hall of the Masters. Fortunately, the way is not far.”
Kyel nodded. He followed the priestess back through the maze of stone monuments, winding her way through dark alleys toward a broad doorway. As he came around the corner, Kyel stopped as she knelt over a dark stain on the floor.
“What―?” he began, then noticed the trail of paw prints leading off down the corridor. The sight chilled him.
“Blood,” Naia said softly, standing up.
“Darien?”
“No.” The priestess shook her head. “Demon blood. A thanacryst, by the prints. We must hurry.”
She led him onward, sliding open stone doors with a gesture of her hand. She led them into a passage far too narrow for the horses to walk side by side. Kyel had to tie the Tarkendar’s reins to the saddle of his own mount, leading the horses single-file into the shadows ahead.
“This is it,” Naia whispered. Her words echoed in the darkness.
The priestess’ tone was tense with worry.
At last, another door slid open ahead of them. Kyel heard the sound of it, even if he couldn’t see anything. There was the clop of hoofbeats as Naia’s horse moved forward. He followed cautiously, a cold feeling of dread tingling his skin.
“Darien?” the priestess called.
The air was distinctly cooler here, and there was a slight draft. Kyel sensed they were entering some type of chamber.
Then he saw it: the soft glow of the aura that surrounded Darien’s body.
The mage was sitting alone in the black emptiness, knees drawn up against his chest. Kyel gaped at the sight of him. He’d almost taken him for a shade. Darien’s head was bowed, arms wrapped around his legs.
“Darien,” Naia said again.
The Sentinel looked up, gazing at them with haunted eyes.
“We must go.” Naia lowered herself at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Darien nodded. He looked dazed. Naia took him by the arm, helping him to his feet and guiding him back toward the door. But as he approached the opening, Darien stopped and turned back.
“He said I don’t belong here,” he whispered. “He said I’m destined for another place. What did he mean?”
“You spoke with a shade?” the priestess gasped.
“No. He spoke to me. What did he mean?”
“I don’t know,” Naia whispered.
Kyel thought perhaps she did know. Darien seemed to accept her words, moving forward to claim his horse. He still looked shaken, more so than Kyel had ever seen him.
Naia led them back through the labyrinth of passages, stopping at a large, dark opening in the wall. There, she paused, her eyes once again fearful as she turned to look back over her shoulder.
“This is the exit to Glen Farquist.” Her words carried a heavy undercurrent of fear. To Darien, she said, “This is where we find out if what you did broke the Strictures of Death. If everything is fine, you will arrive at a shrine in the High Temple.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then you will find out what that shade you met was trying to tell you.”
Darien nodded. Moving past her, he led his horse forward. He didn’t hesitate as he stepped into the opening. His image flickered once then was gone, consumed by the shadows on the other side.
19
The Temple of Death
Kyel stepped out of Death’s Passage into a sudden gush of brilliant light. He gazed around, trying to get his bearings. They were in a shrine made entirely of brown marble. Light streamed down in thick rays from the ceiling, washing over them.
Ahead, Darien turned to look at him. His mouth was slack, his eyes dark and weary. He looked dazed, but mercifully alive. Kyel led his horse forward to stand beside him. He found his gaze drawn past his master to the life-size statue of a woman situated in an alcove.
The marble face was serene, yet remarkably powerful. One of her long, elegant arms was swept back behind her, the other extended forward, palm upward with fingers slightly curled. It was as if she expected him to press an object into her waiting hand. The face seemed to be considering him with a pensive expression. He had the feeling he was being scrutinized by those daunting marble eyes.
Behind him, he heard a voice and turned. A young man had joined them in the chamber and was speaking quietly to Naia off to one side. The man was dressed in white robes with a white stole draped over his shoulders. He turned and regarded the entrance to Death’s Passage uneasily, then took the reins of Naia’s mare. He led the horse forward, walking toward Kyel.
“May I take your reins?” the young priest asked as he reached out and removed the scarf from the gelding’s head. Kyel watched as the man tied all three horses together in line and then led them away.
When he was gone, Naia approached Darien. The mage still lingered at the base of the statue, gazing at the compelling marble figure. The priestess placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Who is she?” Darien asked, not taking his eyes from the statue.
“The Goddess of the Eternal Requiem.”
At her response, Darien’s study of the marble woman became much more intense. The priestess’ mouth drew into the slightest frown. Kyel sensed something more had just passed between the two of them, something to do with the statue. The priestess did not seem to care for Darien’s interest in it one bit.
“I’ll show you to the guest rooms,” she said, striding away a few paces before stopping to wait for them.
Darien shook his head wearily. “We’ve come all this way. I wish to see my mother now.”
Naia’s frown became a look of concern. “Perhaps it should wait until after you’ve had a chance to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Darien insisted. “I’d just like to see her, please.”
The priestess nodded.
“I’ll wait here,” Kyel said, uncomfortable with the idea of viewing a dead woman he’d never met. Especially since this particular woman had been dead for some time now.
“I think you need to come too, Kyel,” Naia said, glancing at Darien for confirmation. The mage nodded slightly.
Kyel didn’t understand why. If it had been his own mother, he would have wanted to spend his last moments with her in private. But he did as they asked and followed the priestess through a doorway.
They climbed a flight of stairs to a wide corridor with windows on one side that looked out upon a large garden courtyard. Kyel was impressed. This particular temple was different from anything he had ever seen. He’d almost forgotten where he was, at Glen Farquist in the Valley of the Gods, where the largest and most magnificent temples existed, and where all the governing bodies of the various religious sects dwelt. This was the High Temple of Isap, a palace in its own right.
And it was spectacular. Looking across the courtyard, Kyel saw the main sanctuary, a majestic domed structure. Row upon row of stained glass windows graced its sides. Its tall dome was clad in bronze that had weathered to verdigris over time.
Kyel fixed his eyes on the sway of Darien’s cloak. The mage was walking with his head lowered, shoulders slumped in weariness. Naia muttered something in his ear, earning herself a sharp glare of reproach. Kyel had never seen him look so haggard, as if all the recent events were just now catching up with him.
Naia bristled at his glare, dark eyes flashing even through her veil. Kyel wondered what she’d said. Darien’s stride had shifted until he was almost stalking, fists clenched in anger. He didn’t look at the woman again, keeping his gaze trained on the floor.
Under his breath, Kyel heard him mutter, “It’s my right.”
“I cannot bar you from the shrine, Darien,” Naia said. “But I must urge you to reconsider and th
ink very carefully about what I told you the night we met.”
“And do what?” Darien asked. “Stand down and allow Aidan to admit a second Enemy host through the Vale?”
“There are other ways.”
“No. Even if I could convince Faukravar to hand over his entire northern army, it would hardly be enough. This war will be won or lost by magic, not military strength.”
“So instead, you intend to set yourself against your brother and the Enemy, alone?” Naia flung her arms out in exasperation. “I’m sorry, Darien, but as strong as you might be, you are only one man.”
“Orien was just one man,” the mage reminded her. “Yet he was able to turn back the entire Third Invasion by himself.”
“Orien was a martyr.”
“He was an effective martyr.”
“The people of this land don’t need another Orien,” Naia snapped. “What they need is you, alive.”
Darien stopped, turning to regard the priestess wearily. “I don’t see any other way. And I don’t believe you do either. I appreciate your intentions, Naia. I truly do. But don’t make this harder on me than it already is.”
The priestess closed her eyes, drawing a deep, steadying breath. After a moment, she looked back up at him. “Very well. I’ll leave it in the hands of the goddess. I just pray she finds your purpose unjustified.”
“Unjustified?” echoed Darien, face flushed in anger. “Can you honestly think of one person in the last thousand years who’s had better reason to kneel at that statue’s feet than myself?”
“No, I honestly can’t,” the priestess replied. “That is exactly why your decision worries me so much.”
The Sentinel looked as though he wanted to say something more. His hand rose from his side toward her. But then he let his arm drop and turned away, striding down the corridor as Naia stared after him with a stricken look on her face.
Kyel waited until the priestess moved to follow him before he fell in behind, confused by what he’d just witnessed. He had no idea what their words had meant, but the content didn’t seem to matter all that much. More important had been the look in Darien’s eyes right before he’d turned away.
The corridor ended at a door that opened into a transept of the main sanctuary. Naia swept open the door, admitting them into the hall. Kyel followed behind Darien, noting the way the mage so carefully avoided Naia’s eyes as he brushed past her.
“This way,” she said in a lowered voice, leading them across the white tiles of the transept.
Kyel found himself surprised by the simplicity of the sanctuary that seemed almost at odds with the temple’s ornate exterior. The walls were faced with limestone blocks that glowed in the colored light that spilled through the stained-glass windows. The sanctuary was simply an enormous space decorated with nothing other than a wondrous kaleidoscope of dazzling light. The effect was stirring, like moving through a soothing, dream-like haze.
Naia led them to the center of the room, where the transept merged with the main hall. There, on a raised dais surrounded by layers of white roses, Emelda Lauchlin lay in repose.
Kyel stopped, feeling a sudden pang of trepidation. The Prime Warden lay in a shimmering blanket of light that filtered down from above. Her pale skin seemed to glow, suffused with a radiance that created an almost natural flush of life. She was covered by a transparent shroud set with thousands of tiny, shimmering crystals that scattered the light into glittering rainbows of color.
Kyel took a few steps closer as he gazed at the woman’s body in wonder. The Prime Warden looked remarkably alive, even hale, as if in the embrace of a deep and gentle sleep.
And she was beautiful. Her hair was dark and rich, spilling down around her face in soft, gleaming strands. She looked no older than Darien, her face untroubled by the years. She looked so much like her son, it would have been impossible to mistake the relationship.
Darien moved forward into the wash of brilliant light and knelt at his mother’s side.
Kyel resisted the urge to turn away, feeling his presence there an invasion on the fragile privacy of the moment.
But Darien wanted him there. So Kyel forced himself to watch as the mage leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss against his mother’s forehead. Then he turned to Naia and asked softly, “How did she die?”
The priestess moved to stand beside Darien, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“A demon followed us into the Catacombs. Your mother was injured, and she died here a week later.” Naia paused, allowing her gaze to slip down to the body of the Prime Warden. “I’m so sorry, Darien.”
The mage nodded, looking thoughtful. He whispered, “Arden Hannah.”
Naia’s glance darted back to his face at the mention of that evil name. But she made no effort to either confirm or deny it. Instead, she squeezed his hand and rose gracefully from his side, leaving him there alone. She walked over to Kyel and took him by the arm, guiding him back toward a wall of the transept.
Kyel whispered, “She’s been dead all this time? How…?”
Naia smiled sadly as she released his arm, stopping to lean with her back against the limestone wall. “The methods of preservation are another of our temple secrets. For funerals of state, it is customary that the deceased be available for public viewing anywhere from one to six months. The truth is, a body so preserved is protected for many, many years.”
Kyel shook his head in wonder, marveling, “She seems alive.”
“Thank you.”
Kyel frowned. He started to say something, but the sound of another voice startled him. He turned to discover that a white-robed figure had drawn up silently beside him.
“The First Daughter’s talents are sought after throughout the land,” an old man wearing the stole of a priest of Death assured him. “In some circles, her work is considered an art form.”
Kyel gaped at Naia, amazed. So the body of Darien’s mother had been her work, every meticulous detail arranged by her own hands before she had departed on her journey to find Darien. Naia smiled with a trace of self-conscious pride at his reaction. Turning to the priest, she said:
“Your Eminence, may I present to you the acolyte, Kyel Archer. Kyel, this is His Eminence, the High Priest of Death, Luther Penthos.”
Kyel gawked openly at the bald man who was smiling at him genially. Minus the white robes and the stole, Luther Penthos would look like someone’s aged grandfather. His blue eyes were crystal-clear as he reached out a hand and clasped Kyel’s arm in a warm gesture of greeting.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Your Eminence,” Kyel said. The man’s grip on his forearm was strong. When he released it, Kyel had to resist the urge to rub his skin.
A motion behind the priest caught his eye, and he glanced up to find Darien walking over to join them. The mage looked even more haggard than before.
“Your Eminence, I would also like to present the new Prime Warden, Darien Lauchlin, Grand Master of the Fifth Tier.”
“Eighth Tier,” Kyel corrected her absently.
Naia visibly blanched as she turned to stare at Darien in shock. The high priest blinked, but his smile returned as he reached out and clasped Darien’s arm.
The old man shook his head in wonder. “Eighth tier. I’m not certain if I’ve ever heard of such a ranking.”
“It’s not meant to exist,” Darien confirmed darkly. “I fear I’d be considered something of an abomination.”
“You don’t look like an abomination to me. Although, I must say, you do look like a man who could use some rest.”
“We all could,” the Sentinel agreed.
“I should let you retire to the guest wing, then. But before I forget, I have something that is yours by rights.”
The old man fished in a pocket of his robe, drawing out a wide, silver collar. It was attached to a medallion set with what looked like an enormous red jewel. The stone glowed a brilliant shade of crimson, the light coming from deep within its facets. It seemed
to have a life of its own, pulsing like a heartbeat. The high priest pressed the medallion into Darien’s hand, squeezing the mage’s fingers closed around it.
“What’s this?” Darien stared down at the gem’s radiance, which moved over his palm like webs of light reflected off a pool of water.
Luther Penthos took a step back as if trying to distance himself from the object. “The medallion is called the Soulstone. It is a storage vessel that contains your mother’s gift. For someone to accept the Transference, they must simply put it on. I must, however, caution you against its other aspects.”
Darien fingered the medallion in his hand, studying it intensely. He traced his thumb over the gleaming band of the collar, then glanced up with an expression of concern.
“How is it that an object such as this came to be in the possession of the Temple of Death? Forgive me, Your Eminence, but Aerysius has always laid claim to such heirlooms of power.”
Luther Penthos nodded sagely, crossing his arms over the white fabric of his stole. “A thousand years ago, this medallion was the property of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. It was placed into our keeping before the fall of Caladorn, with the one restriction that knowledge of its existence should never be allowed to pass to the mages of Aerysius.
“However, since Aerysius is no more, I have decided to place the Soulstone into your hands. I have never felt comfortable holding such a thing, even in my deepest vaults.”
He went on, “You’ve spoken lightly of abomination today, Prime Warden, but that object you are holding is a true abomination, if ever there was one. I am more than glad to have it out of my possession than you could possibly know.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it was with this very medallion that Zavier Renquist struck the first killing blow that precipitated the overthrow of the Lyceum. The Soulstone is far more than just a storage device, you see. When it is full with a mage’s gift, the stone glows with an inner light, just as you see it now. But when it is empty, the stone is black and lifeless.
“If it is placed in that condition around the neck of a living mage, the gem has the effect of ripping the ability from that person. Such a death would be particularly cruel. So have great care with that medallion, Prime Warden. Should it fall into the wrong hands, it might be sorely used against you.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 25
