“I don’t resent you,” Darien assured him quietly. “I understand why it was necessary.”
Zavier Renquist nodded. “I was very proud of you today. You displayed the appropriate amount of restraint and humility. Even the vizier commented on how naturally you complete our Circle of Eight. He sees in you the same thing I do.”
“What is that, Prime Warden?”
“A man capable of making even the hardest decisions. I can trust you to always make the right choice, no matter what it costs you.”
Feeling a flush of humility, Darien glanced downward at the floor. Instantly, the Prime Warden’s hand shot out across the platter between them and caught his chin. Renquist’s eyes were suddenly wide as if enraged, his jaw set in anger. With the pressure of his fingers, he forced Darien’s head back up, capturing his stare with the shadowed intensity of his gaze.
“Never lower your eyes, Darien.” His voice was soft but full of fire. “Never. Not even to me. It is considered a sign of weakness.”
His fingers tightened, becoming painful. Darien said nothing, holding the Prime Warden’s stare with his own unwavering gaze. Renquist released him, sitting back and returning his attention to his plate.
He plucked a date up into his hand, plunging it into his mouth and sucking the flesh off the pit.
“Do you know what your name means in Venthic?”
Darien swallowed, unnerved by the man’s unpredictable temperament. “I’m told it means ‘Protector.’”
“That’s right. You are a protector of my people, now. Apparently, that’s what you were born to be.”
Darien considered Renquist’s words. He knew why his mother and father had chosen his name; it was because of his birth order. His elder brother, Aidan, had been slated to follow their mother’s path toward political gains. Darien, being the second-born son, had been intended to follow their father’s example and become a Sentinel. Hence the name: Darien. Protector. He swallowed, awash in the miserable knowledge that, even though he had lived up to the name his parents had given him, he had also thoroughly disgraced his family’s legacy of honor.
“I don’t believe fate is predetermined,” he said at last.
Zavier Renquist shrugged. “Fate is simply the result of our actions. There are always consequences to the choices we make. Those consequences define our destiny.”
He set the pit of the date he was chewing down on the side of his plate. “So. Darien. Your chance has come. Are you willing to embrace the destiny you have created for yourself?”
Darien nodded. “Aye, Prime Warden.”
Renquist turned to the slight woman beside him, who had so far been listening in silence to their conversation. “Lightweaver Azár, you speak for all of the Khazahar. Will you accept this man’s offer of protection? Will you allow Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie to assume domination over the hinterlands?”
Azár’s eyes shot toward Darien, considering him with a contemptuous scowl. “If there is no other choice, Prime Warden.”
Renquist worked his lips, sucking them together. “There is not. Not for the purposes you have defined. Darien is by far the strongest mage at our disposal. And, because of his unique training, he is also the most versatile. There is not one amongst our number more suited to your needs.”
Azár looked as though she would rather throw her support behind anyone else in the world. Her eyes full of disdain, she said, “The Khazahar will have to decide for itself if it is to accept this man’s protection, Prime Warden. I will lead him westward to my village. From there, he can work to gain the support of the Tanisars.”
“Very well,” Renquist allowed, at last seeming satisfied. He looked at Darien, then, standing up.
Following the Prime Warden’s lead, Darien rose and moved to stand before him. Renquist took his hands into his own, considering him quietly with a long and searching gaze.
“Darien Lauchlin, I proclaim you Overlord of the Khazahar. Go in peace. Live up to the name your parents saw fit to bestow upon you. Become the protector our people have so long awaited and so rightfully deserve.”
He turned to the woman beside him, taking both of her hands together into one of his own, joining the three of them together in bond. “Lightweaver Azár, you must strive to forgive the past and put aside your preconceptions. What is gone is dead. Your new overlord knows nothing of his people nor of the challenges he will face. Take him by the hand. He will be in dire need of your support.”
Azár’s eyes did not falter as she looked at him. “I understand, Prime Warden. On my head and my eyes, this man will have my support.”
“Call him by his name.”
The woman blinked, her face suddenly uncertain. She frowned, shifting her weight over her feet. “His name, Prime Warden?”
“His name. I have yet to hear you actually speak it.”
Azár blinked. Her lips parted slightly. “You will have my support, Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie.”
Darien stood appraising her, distrusting the sudden change. She continued staring at the ground, showing him only the top of her head and the long strands of dark hair that escaped her thick braid.
“Call me Darien,” he said. It was not a request.
“Darien,” Azár repeated. “You will have my support.”
Darien nodded, satisfied. “Then you shall have mine.”
Renquist released both their hands. “Go in peace with the grace and blessings of the gods.”
He turned toward Azár and kissed her on the cheek. Then he took Darien and drew him into a rigid embrace, locking his arms around him and resting his nose against his face. “Go in peace.”
Darien closed his eyes, made anxious by Renquist’s close proximity. When the Prime Warden withdrew, he had to fight to keep his gaze off the floor. He turned and strode out of the room, Azár following behind him. He pushed the tinkling drape of beads aside, moving out into the corridor. At his whistle, the demon-dog sprinted after him.
“Darien.”
He stopped, shocked that Azár had actually used his name again, and so soon. He turned toward her.
“You murdered my sister in your fire,” she informed him coldly. “You took her soul. That is why I hate you. I thought you should know.”
9
Ties that Bind
Naia gazed up into the carved face of the Goddess of the Eternal Requiem, seeking for solace but finding none. The statue’s stone eyes appeared harsh and judgmental. As well they should be; Naia had betrayed the goddess she’d once served. She had sacrificed her vows and veil in favor of the chains she now wore on her wrists and the mage’s power that burned in her veins. All for a man who had betrayed his own purpose and had striven at every step to push her further away.
“Are you all right?” she heard Kyel ask.
Naia blinked, unable to tear her eyes from the critical visage of the goddess above her. “I’m not,” she admitted, her voice breaking with emotion. “What if all this is really my own fault? I helped Darien vow his Bloodquest, right here in this very shrine. I struck the chains from his wrists with my own hands. I set his feet down this path and I held him up when he couldn’t walk it alone.”
“None of this is your fault,” Kyel said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Naia. It’s not.”
She managed to wrench her gaze away from the statue, compelled by the insistence in his voice. She turned toward him. Kyel’s face was careworn, his eyes full of concern.
“You didn’t make Darien’s choices for him,” Kyel said. “All you did was follow him down that road.”
“I didn’t see where his path was leading him,” she said. “I should have tried harder to stop him.”
“He wouldn’t have listened to you. You did all you could do. You did your best.”
She looked up again into the face of the statue, silently imploring her goddess for forgiveness. Maybe if she hadn’t betrayed her vows, none of this would have happened. Maybe this was all some sort of punishment for her own transgression
s.
“I need to speak with my father,” she whispered.
Kyel nodded, looking as though he understood. “I’m going to go across the valley. I’ll be back later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow.”
Naia reached out and caught his arm. “Good luck,” she said, pressing a kiss against his cheek.
Kyel nodded, pulling back. She listened to the sound of his footsteps as he strode away, leaving her alone at the feet of the marble statue.
Naia placed her hand on the rough oaken door, feeling the coarse grain of the wood through her fingers. Curling her hand into a fist, she knocked twice. From the other side, she could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Then the door swung open, revealing the form of an old man she almost didn’t recognize.
“Father?”
Naia gasped, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. She did nothing to wipe them away. She stood there in the doorway, silently willing the old man in front of her to show some sign of recognition. At last, he did. Luther Penthos’ lips parted as he sucked in a sharp gasp of air. He took his daughter into his arms, hugging her against his chest.
Naia couldn’t believe how fragile her father had become. She could feel his sharp bones through the rich fabric of his vestments. He quivered in her arms, his bony fingers rubbing her back. Her father’s frailty made Naia cry even harder. She kissed his forehead, clinging to him as her shoulders shook with shame and grief.
“Stand back and let me look at you,” he whispered, cupping her face with his hands.
Naia obeyed, wiping her eyes. She backed away from his embrace, doing her best to smile at him through her tears.
When his eyes had finally had their fill of her, he nodded slightly. “I’ve missed you. Why didn’t you come sooner?”
Naia shrugged, spreading her hands to reveal the matching set of chains on both wrists. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” she admitted. “I was so afraid I’d broken your heart.”
“No, my child. You could never break my heart,” he assured her, stepping back and inviting her within.
Naia moved inside, brushing past him as she walked across the small room to his desk. There, she took a seat in one of the chairs. She brought out a kerchief to dab at her eyes. Her father moved behind her, setting his hands on her shoulders and squeezing her gently before edging past. He sat himself down in his own chair across the desk from her, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap.
“You are just as beautiful a mage as you ever were a priestess,” Luther Penthos commented.
Naia smiled her gratitude, clutching her kerchief in her hands as she brought it down from her face.
“Thank you.”
Her father looked very different. Older. Thinner. Careworn by years and grief. But he was still very much in command of his faculties, she could tell. He was, every inch, a High Priest.
“So, tell me. Which order did you take? What tier are you?”
“I am a Querer, Father. But only third tier.”
His smile was warm and proud. “That is nothing to be ashamed of. My daughter has become a powerful mage.”
Naia blotted away tears of joy that clouded her eyes at the sound of his acceptance. “To be honest, the Prime Warden hasn’t had much time to devote to my training.”
Her father looked down at the surface of his desk, his smile retreating. “That’s unfortunate.” There was a long gap of silence. At last he spoke, his voice sad and serious. “Why did you abandon me, Naia? Why did you leave me for him?”
“Because I believed in him, Father.”
That was the simple truth. She could have elaborated. She could have told him all the things that had gone through her mind on the day she’d left Glen Farquist with Darien. She could have talked about how much she had come to admire the man in the short amount of time she had spent with him. She could have spoken of how lost and alone he had seemed, how defiant and courageous. Darien’s plight had tugged at her heartstrings. She had not been able to stand aside and watch him destroy himself.
“Did you love him?”
Naia’s throat clenched in grief. “Yes,” she admitted with a grimace. “I did … and I still do.”
“I don’t understand.” Luther Penthos frowned, leaning forward. “Naia, what are you trying to tell me?”
She drew in a deep breath, dreading to confess the depth of her anguish. “Before he died, Darien swore his soul to Xerys. He’s become a demon, Father, just like Renquist. And the Well of Tears is open once again. I’m scared, Father. I’m scared because…” Her voice trailed off. Naia swallowed, summoning enough courage to continue. “I’m scared because I’m still in love with him. I’m in love with a demon.”
There. It was out. She looked up into her father’s pale face and saw his expression.
He’d been wrong.
She still had the power to break his heart.
Kyel followed the brown-robed cleric through the maze of underground passages that made up the Temple of Wisdom beneath the Valley of the Gods. Scores of clerics moved about them; the broad corridor was a busy thoroughfare that cut right through the center of the temple. No one paid Kyel any mind; they had become used to his frequent visits. He had been using Om’s temple as a retreat, a place where he could meditate in quiet and practice the countless exercises Meiran was always giving him. He found the temple quiet and soothing, very much to his liking. Within the last year, Kyel had frequented the temple so often that he’d almost started thinking of his quarters there as home.
The cleric before him drew up, gesturing at a door in front of them. He then turned and walked away, leaving Kyel on his own. With only the slightest moment of hesitation, Kyel reached out and turned the knob. The door swung inward, revealing the room beyond.
“Papa!”
Kyel was almost knocked over backwards by the force of the small body that collided with his own. He scooped his son up into his arms, clutching him tight against his chest. He attacked the plump cheeks with the wiry growth of his new beard.
“No, Papa, no!”
Gil kicked and giggled in his arms as Kyel laughed, overwhelmed with joy at the feel of him. At last he relented, letting the child squirm away. But it was only seconds before Gil was back, begging for his attention.
“More, Papa, more!”
Kyel laughed, grabbing him up and tickling him under the arms as Gil squealed and bucked to get away. Kyel set him down, motioning for him to stay.
“I’ve got something for you,” Kyel said, squatting down and reaching his hand into the deep pocket of his cloak. He pulled out a small sack, offering it out to the boy. Gil gasped at the sight of it, his blue eyes going wide and round.
“What is it, Papa?”
“It’s a birthday surprise,” Kyel told him. “You didn’t think I’d forget your birthday, did you? Go ahead. Open it.”
Gil undid the cord that held the sack closed, his four-year-old fingers working clumsily at the knot. He shook the sack, letting the contents spill out into his hand. He gasped, staring down wondrously at the painted object in his palm.
“A toy!” he exclaimed, turning the red piece of wood over in his hands. He unwound the string that was looped around it.
“It’s a top,” said Kyel, ruffling Gil’s hair with his hand. “Give it here. I’ll show you how it works.”
He wound the string around the top’s axis and, setting the wooden toy down on the floor, gave the string a solid tug. The red top flew suddenly into motion, scooting away from them toward the center of the floor. Gil squealed, clapping his hands in delight as the top danced around in slowly compressing spirals until it finally came to a rest on its side.
The boy ran forward, catching it up in his hands.
“Don’t forget to wind the string!”
Kyel tossed the wadded string over to him. It fell to the floor as Gil laughed, his reactions not quite fast enough to catch it. Kyel smiled as his son ducked out into the corridor to play with his new toy.
&nb
sp; The smile fell from his lips at the sight of Cadmus. The layman stood up from his chair, ambling toward him with his hands clasped in front of him. He wore the simple clothes of a commoner, a tan vest over a stained wool shirt.
“How’s he been?” Kyel asked, his voice full of concern.
Cadmus shrugged. His thinning brown hair was parted too far over on the side, giving him an almost comical appearance. “He’s been missing his father. And he’s been missing his mum.”
Kyel’s gaze dropped to the floor at the mention of Amelia.
His stomach soured as he remembered the day of his homecoming. He had knocked at the door of his own home and waited for his wife to answer. He wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered to knock; it was his own door, after all.
But he’d wanted to surprise her.
Only, the face that confronted him through the cracked doorway had not belonged to Amelia.
“Kyel…?”
His father swept Kyel into a long, crushing embrace. When he finally let go, his father took him inside and broke the news to his son.
Kyel had been gone from home for an awfully long time.
While he was away, his family had received word from Rothscard of his fate. They were told that Kyel had been found guilty of murder. That he and Traver had been tried, convicted, and condemned.
Kyel’s wife had mourned him for dead.
And then Amelia had done the only sensible thing she could do: she married another man.
Kyel blamed himself, not her. He’d never been able to forgive himself for not being there, not being at her side. For putting her through that. By the time he’d arrived home, Amelia and her new husband were already expecting a child of their own. There was very little Kyel could do at that point.
He’d shaken the man’s hand and bid Amelia goodbye. He’d collected up his son. And then he’d left Covendrey forever.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 58
