The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Braden longed for the sprawling balconies of the Lyceum that overlooked the dark waters of the sea. He missed Caladorn, missed the expansive openness of the plains, its fragrant gardens and fertile orchards. In Bryn Calazar, his spirit had always felt free and unconfined, so unlike the imprisoning embrace of mountain-born Aerysius, where he had spent the past nine years of his life.

  Wistfully, Braden mused that his time in Aerysius was most likely coming to an end.

  His thoughts drifted to Sephana as his feet continued to carry him, spiraling, down the stairs. Both of them had known from the beginning that their affair was destined to be but a temporary thing. But that didn’t mean that he had to be happy about leaving. His feelings for Sephana ran far deeper than he cared to admit.

  Braden glanced back at Merris. She was nimbly following behind without complaint, having no trouble keeping up. She was strong and vigorous with youth. She would have need of both those qualities in the very near future. Life for a young woman in Caladorn was extremely different from anything she was used to. Merris had grown up sheltered by the coddling ways of the Rhen. In the Lyceum, she would be forced to explore facets of herself she had never yet encountered. Either she would survive and flourish or she would fail; either way, she would be empowered. Her destiny would be completely in her own hands.

  The stairs finally ended in a wide hallway at a level below the ground floor. Here, Merris pulled up short, as if hesitant to move off the last marble step. Braden turned back to her, seeing how her eyes darted nervously up and down the corridor. He understood her agitation; that same hallway led to the Prime Warden’s own solar. Placing a steadying hand on her shoulder, Braden guided her down the passage in the opposite direction.

  “Keep your mind focused,” he advised under his breath. “We’re almost there.”

  Merris nodded, biting her lip. “Will it hurt?”

  Braden shook his head. “No. There will be no pain. It’s actually very quick.”

  Again, Merris nodded. Her brow was furrowed with doubt.

  As they turned a corner, he leaned into her and whispered, “Remember my brother. Ask for him first, before anything else. The Lyceum is not Aerysius; you will be in need of his guidance. You don’t want to be snatched up by just any passing mage. In fact, I’d advise you not to speak with anyone at all until you find Quin.”

  They rounded a corner and were confronted by a closed door ahead. Braden shoved it open, allowing Merris to pass through before he followed. “If you get into trouble, I mean real trouble, find the biggest man around and ask him to take you under his protection,” Braden advised as he guided Merris toward the opening of another stair. “He’ll have no choice but to defend you. It’s a matter of sharaq, what we call honor. If you can get his word, any man will defend you to the death.”

  Braden continued to guide Merris forward with the pressure of his hand on her back. He could feel the tension in her shoulders; she was frightened. Perhaps even frightened enough to balk. They were well below the Hall of the Watchers, in the levels carved out of the mountain centuries before the Hall was ever built or even imagined. This room, as well as those beneath it, had been cut out of solid rock by the first mages who had come to dwell in this high place. It was ancient, almost as ancient as the mountain itself.

  He took her hand, squeezing her fingers in reassurance, and led her down another flight of stairs. At the base of the steps, he guided her across a dim foyer to a large door, feeling Merris’ hand trembling in his grasp.

  “This is it,” he told her gently. “You have nothing to fear. It’s not as bad as you’re imagining.”

  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  Braden nodded, knowing she had every right to be. He placed a comforting hand on her arm. “This is as far as I go. I’m sorry, but I can’t take the risk of being seen with you.”

  Merris nodded. Then, perhaps on impulse, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the whiskers of his cheek.

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” she said, smiling shyly. “I really do appreciate all you’ve done. And don’t worry; I will deliver your letters. Is there anything else you’d like me to tell your brother for you?”

  Braden shook his head with a scowl. “No. Absolutely nothing. And don’t worry; you’ll do just fine.”

  He drew himself up and offered her a formal bow. Then he turned and strode away.

  Merris stared after him, her eyes following the sway of his indigo robes as he disappeared back up the stairs. She felt suddenly very alone. Clutching the scroll she had prepared, Merris pushed open the shod door and started forward. A frown troubled her features as her eyes took in the large room on the other side.

  The Chamber of Egress was a wide, natural cavern. In the midst of the room were two concentric rings of freestanding arches. Stationed beside each individual arch was an armed guardsman. All of the sentries in the chamber wore the black uniform of Aerysius with the emblem of the Silver Star embroidered on their chests. But these guardsmen were altogether different from any Merris had ever seen. Every man within the Chamber of Egress was heavily armed and well armored. And the discipline of these men was absolute; each stood with spear and shield in hand, back straight in a stance of rigid attention beside the portal he warded. Not one face so much as swiveled in her direction at the sound of Merris’ entrance.

  Which do I choose? she wondered as she scanned the many arching doorways before her in consternation. Each portal must lead somewhere different in the Rhen. Perhaps some even led to lands far more distant. Some might lead nowhere at all.

  Clutching the scroll against her chest, Merris wandered toward the nearest arch. The portal’s sentry made no sign that he even took notice of her approach. Trembling, Merris moistened her lips before daring to address the stony figure.

  “Is this the way to Bryn Calazar?” she inquired timidly.

  At first, the portal’s guardian showed no sign that he had heard her. But then his arm shifted slightly. The spear in his grip now pointed across the room in the direction of another archway. Merris allowed her gaze to follow the direction indicated by the spear, her eyes widening in understanding.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and, gathering her skirts, made her way across the chamber.

  As she approached the second cross-vaulted arch, its guardian took one step forward, lowering his spear and barring her path.

  Swallowing, Merris looked down at the scroll in her hand. She extended it toward the sentry, announcing, “By order of the Prime Warden, you are commanded to let me pass.”

  The guardsman appeared to take no notice of the scroll. Merris frowned, her eyes darting around the room in confusion. There was no one else to give the letter to. Completely befuddled by what she was supposed to do, Merris took a guess. She held the scroll up before her face and delicately unrolled it. She read the contents aloud in a firm voice that miraculously did not falter:

  “‘The acolyte Merris Bryar is granted passage to Bryn Calazar through the Portal of Egress.’ The scroll is signed, ‘Cyrus Krane, Prime Warden of Aerysius, Guardian of the Eightfold Light.’”

  She turned the scroll around, showing the guardian her perfect forgery of Cyrus Krane’s bold signature. There was a pause of five slow heartbeats. Then the man raised his spear and stepped back, returning to his station beside the arch. Merris rolled the scroll back up, unable to contain the sigh of relief that escaped her chest.

  She nodded her gratitude at the guardsman as she tucked the scroll back under her arm. She took one last glance around the chamber then moved forward under the cross-vaulted arch, positioning herself right in the center between all four columns.

  Merris closed her eyes and held her breath.

  A sudden gush of light surrounded her as the world shifted and lurched beneath her feet.

  The rain had stopped. For now, at least. In its place, a murky layer of fog had descended to enshroud Aerysius in a pall of gloom. The lights from the oil lamps that hedged the avenues formed diff
use, yellow orbs. The fog was almost palpably thick; it was impossible to make out even the outline of structures just across the street.

  Sephana only knew she was standing beside Regent Font because of the trickling sound made by the water. The soft gurgling noise it produced was the only evidence that the fountain even existed at all.

  She paced away and then retraced her steps back again slowly. Glancing over her shoulder, Sephana regarded the gray entrance to Torte Street. No one had come from that direction in minutes. Aerysius seemed like a city deserted; it was as though she was alone in the chill thickness of night. It was either very late or already very early. Even the bakers had not yet risen to prepare the morning dough.

  A distant clop-clopping noise echoed from far away. A coach was moving through the cobbled streets somewhere high above on an upper terrace of the city. Sephana’s eyes darted in the direction of the sound.

  A hand on her shoulder made her flinch.

  Sephana whirled, gasping, her heart leaping from her chest into her throat. She had to choke back a sigh of relief when her eyes took in Braden’s familiar features. Her glare shot daggers at him; Sephana did not like being startled. She liked it even less when her nerves were already affray.

  “What took you so long?” she hissed, swiping a golden curl back away from her face. Her eyes squinted as they raked sharply over him. He was dressed in the same deep-indigo robes he always wore, the Silver Star of the Lyceum embroidered on his breast. His expression was careworn, but otherwise he looked hale. Relieved, she collapsed against him.

  Braden put an arm around her, rubbing her back and replying gently, “I came as quickly as I could.”

  Sephana pulled away enough to stare up into his face. “I was worried,” she admitted, although it sounded more like an accusation.

  He scowled, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I still am. You’ll be the first person they come looking for once Merris turns up missing.”

  Sephana dismissed his statement with a wave of her hand. “Then let them come. I have a few questions myself for Prime Warden Krane. And I’m certain the Assembly would be very interested to hear his answers.”

  “I’m certain they would,” Braden agreed stiffly. “But you’re going to need evidence. You can’t just accuse the Prime Warden of Aerysius of conspiring with cultists without evidence, Seph.”

  “Then let’s go get some,” she announced, already walking away from him, black cloak flapping in her wake. Behind her, she could hear him jogging to catch up. He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.

  “Wait.”

  She looked up into Braden’s gentle eyes and was troubled by what she saw there. Worry was written in them, and something else, as well. Troubled shadows of fear darkened his expression.

  Sephana couldn’t think of another time when she had ever seen Braden Reis afraid. He was one of the bravest men she knew. He was no Battlemage; he had never wielded his power in the taking of a life. His was a different kind of courage entirely. Braden was the lead negotiator between two rampantly hostile nations on the eve of war. That took more nerve than Sephana knew she could ever possess.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Braden muttered, running a hand through the dark strands of his hair. “Why don’t you go back to the Hall and wait for me.”

  Sephana couldn’t help the grin that sprang instantly to her lips. “It would seem, Ambassador Reis, that you don’t know me well at all.”

  He sucked in a cheek and shook his head, thoroughly indifferent to her attempt at levity. “I’m going alone, Seph. It won’t do us any good if we both get discovered. I want you to go back to the Hall and wait.”

  “No,” Sephana insisted doggedly. Despite the cold logic of his argument, she was having none of it. “You need me, Braden. You may have knowledge that I lack, but the one thing I do know better than you is Aerysius itself. And if we do run into trouble down there, then you really will need me by your side.” She was referring to the fact that she was trained to the Order of Querers, schooled in a far broader range of magical applications. As a Chancellor, Braden would lack many of Sephana’s talents. He would be easy prey if he were assaulted; his specialties lay in other areas.

  Braden just stared at her blandly for a long moment. Then he sighed. “‘Easier to teach a fish to fly than a woman to use reason.’”

  She glared at him in feigned outrage. “There are fish that can fly, you ignorant boor.”

  “Thank you for proving my point,” he retorted gallantly. Before she could react, he gestured forward with his hand. “Lead the way, my dear. Before the sun comes up, if you please.”

  Sephana wanted to growl in frustration, but instead she found herself smirking as she followed his directive. She set out through the foggy night, Braden sauntering along at her side as if out for a leisurely stroll. He walked with one hand tucked behind his back, the other guiding her arm. At the corner of Torte and High Street, they passed by a lone constable standing in the murky yellow glow of an oil lamp.

  Braden gave a curt nod in the man’s direction. “Good evening, officer,” he said by way of greeting.

  At the sight of Sephana’s black cloak, the constable tipped his hat in her direction. “Evenin’, Great Lady.”

  Sephana dipped her chin regally, noting as she did that Braden’s presence by her side had gone completely unremarked. The constable probably had no idea what his dark-blue robes even signified. They marked him as a full Master of the Lyceum, the equivalent of the ceremonial black robes worn by the mages of Aerysius. The only difference was the color and the position of the embroidered Silver Star. Braden wore his star over his heart, while Sephana wore hers on the back of her cloak. The sight of a mage of the Lyceum was not common on the streets of Aerysius, even in good times. The hostility that existed between Caladorn and the Rhen was not a recent inception, but rather the culmination of conflicting interests and ideologies that spanned millennia.

  Sephana led Braden around a corner and onto a cobbled side street. Here, the fog was thickly nestled between buildings. She paused, eyes scanning through the mist until at last she found the landmark she was searching for. Walking toward it, Sephana bent down to examine a wooden bin near the entrance to an alleyway.

  She placed a hand on the container’s lid, using her other hand to grope into the empty space behind it. There was just enough room there, she figured, for someone slight of frame.

  “This must be it,” Braden whispered at her side, his breath warm against her neck.

  Sephana nodded as she withdrew her hand. Straightening, she peered into the alley. So heavy was the fog that she could make out nothing. She started forward into the thick grayness, but Braden’s firm grip on her arm stopped her short. The acrid look he shot her was enough to remind her of his peculiar Northern sentiments when it came to gender roles. Sephana knew better than to argue with him.

  So she followed Braden into the mist. He walked cautiously forward, splashing through puddles that had gathered on the cobbled street. His shoulders were rigid with tension, fists balled at his sides. There was nothing soft or gentle about his face anymore; his lips were compressed in a straight line, his brow deeply furrowed.

  Reaching the other side of the alley, he drew up and raised his hand to signal a halt. Slowing, he pulled open a door that Sephana hadn’t even noticed was there. Her eyes widened as she watched him step inside, the door swinging closed behind him. She made no move to follow; she was fighting a strong impulse to run the other way. Instead she waited, nerves on edge, eyes intently focused on the handle of the door. After only moments, the door cracked open again, enough to admit Sephana through the opening.

  The cellar she found herself within was exactly the way Merris had described, complete with rows of stacked crates and straw-covered floor. But it was to the door at the far end of the room that Sephana’s eyes were immediately drawn as if compelled. That door now stood closed. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. She stood transfixed by the sig
ht of it, completely rooted in place.

  Braden moved forward, but Sephana could not force herself to do more than track his motion with her eyes. She watched as if from a distance as he rested his palm against the door’s rough texture as if trying to get a feel for what might be lingering on the other side of it. For seconds, he just stood there, hand planted squarely in the center of the wood. His fingers went to fumble with the rusty knob. He set his shoulder against the door and gave a push. With a shudder, the tired oak gave way beneath the weight of his body.

  Beyond, a dark passage was revealed.

  Braden glanced back at Sephana with eyes that seemed more saddened than worried.

  She forced herself to cross the cellar floor toward him. As she walked past him through the doorway, he caught her by the hand and stopped her short.

  Gazing adamantly into her eyes, his voice grated in a near-whisper, “Last chance. There’s really no sense in risking us both.”

  Sephana scowled. Then she kissed him.

  Hand in hand, they entered the lightless corridor together, allowing the door to swing fully closed behind them. Sephana winced as darkness enveloped them. She stopped, unable to make out Braden’s outline even though he stood only a pace away. She couldn’t even see his hand in hers; the blackness of the passage was too complete.

  This would never do, she decided. She opened her mind to the magic field, allowing its rhythmic cadence to soothe her. Awash in the soft comfort of the field, Sephana produced a glow of magelight at their feet.

  The mist she summoned flowed out ahead of them, a churning blue incandescence that writhed across the floor, lighting their way. In its glow, Braden’s image sprang into lurid focus. His features had the appearance of a portrait rendered by a novice’s crude hand: all harsh strokes punctuated by bold contrasts.