“I’m hoping I won’t have to,” he whispered, staring at the ground.
Azár scooted forward until she was sitting right next to him. She gazed up piercingly into his face.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” she pressed. She peered deeply into his eyes without blinking.
Darien said nothing, troubled by her directness. And her proximity. Azár’s stare hardened, her lips compressing.
Somehow, somewhere in his eyes, she found her answer.
“You would,” she gasped. “How is that possible? You gave your life in defense of the Rhen. Now you are willing to lead Malikar’s legions against it? What changed?”
Everything, Darien realized. Everything was different, everything had changed.
Nothing could ever be the same again.
Ever since he’d started looking at the world through the eyes of a dead man.
Darien groped for the right words, struggling to find a way to describe the conflict within himself. “I didn’t know the whole truth back then,” he fumbled, desperate to gain her understanding. “I didn’t know anything about Malikar, what the conditions are like here. I didn’t know there were so many of you in such terrible need. I was always taught to just think of you as the Enemy … as if you weren’t even human. Maybe animals or savages. Demons, perhaps. We were told you were evil, that you sought only to conquer, to enslave. To destroy.”
He swallowed, looking down, unable to meet her gaze. “But I know better, now. Your people are not conquerors, Azár. And you’re certainly not demons—you’re not even the Enemy. We are.”
Those last two words he spat with contempt. Without looking at her. His troubled eyes wandered to the side, regarding the severe darkscape before them in angry doubt. A shadow stirred within him, settling deep into his bones, chilling his brittle soul.
He knew he was a traitor. In heart, now, as well as deed. Azár had been right; he could never go back to what he was before.
That man was dead. The part that mattered, anyway.
He had been dead a long time.
“I’m the demon,” he whispered, gazing off into the distance. “Not you.”
13
The Conclave
Kyel felt like a quivering mass of abraded nerves. He paced relentlessly up and down the floor of the vestibule, fingers interlaced behind his back. When he reached the far end of the chamber, he turned on heel and doubled back. He finally drew up in front of Naia with an exasperated sigh.
“Are you sure I look all right?” he said as he tugged at his shirt collar with a finger.
“Stop fretting. You look like a Sentinel.”
He adjusted his posture, squaring his shoulders. “Do I look official?”
“Very official.” She paused, frowning. “Except for that.”
She reached out and smoothed the collar of his shirt. “That’s better. Now you look official.”
Kyel groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “This is bloody killing me. Why can’t they just get on with it?”
Naia plucked a bit of lint from his cloak. “Be patient. There’s certain protocol that must be followed. Think of it as a series of steps. Each step must happen in a particular order with a great deal of pomp and ritual. They certainly won’t rush the process simply because we’re the first mages who’ve had the audacity to grace their doorstep in five hundred years.”
“Well, it’s unnerving.”
They had been left in the vestibule of the Chapel of Nimrue. Naia’s father had told them to remain there while he presented their request to the Conclave. Then he’d withdrawn, the great mahogany doors shut and locked from within, the tumblers echoing as they fell into place.
That had been hours ago.
There was a ringing, metallic noise, and then one of the tall doors was thrust suddenly open.
Kyel sucked in a sharp breath, heady with panic. He wasn’t ready for this; politics had never been his strong suit. And yet, somehow, he was supposed to convince the most ancient governing body in the world to act in a way completely contradictory to its charter.
“The Conclave is ready to receive you now,” a servant in bright livery announced, beckoning them forward with a red-gloved hand.
Kyel shot a glance at Naia, hoping against hope that she’d take the initiative and enter ahead of him. Just as he’d feared, she merely looked at him expectantly.
“You’re the Grand Master. Not me,” she reminded him.
Kyel wanted to growl. Instead, he bit his lip and followed the guard through the chapel door. Emulate me, Darien had once told him long ago. But every time he tried to imitate his former master’s confidence, he failed miserably; he simply didn’t have it in him.
But it was the only model he had. So Kyel shifted his stride, aiming for the same arrogant grace Darien managed so naturally. He felt like a fool. He clamped his jaw and clutched his hands into fists, doing his best to keep the anxiety he felt from reaching his eyes.
He stopped in the center of the chapel under the vault of the dome, Naia at his side. A straight line of six wooden thrones occupied by the various leaders of the Holy Temples stretched before him. Behind the great thrones sat rows of assistants, both lay clergy and fully ordained priests and priestesses.
Naia’s father, the High Priest of Death, rose from his throne. He wore pristine white vestments with a silken stole draped over his shoulders. He seemed older than Kyel remembered, but he still had the same fire in his eyes that Kyel recalled very well.
Luther Penthos raised his hand, indicating the two mages before him. “I present to this great body Grand Master Kyel Archer of the Distinguished Order of Sentinels. And Master Naia Seleni of the Distinguished Order of Querers.”
Kyel nodded, acknowledging the introduction, just as Naia had instructed him to do.
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” he responded tightly. To the others, he said, “And thank you for receiving us. It is a great honor that you do us.”
He glanced down the line of thrones, noting that the temple monarchs were studying him with looks of intense mistrust.
“Grand Master Kyel, Master Naia,” Luther Penthos continued, “as you know, I am the Vicar of Isap, Goddess of Death. Beginning on my right, may I present to you the Vicar of Om, God of Wisdom.”
Kyel issued a brief nod in the old man’s direction; he was very familiar with the bronze-robed and silent cleric.
“The Vicar of Athera, Goddess of Magic.”
Kyel glanced toward an elderly woman in a purple brocade gown. The priestess regarded him with arched eyebrows, her gaze critical.
“The Vicar of Enana, Goddess of the Hearth.”
This was a stout woman who wore her hair in a tight bun at the crown of her head. The woman regarded Kyel with an expression of distaste as she nodded formally in his direction.
“The Vicar of Zephia, Goddess of the Winds.”
Another man, younger, with a muscular frame. His long hair was gathered back from his face. He wore a dark beard and an even darker glower. He disregarded Kyel, looking away as if unaware of his own introduction.
“The Vicar of Alt, God of the Wilds.”
This man was large and impressive, with a mass of tangled beard that fell almost to his waist. He wore a belted tunic of forest green. He gave a grunt, staring at Kyel without blinking.
“And, lastly, the Vicar of Dreia, Goddess of the Vine.”
Kyel flinched at the assault of color that confronted him. The High Priestess of Dreia peered at him with a sullen look through a cascade of honey-colored hair that draped over one of her eyes. She was garbed in an alarming shade of red, reclining sideways on her throne, a glass of blood-red wine held aslant between her fingers.
There were six temples accounted for, Kyel realized. The Temples of Grief and Chaos had no representation at the Conclave, for which he was grateful. Suddenly uncertain, Kyel glanced sideways at Naia for reassurance. She nodded without looking at him, her face confident as she gazed ahead at the temple monarchs.
Kyel cleared his throat, summoning the last scraps of confidence he had left. “Greetings, Your Eminences. Thank you for allowing us to present our petition before this great council. It is my understanding that this is the first time in over five hundred years that a mage of Aerysius has been allowed to address this body. I take that as a sign that the temples appreciate the gravity of the threat we all face.”
As his words trailed off, Kyel’s gaze slid to Naia. To his relief, he found her looking at him with a mixture of pride and appreciation in her eyes. He took that for a good sign, feeling his self-confidence bolstered.
The Vicar of the Wind raised his eyes from his lap to glare at Kyel. “Believe me, this council has a very deep appreciation for the gravity of this situation, which has been—yet again—forced upon us by the mage class. Which is the only reason the two of you are even here, I should point out.”
Mutters of agreement echoed from all around the chapel, accompanied by a general bobbing of heads. The Vicar of Dreia tossed back a sip of wine with a grimace. Kyel glanced again at Naia, who nodded.
“Your Eminence,” Kyel said, addressing Naia’s father. “We accept that our predecessors are responsible for the inception of the Well of Tears in the first place. For that, we have never sought to avoid accountability. But please also understand that the Masters of Aerysius have born singular responsibility for the containment of that evil. So much of our blood has been spilt toward that end that there are only three mages left in the entire world.”
Cadmus, who served as the Voice of Wisdom, raised a finger. “That is untrue.”
Kyel hesitated with a frown. He was unsure whether he should feel more confused or more affronted. He felt both in equal portions.
Cadmus clarified, “His Eminence wishes me to remind you that there are yet seven darkmages walking abroad in the world. His Eminence would also like to inform you, if you are not aware already, that the Enemy has mages of their own. Mages who have never been constrained by the Oath of Harmony.”
Kyel felt his heart sink at hearing that news. He hadn’t considered such a possibility. Not for the first time, he wondered how the Temple of Wisdom came by their troves of knowledge.
“I was … unaware of that, Your Eminence,” Kyel admitted. “That news is … deeply troubling.”
“Members of the Council, if I may?”
Kyel glanced sideways at Naia. She had taken a step forward, her hands clasped in front of her.
“You may,” her father allowed.
Naia’s smile was all-encompassing. Even the Vicar of Winds looked up to gaze with interest.
“The Grand Master and I understand your reservations,” she announced in sparkling clear tones, eyes bright with purpose. “However, you must realize that all of the points you just mentioned only serve to bolster our argument.”
“And what, exactly, is the nature of the petition you bring before this Conclave?” demanded the Vicar of Magic.
Naia motioned for Kyel to continue. He moved forward to stand beside her.
“As you are all aware, the Well of Tears has been unsealed. We will strive to close it, but that can only be accomplished by the sacrifice of a Grand Master.” Kyel lowered his eyes and drew a long, quavering breath, swallowing the dread that clenched his throat. “I volunteer.”
There was a hollow silence in the chapel. Kyel kept his gaze trained on the floor, unable to meet their stares. He was aware of Naia looking at him in stunned horror.
The priestess in the blood-red dress chortled in his direction. “A very noble gesture, Grand Master Kyel. I will be sure to offer a toast if you actually manage to work up the nerve to match your bravado. But what I don’t understand is why your decision to commit suicide must be ratified by this council?”
Kyel felt a flush of anger at the insult. “It doesn’t, obviously,” he said. “We came here today to beg the temple leadership to help us bolster the defenses of the Rhen. The last time the Well was open, Darien Lauchlin broke Oath to turn back the invasion of the Enemy. As it turns out, that solution was only temporary.”
“What solution?” demanded the feral-looking Vicar of the Wilds. “That was no solution at all—for now we have a demon of Darien Lauchlin’s abilities to contend with!”
Naia raised her voice. “Which is exactly why we need the help of the temples so desperately! Kyel and I do not have the strength to defend the nations of the Rhen by ourselves. There are only two of us and, besides, we are both Bound by the Oath of Harmony. I know there is great might in the assets entrusted to the temples by our ancestors. They were placed into your keeping as a safeguard, as a balance against the mage class. To prevent the Assemblies from becoming too powerful and despotic. I say it’s time that the temples use those assets for their intended purpose: to defeat Renquist’s darkmages before they destroy everything in this world we hold dear.”
Kyel took up her point, “We ask this of you, not for ourselves, but for the people of the Rhen. Without the might of the temples, our combined military strength will not suffice. Naia and I will be of little help. We can’t defend against something like this.”
Cadmus raised a finger. “Grand Master Kyel. His Eminence is wondering what you will do if you are ever confronted by your former master?”
Kyel considered the question. It almost felt like a kind of test. He had no idea how they wanted him to answer.
“I suppose I would try to negotiate with him,” he managed.
“Negotiate with him?”
“What else would you have me do? I am Bound. And Darien is not.” It was the plain truth, even if it wasn’t what they wanted to hear.
“Darien Lauchlin has sworn his soul to Xerys,” the Vicar of Magic grumbled. “Do you honestly believe such a demon would pause to chat before slaying you outright?”
Kyel could only bow his head. “I think he might. Surely, something of the man must still remain. I’d have to try—I can’t kill him. Against a darkmage, my words are the only weapons I possess.”
But Naia’s father shook his head. “There, you are wrong. Your Oath prevents you from striking out against him. But nothing prevents us. Working together, we should be able to bring Lauchlin down. We can bring them all down, eventually, one by one.”
All around the chapel, the other clerics and their assistants were nodding, the room filling with whispered conversation. Luther Penthos turned back to Kyel. “That is what you’re asking, is it not? Our assistance in defeating these demons and their armies? We have the right to ask: would either of you feel conflicted by such a plan?”
Kyel did feel conflicted. But he knew better than to admit it. “That is indeed what we’re asking, Your Eminence. And, no. I would feel no conflict.”
“And what about you, Master Naia?”
Kyel glanced at the woman beside him. Naia was staring at the ground, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Of course I would feel conflicted,” she said honestly, her eyes wandering upward. “How could I not? But I have to agree, it’s the right thing to do.”
“Do you truly believe that?” her father pressed.
“Yes. Darien would have rather died than raise a hand against the Rhen. It might be that he is nothing more than a mindless shell, completely unaware of his own actions. But I suspect that’s not the case. Much more likely, he’s being compelled to act against his nature. If that’s the case, then I cannot imagine the depths of his torment. I would not wish for him to exist in such misery.”
Her father nodded, his expression softening. “Very well. Please excuse us while we deliberate.”
Naia nodded. “Thank you.”
Kyel took her by the arm, maneuvering her back toward the chapel’s entrance. The double doors slammed closed behind them, the ancient locks clicking into place, sealing the chamber tight from within. They were alone once again in the vestibule.
Kyel sagged, scrubbing his face with his hands. “That went bloody terrible!” he gasped. “I’m not cut out for this sort
of thing.”
Beside him, Naia appeared wilted. Her serene air of confidence had melted clean away. She looked pale, her eyes sorrowful and downcast.
“It could have gone better.”
He could tell by the sound of her voice how dispirited she was. He grumbled, “I don’t even know what I’m doing in there! Why can’t you do more of the talking? You’re the one who’s good at this sort of thing!”
Naia finally looked up at him. “Because you outrank me,” she reminded him. “You are a sixth-tier Sentinel. You must learn to speak from a position of authority.”
Kyel threw up his hands, barking a bitter laugh. “What authority? I can hardly call myself a Sentinel—what a joke!”
Naia’s jaw clenched in anger. “You are Grand Master Kyel Archer of the Distinguished Order of Sentinels, the most powerful mage left in the world who hasn’t sold his soul to Xerys. That is the man you are. And that is the man we need you to be.”
Kyel shook his head. “I don’t know if I can be that man. I honestly don’t think I’ve got it in me.”
“You do. You just need time. And experience.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What were you thinking, volunteering your life to seal the gateway?”
He’d forgotten all about that. Kyel paced away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, that should be obvious. There’s no other choice, is there?”
“Why not Meiran?”
Kyel shot her an exasperated look. “How could I ask that of her? She’s already made that trip once.”
Naia sagged, looking defeated. “I understand,” she murmured softly, But her eyes said otherwise.
The lock on the chapel doors clicked, and the massive doors swayed inward. A liveried guard appeared, beckoning them within. Kyel closed his eyes, gathering his courage. He drew in a long breath. Then he opened his eyes and offered Naia his arm. Together, they entered the chapel and walked forward to stand before the awaiting members of the Conclave.
“Grand Master Kyel Archer. Master Naia Seleni. We appreciate your patience.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 64
