“You’re in Glen Farquist. You’ve been unconscious for ten days.”
He licked his parched lips. His eyelids felt too heavy to hold open any longer. He closed his eyes and drifted back under.
The next time he surfaced, he felt a bit better. He opened his eyes. He was still shivering, just not as violently as before. There was movement. And a voice. He tried to focus.
“Naia…”
“I’m here,” she said. She was holding his hand. “Quin’s here too.”
The room was so cold. So bright. A raging fire burned inside him, greater than he could ever endure.
“Try to stay awake,” she urged.
He couldn’t. It was too hard. He was too tired.
He drifted for a long time, floating on a tide of muddled dreams. The next time he awoke, he felt stronger. The room wasn’t so bright, the air not so cold and stale. He’d stopped shivering. But the fire within him still raged.
He fought to sit up.
“Careful. You are still very weak.”
Hands caught him and helped him upright. Someone stuffed a pillow behind his back. Darien looked around, squinting, at last recognizing where he was. In the Temple of Death. In the same room they’d lent him two years before.
“Here.” Naia draped a blanket over him, her face tight with concern.
“What happened?” he asked in a raspy voice.
She glanced back over her shoulder. Looking past her, Darien saw Quin lingering in the doorway. Holding his hat in his hands, he approached the bed and sat down in a chair beside Naia. He kept his eyes averted and didn’t say a word.
“Kyel and Quin destroyed the Well of Tears,” Naia informed him gently. “You killed Zavier Renquist. The portal collapsed.”
The flood of relief Darien felt almost washed him away. He closed his eyes. “Where’s Kyel?”
“I’m sorry, Darien. He didn’t survive.”
That hurt. It hurt deeper than he’d thought it would. Darien took a deep breath, feeling a knot tighten in his throat. Kyel had been more than just his acolyte. He’d been someone Darien respected and admired, the most honorable man he’d ever known.
Naia patted his hand. “You need food. I’ll bring you some.”
Darien shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You must eat.” she insisted. “You need to get your strength back.”
“For what?”
Darien saw in her face that Naia didn’t have an answer to that question. Neither did he. He could feel all thirty-two tiers of power raging inside him, burning him up from within. He couldn’t survive that kind of assault, and she knew it. He saw the pity written in her eyes, and even Quin couldn’t look at him. They both knew as well as he did that there was no point.
Naia said softly, “There might be something we can do.”
“No.” Darien shook his head. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”
Naia squeezed his hand. In the consoling tones of a priestess, she said, “It is your choice, of course, how you wish to die. I do understand the predicament you’re in. It’s not enviable. But you do have options.”
Darien looked up at her uncertainly.
“You can stay here,” she told him. “The priests of Death would care for you the rest of your days. They would be honored to do so, for the great service you rendered their goddess. Or you can come with Quin and me. We are going to Rothscard to build a school for mages. Nothing like Aerysius. But we could certainly use your knowledge and experience, as long as you are able to provide it.”
It was a worthwhile endeavor, and it made Darien glad to hear. But he knew he wouldn’t be around long enough to make a difference. He shook his head.
Quin blew out a heavy sigh, then finally turned to face him. “What are you going to do?” he asked in a dismal tone.
Darien shrugged. “I’m damned,” he said, stating the obvious. “I don’t want to go back to the Netherworld, and I’m denied the Atrament. My only recourse is Oblivion.”
Naia bowed her head. Softly, she whispered, “Perhaps we can help with that.”
Her words filled Darien with hope. Oblivion wasn’t as simple a choice as it had once been. He’d lost his link with Xerys, the only god he knew who would be willing to cast his soul to the winds.
He whispered, “Tell me how.”
Naia glanced down, looking hesitant. “Do you remember when you travelled with me into the Catacombs? We were separated. You wandered into a chamber where you were greeted by your dead. There, you met the shade of your father. He told you that you didn’t belong there.”
Darien nodded. He remembered that encounter well. It was one of the most painful moments of his life.
“Your father was right.” Naia sighed. “You don’t belong there. That hall is a very sacred place to the goddess. Damned as you are, Isap would shred your soul if you stepped foot back in there. There would be nothing left of you. You would be unmade.”
Darien sagged back into the pillows, feeling the tension drain from his body. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring an intense feeling of relief.
“Then that’s perfect.”
“Are you very certain, Darien?” she asked.
He nodded wearily. “Aye. More certain than I’ve ever been of anything.”
Naia leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Then, with a glance at Quin, she rose from her chair. “Wait here. Rest for a while. I’ll go make arrangements.”
Feeling content, Darien lay back into his pillows and closed his eyes.
When he awoke again, he felt stronger. Better. Hopeful. The fire still blazed within, consuming a bit more of him every moment. Darien felt glad he wouldn’t have to linger, waiting for that fire to consume him utterly. He opened his eyes to find that Naia had returned to his side.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Darien nodded without speaking.
Naia and Quin helped him out of bed. The act of standing took every last bit of strength he possessed. Once they had him dressed, Darien sagged back down on the bed and sat there, cradling his head in his hands. The room seemed unstable, rocking gently. The sensation made him queasy. Inside his head, the fire raged hotter.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” Naia said and left the room. He didn’t ask why.
Quin sat down beside him, looking wretched. He was absent his hat, which Darien thought strange. Squinting against the motion of the world, Darien frowned up at him.
He asked, “What will you do, Quin? At the end? Do you want to go back?”
Quin shook his head. “Things are different for me. I struck the last blow that destroyed the Well of Tears. For some reason I’ll never fathom, the goddess has forgiven me.”
Darien was glad for him. Despite his propensity for disaster, Quin’s heart was true.
A motion drew his attention to the doorway. Naia entered the room, a sympathetic smile on her face. She carried a white bundle in her hands, holding it before her reverently.
“The priests had this made for you,” she said, offering the parcel to Darien. “They want you to wear it.”
Darien started to reach for it. But then, realizing what it was, his hand froze. It was a white cloak, folded so that the Silver Star faced upward, glittering in the candlelight. Feeling a sudden gush of shame, Darien withdrew his hand.
“I can’t wear that.”
Naia’s smile didn’t falter. “You can. And you will.”
Despite his protestations, they helped him to his feet and draped the thick cloak over his shoulders. Naia adjusted the lay of the fabric down his back, smoothing out the folds. Straightening, she took a step back and nodded her approval. “You look respectable.”
Darien felt patently uncomfortable, knowing that his touch soiled the honor of that cloak. Before he could object further, Naia took his hand and led him out the door, Quin following behind. It felt strange to walk. His legs were weak, spongy. He leaned heavily on Naia, her strength keeping him upright. Keeping him
moving. They turned a corner into a wide hallway.
Darien halted midstride.
The entire corridor was lined with priests and priestesses wearing stoles of various colors. Seeing him, they dropped to their knees in unison, bowing forward in the traditional obeisance reserved only for a Prime Warden. Darien caught his breath, stunned by the gesture. He groped for words.
“Why are they doing this?” he finally managed to gasp. “I led an army against them.”
Naia turned to fix him with a proud smile. “Because they owe you their lives, Darien. If Renquist had succeeded, then every last temple would have been destroyed and the priests put to death. You saved not only their lives, but all their work and all their heritage.”
It was too much. He didn’t deserve it. Couldn’t accept it. “Tell them to stop,” he whispered.
Naia’s smile only deepened. “If I did, they wouldn’t listen to me.”
Taking his hand, she guided him forward.
43
Last of the Light
A diffuse glow filtered down from the ceiling. In the warmth of that surreal haze, the shrine of the Goddess of the Eternal Requiem seemed rendered from a dream, as though seen through the fog of awakening.
Naia clutched Quin’s arm, watching Darien move ahead of them, his gaze wandering over the satin walls of the shrine. Naia’s own attention was drawn to an alcove in the far corner. There, a life-size statue of her goddess awaited, one marble hand extended as though beckoning them near.
Darien appeared to be obeying her silent gesture. He gazed up into the goddess’ face as he approached, pausing only when he stood at the statue’s base. There, he reached out and touched her tapering fingers, caressing her stone skin.
Shoulders sagging, he let his hand drop to his side. He stood forlorn at the goddess’ feet, bowing his head as if offering a prayer.
Or offering up his soul.
Whichever it was, Naia couldn’t know, but the sight of him made her heart ache.
Quin released her hand and strode forward, his heavy footfalls disrupting the tension of the shrine. Reaching Darien, he clutched him in a tight embrace and kissed his cheek. Then he let him go.
Quin turned and hastened from the shrine, departing without a glance back. Naia knew he wouldn’t return. She understood. And she knew Darien understood also. His eyes followed after Quin, lingering on the doorway even after the man was gone.
Silence echoed.
Darien turned toward her. He still lingered at the feet of the goddess who had propelled his fate toward this end. And yet, he didn’t appear to harbor resentment. Naia was grateful for that. Swallowing her feelings, she crossed the shrine toward him. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands.
“Are you ready?” she whispered.
Darien nodded. “I’m tired, Naia.”
She took him by the hand. “Then come with me. I’ll show you to a place where you can rest.”
Gently, she guided him away from the statue’s base. She led him across the shrine to a passage that opened into darkness. There, Naia paused and murmured a soft prayer. With a hesitant step, she crossed the threshold. For a moment, the world shivered, filling her with a sudden surge of vertigo. Then the darkness fell away and the floor steadied. The shadows parted to reveal a dim corridor lit by putrid green light.
Naia drew up, startled by the color. It took her a moment to realize its origin. Turning back, she took in the sight of the green aura that emanated from Darien’s body, a ghastly symptom of his damnation. It had grown so much brighter than the last time she’d seen it. Looking at him, Naia felt her chest tighten. The aura was a dreadful reminder of the urgency of her task.
Darien gazed down at himself, studying the terrible light that rippled over him, his eyes darkened by shame. Naia felt a cold sense of resolve creep over her. She clutched Darien’s hand and urged him forward, the awful glow of his aura illuminating their path.
The passage led to the doorway of a large chamber that stood cloaked in silence and shadow. Naia stopped at the opening, dreading what awaited within. She closed her eyes, summoning the last of her courage. It took everything she had to turn and face him.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said.
Darien nodded, gazing into her eyes with a sad smile. “I’ll be fine. This is what I want, Naia. I won’t miss this world.”
“But this world will miss you,” she whispered.
She took him into her arms and held him close one last time. It hurt to let him go. She remained behind as Darien strode alone into the darkness of the chamber. He didn’t turn to say goodbye.
She watched from the doorway as he crossed to the center of the wide hall, drawn as if by a summons only he could hear. He gazed upward into the shadows of the ceiling, his attention captivated by something high above. Following his gaze, Naia saw a wrought-iron chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Six orbs hovered above it, glowing with a rich golden light.
As Darien neared, the dim light of the hall wavered and began to fade, diminishing into darkness. There was a great gap of silence, as if time itself had paused and stood waiting. Then, subtly, the orbs began to rotate. They spun slowly at first, then faster, picking up speed, the glows within them swelling to brilliance.
A tremendous deluge of light gushed from the chandelier, a torrent of radiance that consumed Darien entirely. The light savaged him, battering at his corrupted aura as if warring with it for mastery. The brutality of the light was appalling to behold. It was ferocious, a radiant inferno that ravaged his skin like searing flames. It clawed at him, burning away the Netherworld’s taint and replacing it with an argent brilliance that streamed outward in glimmering rays.
High above, the orbs slowed and began to dim, losing the violence of their fury, eventually giving way to darkness.
Below in the shadows, Darien remained, the light of his presence fading to a soft azure glow. He turned toward her.
Naia gasped. Darien stood in front of her, just as he had before. But his flesh was gone, seared away by the goddess’ grace. What remained was a luminous memory of the man she had known, glowing softly with the miracle of redemption.
Darien’s shade raised his hands before his face, gazing at them, through them, as if confused by their significance. Naia looked on, her heart quietly breaking as she watched his eyes widen and fill with wonder. He shot a glance her way, his expression full of amazed disbelief.
From out of the darkness, delicate shapes began to emerge. They crept silently forward, their pale glimmers closing in to surround him: dozens of fragile wights that shone with ethereal glows. Naia was filled with a terrified sense of awe, knowing that she gazed upon the dead of fallen Aerysius. All of the people Darien had ever known, had ever loved, had ever lost. There were so many faces Naia recognized, and so many she did not. Dozens. Perhaps hundreds. Their myriad glows saturated the hall.
The host surrounding Darien parted to admit a gentle shape that squeezed forward through the pressing crowd.
Naia gasped as she witnessed the joy on Azár’s face as she swept forward into the arms of the husband who loved her.
More spirits emerged, filling the hall until their combined lights swelled into one all-consuming flame that defeated the shadows and then, eventually, diminished. Gradually, the host of wights drifted away, receding back into the walls from whence they came. One by one, their soft glows faded and winked out, until only Darien remained. He started after the others, but then paused. He turned back, fixing Naia with a look of heartfelt gratitude that lasted only a moment. Then he, too, was gone.
Naia stared after him with gladness in her heart.
The Last Sentinel of Aerysius had finally won his war.
Epilogue
A warm breeze sighed through the quiet of the morning, trailing leaves across the courtyard of Emmery Palace. Captured by a gust, the leaves tumbled along, carried upward and over the city walls. They lofted on an updraft, fluttering and spinning, before floa
ting back down to scatter across the grasslands.
The wind swept briskly through the Malikari encampment, billowing the banners, flaring the cook fires, ruffling the horses’ long manes. Gaining energy, the air sped over the plains, rippling the tall grasses, gusting past a long, winding column of refugees. The wind blew across the foothills, sweeping up the naked slopes of the Shadowspears.
The gusts howled and twisted, funneled through the ridges and canyons of the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, past the remains of two shattered strongholds that would soon be lost to memory. The wind raged across the black desert beyond, taking hold of a bank of flickering clouds and hurling them furiously at the horizon.
But then the impetus behind the wind lost its urgency.
At first, the change was subtle. The gusts faded to a breeze that slowly exhausted itself, dying peacefully somewhere in the dark hills above the desert. The tumbling cloudbank lost its inertia and slowed, coasting to a standstill. In the haunting stillness that followed, the vast entirety of the Black Lands seemed to pause in anticipation.
The black clouds lightened to gray, their soft edges brightening until they gleamed with a silvery glow. For long minutes, they held steady in defiance of the sun, as if determined to maintain their tyranny.
But they couldn’t hold forever against the conquering dawn.
The skies opened, shedding brilliant rays that angled down to splatter the earth with sunlight.
In the east, dawn broke over the horizon, more welcome than any sunrise that had ever come before.
THE END
Darkstorm
Prequel
Prologue
A thousand years ago…
“Braden Reis.”
He didn’t look up at the sound of his own name being spoken from the doorway. Instead, he swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut as he ran his tongue across his parched lips. The sound of his own breath was a turbulent noise in his ears. He forced himself to concentrate on that sound, focusing his mind on every sharp hiss of air he sucked into his chest.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 147
