The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Kyel frowned up at him. “Why would they not wish to help me?”

  “Because the clerics of Om are intensely jealous of their pearls of wisdom. Information is power, Kyel, and no one gives away power easily or freely.”

  Comprehension dawned in Kyel’s eyes, yet doubt lingered there, as well. “You said you had two favors. What’s the second?”

  “You’ll have only three days to search for information in the vaults. Then I’ll need you to journey to Rothscard and meet with the Queen of Emmery. Again, tell her you are my representative, and I’ve given you full authority to treat with her.”

  “I suppose I can do that,” Kyel responded skeptically. “But what exactly am I supposed to say to her?”

  Darien allowed himself a smug grin. “You’re to tell her that by order of the Prime Warden, she is to yield over command of her army to me. If she refuses, inform her politely that she’s out of a throne.”

  Kyel’s face drained to an ashen color. “You’re not serious! You want me to threaten a queen?!”

  “Believe me, Romana Norengail can use a good threat,” Darien assured him. “If she attempts to argue—which she will—tell her politely that the new Prime Warden has forsworn his Oath of Harmony. That ought to convince her nicely. By the way, if she offers you wine, it would behoove you to refuse her. Politely.”

  “Sometimes you scare me,” Kyel muttered.

  “Good. Perhaps if you emulate me, you can scare Romana out of her army. The Queen’s general is a man named Blandford. Inform him he’ll need to arrive at Orien’s Finger by dawn on the morning of the Solstice, not an hour later. If he’s late, then he needn’t bother showing up at all. I’ll meet him there if everything goes right.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then you’d better learn how to command that army.”

  Darien let the door swing closed on Kyel’s wide-eyed stare, smiling to himself as he strode down the hallway. The boy would do well. What he had said to Naia earlier was true. This would be an invaluable learning experience for him.

  He found the door to his own room, where he had stuffed his pack the day before. It was still there, the bed undisturbed. A fresh pitcher of water had been left by the washstand, along with a tray of food that had sat there all night. Darien bypassed the tray, going instead to his pack and sliding out what was left of the sack of jerky he’d brought down with him from the pass.

  He unfastened the silver brooch that held his cloak, drawing the dark fabric off his shoulders with one hand as he stuffed a strip of dried meat into his mouth. He went through the motions of chewing, not even tasting the food as he swallowed it, undressing at the same time. Darien pulled a fresh shirt and breeches out of his pack and put them on, dismayed by the fit. He was losing weight.

  He walked to the looking glass that hung on the wall over the washstand, stunned by the image that gazed back at him. He scarcely recognized himself. He stared into the mirror, transfixed by his reflection as he reached up and drew his fingers over the dark stubble that covered his face, a face that looked ten years older than the last time he’d seen it. What amazed him most about the image that regarded him were the eyes. They were his father’s eyes, exactingly recreated in his own face, complete in every detail, every haunted shadow. Darien shuddered, turning away from the mirror.

  As he did, a wave of energy swept over him with violent, raking fingers. The reflection of his back in the looking glass wavered for a moment in a flare of indigo light that rose up from the floor to surround him. Tendrils of power crawled over him, groping at the fabric of his clothes, ripping through his hair, clawing at the skin of his face. The energy receded only slowly, drawing downward to the floor and then flickering out altogether.

  Darien gazed somberly down at the garments he wore that suddenly fit his lean body perfectly. It was remarkable, what he could do with his power, without sparing scarcely a thought to the act. He didn’t have to look back at the mirror behind him. The reflection would only confirm what he already knew. His face was clean-shaven, the grime and dust erased from his skin. Even his hair smelled clean as he raised his hands to draw it behind his shoulders, catching it up and tying it back. He went over to sit on the bed, finding his cloak where he’d tossed it down on top of the covers.

  He couldn’t put that cloak back on. At least, not as it was. Not if he was going to truly embrace the title Naia kept insisting he use. He would need the kind of authority that only the office of the Prime Warden could lend him if he was to accomplish the tasks he’d set out for himself.

  As he looked down at the blue-black fabric of the cloak, Darien willed it to change. And it did. He stood up, drawing a cloak of gleaming white over his shoulders and fixing it in place. By all appearances, it could have been his mother’s cloak, the defining emblem of the Prime Warden of Aerysius. The fabric felt strange. It felt heavier, although he knew his act had done nothing to the material but remove the pigment.

  He passed the strap of his baldric across his shoulder. The leather scabbard hung empty at his back. He opened the door and strode out into the hallway, determined to return to the shrine and reclaim his sword from the goddess’ hand. He knew the price would be the chains on his wrists, but he was willing to pay it. The conviction that had held him to his Oath had been the first thing rotted away by the poison feel of Arden’s touch.

  He descended the stairs, working his way through the warren of halls and corridors to the shrine. White-robed priests and veiled priestesses glanced up with startled expressions before ducking their heads in deference to the cloak. Darien did nothing to acknowledge the looks, barely noticing the men and women that moved around him in the halls. His mind was intent on his purpose, to the point that everything else around him seemed irrelevant and remote.

  Lost in thought, he almost didn’t notice the high priest who stood in shadow, blocking the entrance to the shrine. Darien stopped in the middle of the stairs, one hand poised on the handrail. Luther Penthos regarded him with a careworn expression, eyes narrowing as they pondered the significance of the cloak.

  “You must know I’m opposed to this,” the old man said. “The goddess has made her choice, so there is nothing I can do to stop you. But nothing prevents me from stating my opinion. I believe you are making a disastrous mistake that will have far-reaching consequences. If you go through with this, know that you do so not only against my better judgment, but also against my will. From this moment forward, I will hold you in the utmost contempt.”

  Darien glared down at him. “Stand aside.” Though spoken softly, his tone conveyed a dangerous insinuation of threat.

  The high priest bowed his head. Darien swept down the stairs, brushing past him as he thrust open the door to the shrine. He stepped down the last tiled step into the brilliant light within, slamming the door shut behind him.

  He let his eyes wander over the statue of the goddess as he fought to collect himself. His encounter with the old man had left him shaking.

  A streak of white from the corner of his eye was the only warning he had as a sword swiped down in front of his face. Darien winced away from it, but a hand caught him by the hair, wrenching his head back sharply as the edge of the blade kissed the flesh of his throat. A strong jerk on his hair forced him to his knees as the blade followed his movement, its honed edge biting wickedly into his neck.

  Darien stared up into the veiled face that hovered over him, appalled. The ruthless intent written in Naia’s eyes was without compassion, her face terrifying in its authority. The woman he knew was gone, replaced by a sinister angel that threatened him with his own sword.

  “There are three faces of the goddess,” the priestess said. “The face of Mercy, the face of Sacrifice, and the face of Vengeance. They are three, as they also are one, each inseparable from the other. To gaze upon one is to gaze upon them all. To commit to one is to commit to all three. You have come here to pledge your life to the service of the goddess, to become her leveling hand of Vengeance. She
has determined your cause just and worthy. Do you foreswear all prior oaths and dedicate your life to seek the blood of another?”

  The press of the blade at his neck bit dangerously as Darien swallowed, his throat moving against it. “Aye, I do,” he whispered.

  Her hand coiled around in his hair, tightening its grip. “Hold out your hands.”

  He did as she asked. The sword swept down from his neck and parted the flesh of both wrists at the same time, laying open the skin across the twin markings of the chains. Blood welled from the deep gashes, beading to the floor in fat, crimson droplets. The priestess knelt beside him, setting his sword down on the floor and lifting a bronze chalice in its stead.

  “You are now pledged to the service of the goddess, your duty consummated only when Aidan Lauchlin is destroyed, bereft of body and heart, mind and spirit.” As she spoke, Naia took his right wrist in her hand, catching his blood in the chalice, and then lifted it to his lips.

  “Come. You must now drink from hatred’s bitter cup and taste of the blood you swear to mete.”

  She tilted the chalice, spilling the warm liquid into his mouth. Darien gagged, unable to bring himself to swallow.

  “Drink!” the priestess hissed.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as he forced himself to gulp down the mouthful of blood. A spasm of nausea clenched his stomach, but the priestess had him by the hair again. She lifted the chalice again to his lips and forced the remainder of its contents down his throat.

  Then she withdrew her hand. Darien collapsed forward, clutching his arms against his chest. Pain flared from the gashes in his wrists, as if a white-hot iron were being pressed into his flesh to cauterize the wounds.

  He moaned, writhing with his head pressed against the floor, trembling in agony. Rolling onto his side, he brought his arms up in front of his face and gasped at the sight that confronted him.

  The wounds were healed, though the pain was still there, still wretchedly intense. But where the chains had been was now only a set of fresh, angry scars. Darien sat up, consumed by a sudden, terrible feeling of loss.

  “What have I done?” he whispered.

  He couldn’t stop trembling as the priestess wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close. He collapsed into Naia’s embrace, clutching her against him desperately.

  21

  Glen Farquist

  Kyel set the breakfast tray down on the edge of the bed, staring at it wistfully. The scattered crumbs were all that remained of the second real meal he could remember eating in months. Had it only been that long? It somehow seemed like years. He tried picturing the face of his wife, but for some reason her image in his mind was vague and indistinct. Kyel finally gave up, feeling unsettled. He hadn’t given thought to Amelia in days. And baby Gil. His son was two years old, now. Kyel had missed his birthday.

  He looked out the window. Covendrey was not very far from here. Little more than a fortnight’s travel. He was closer to home than he had been since the start of his journey.

  Kyel lifted his arm, pushing back the fabric of his sleeve and staring down at the marking of the chain. He wished he could get rid of it, tear it right off his skin and simply go back to his family. He wished he’d never let Darien talk him into any of this.

  But then, where would he be? Certainly, no closer to going home. He would still be back in the pass with an army coming down at him.

  Sighing, Kyel turned and left the room. He knew he really didn’t have time to waste, not if he was to accomplish any of the tasks set out for him.

  He found the door to Darien’s room open. But the mage was already gone, if he’d ever been there at all. The bed looked undisturbed, and there was an untouched tray of food sitting by it. Kyel frowned down at the tray, thinking of the two meals he’d eaten since arriving at the temple. Obviously, Darien hadn’t been in his room all night.

  And there was only one other place he would have gone.

  Kyel felt saddened by the thought. He remembered asking Darien once why the Oath was so important to him. The mage had given him some vague story about falling off a cliff. Kyel hadn’t understood a word of it at the time. Now he did.

  I can choose to let go. But this time, I know if I decide to fall, there will be no one around to stop me. To Kyel, the meaning of those words now seemed as clear as a pane of glass looking out on a stormy sea.

  Darien had chosen to take that fall.

  Kyel knew there was a good reason why every Master of Aerysius was required to swear the Mage’s Oath. The tradition had been instituted after the betrayal of the mages of Bryn Calazar, to prevent such a thing from ever happening again. The Oath of Harmony was a safeguard.

  In his desire to seek revenge upon his brother, Darien was at great risk of becoming just like him. Kyel knew he had already seen it in him, the bitter poison of that hatred. It was spreading in him. Kyel feared it would eventually consume him, if it hadn’t already.

  “Excuse me … Kyel Archer?”

  He turned to find the same young priest who had taken their horses the day before. The man was lingering in the doorway, holding a parcel wrapped in folds of white silk. He offered it to Kyel with a peculiar look on his face.

  Kyel received the package uncertainly. As he did, he realized the priest was even younger than he’d previously thought, barely older than a boy.

  “The First Daughter requested this be made for you,” the young man said.

  Kyel stared down at the parcel in his hands. His fingers felt numb as he fumbled at the knotted strip of ribbon. When he had it undone, what the parting silk revealed made him wince.

  Kyel lifted the black cloak up before his face, holding it with a feeling of revulsion mixed with reverence. The Silver Star seemed to glitter in the candlelight. Every stitch was perfectly even, tapering toward the eight points of the rays. Kyel stared at it, wondering how such careful embroidery could have been accomplished in just one night.

  “My thanks.” Kyel had the urge to take the cloak to his room and stuff it down as far as he could in his pack. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Such an act would hardly be fit repayment for the gift. These people had been considerate hosts, and he owed it to them to show appreciation for their generosity.

  So it was that Kyel found himself removing the tattered gray wool he had worn every day since his arrival in the pass and donned in its place the ill-omened badge of dead Aerysius.

  From the doorway, the young priest said, “His Eminence requires a word with you.”

  Kyel turned to find the man looking at him with open wonder in his eyes.

  “Just let me get my things.” Kyel ducked his head, feeling self-conscious.

  The new black cloak fluttered behind him as he walked back down the hall to his own room. There, he collected his longbow and shouldered his pack. He turned to leave. With a flare of panic, he suddenly remembered the Soulstone. The medallion was still lying on the stand beside the bed where Darien had set it. Relieved, he strode over and picked it up, stuffing the heirloom into the pocket of his new cloak.

  Kyel followed the priest down the stairs and through a maze of hallways. He waited as the young man held a door open for him. He nodded his thanks then moved into a dimly lit study.

  Luther Penthos was already there, seated at a desk that held three tidy stacks of parchment. The priest extended a hand, inviting him to take the seat opposite. Kyel removed his pack, setting it down awkwardly beside the chair along with his bow and quiver.

  “Your Eminence,” Kyel said.

  The man scowled at the cloak. Then lifted his stare to confront Kyel.

  “I want to know where your master is going. And why he took my daughter without my permission.”

  Kyel felt as if someone had just poured a goblet of cold water over his head. “Naia is your daughter? Your … child…?”

  The old man nodded, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously. “And someday she may even be high priestess, unless your master corrupts her first.”

  “Darien
would never touch your daughter.”

  But even as the words passed his lips, Kyel knew he had doubts. The interplay he’d witnessed between the two of them the day before made him wonder. For just a moment, Darien had looked like he’d been on the verge of embracing the priestess. Kyel had even felt comforted by the sight. It was a wonderful thing to see him display such a simple, tender emotion. But Darien also hadn’t known what Kyel did now.

  He had no idea what kind of fire he was playing with.

  Leaning forward, the old man demanded, “Why else would Naia run off without even asking me? Without telling me where she was going? She left with him!”

  He punctuated the last word with a jarring slap on the desk that made Kyel flinch.

  He found himself wondering what Darien had done to merit such ire from the old man. There was more going on here than just Naia’s disappearance. Something must have happened between the high priest and Darien that had set the man against him.

  “I don’t know what his plans are,” Kyel admitted. “He didn’t tell me. The only thing I know is that he’ll be at Orien’s Finger on the morning of the Solstice.”

  “Orien’s Finger,” Penthos echoed. His face went slack. “Are you quite certain?”

  “Yes. Why? Whatever is the problem?”

  The high priest leaned back in his chair as his eyes wandered up the wall behind Kyel. “In ancient times, there were eight Circles of Convergence. Two were lost to us when Caladorn fell. Three more have been either destroyed or lost through the years. There are only three Circles remaining that we know of. One is on the Isle of Titherry. Another existed in Aerysius, but by all reports that Circle now lies entombed beneath the ruins of the Hall of the Watchers. The only other Circle of Convergence in existence is on the summit of Orien’s Finger.”