The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  “I have to stop them.” Braden hoped that somehow the man would understand.

  The aged Master raised his eyebrows, eyes fixed on the iconic talisman in Braden’s hand. “There’s nothing you can do,” Remzi assured him. “Don’t you think I would have stopped them if I could? They’re too powerful, too well connected. They’ve come too far.”

  “I won’t accept that,” Braden snarled.

  Below them, the doors of the Lyceum were thrust open, soldiers and mages spilling in in droves. Hundreds of men fanned out, making their way around the Circle of Convergence toward the stairs to the gallery. Braden watched them come, knowing there was nowhere else to go. All he really had to do was buy Quin enough time to plant the charges. He just had to hold them off as long as he could.

  “Get down,” he ordered Remzi.

  The old man complied as Braden raised Thar’gon in a warding stance over both of them.

  The first magical attacks came, zealous energies shattering against his amber shield of light. The shield absorbed most of the damage, reflecting the rest. It shuddered, taking a tremendous battering. Braden struck out with the morning star, knocking the first ranks of soldiers off the balcony.

  A vicious magical assault bore down against Braden’s shield. This time, the shield was incapable of absorbing anything but the brunt of the force. Braden was beaten to his knees, using every bit of the power he drew through the talisman just to keep from going down completely. He struggled to lash back against the attack, but to no avail. All of his strength was committed to defense.

  More mages swarmed onto the gallery, surrounding him, the sum of their combined power overwhelming even Thar’gon’s great might. He had no choice but to transfer out of there again. Braden staggered to his feet and raised the talisman above his head.

  Glancing down, he noticed that the Circle of Convergence stood abandoned.

  Braden whirled around in a moment of sudden panic, desperately trying to locate Byron Connel. Turning back, he found himself confronted by the unpredictable Battlemage standing right in front of his face. Connel launched himself at Braden, knocking him out of his stance and capturing Thar’gon’s haft above his grip.

  “You’re done,” Connel growled.

  Braden’s eyes widened in shocked understanding. “Vergis,” he gasped.

  Absolutely nothing happened. He realized too late that the jaws of the trap had decisively closed.

  Thar’gon’s allegiance had shifted back to Byron Connel.

  Braden’s hand went limp, opening reflexively as Thar’gon surrendered itself back to its former master. Byron Connel snatched the morning star away from him, wielding it back over his shoulder with both hands. Then he brought the talisman forward and viciously down.

  A concussive force of power hit Braden full in the face, hurling him backward against the wall. His body slapped hard against the patterned tiles, his vision exploding in sparks and then going dark. A thick stream of blood drained from his mouth and nose.

  Braden sagged to the ground as a surge of warriors spilled over the sides of the gallery toward him.

  Quin stood with staff in hand, the smile on his face daring the man in front of him to strike. But instead of lashing out at the mage, Quin whirled and struck at the scalloped column beside him. The column exploded, collapsing to a mess of rubble on the floor.

  “Anyone so much as flinches and I’ll ignite them all,” Quin threatened, indicating with his eyes the disruption charges scattered about the floor of the chamber. He raised his staff, angling it back over his head, ready to strike the column on his left.

  “No, you won’t.”

  He recognized that deep and resonant voice immediately. Glancing up to the top of the stairs, Quin felt a numbing paralysis sink deep into his bones as he raised his eyes to confront Zavier Renquist. The Prime Warden was flanked by a row of four mages, all of whom Quin recognized. Behind them strode Byron Connel himself, hauling behind him another man, unconscious, dragging him down the stairs by the scruff of the collar.

  Quin grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut at the horrific sight of his own brother, badly beaten, at the mercy of Byron Connel.

  “It’s over,” Renquist promised.

  Quin froze, unsure of what, if anything, he could do. He was afraid Renquist was right.

  Then he felt Sephana’s fingers entwine about his own. She squeezed his hand in comforting reassurance.

  “Blow the columns,” she urged quietly into his ear. Her voice sounded absolutely resolute, content with her decision. “Bring it all down. Finish it.”

  Quin swallowed. His grip tightened on the shadow staff as he steeled himself, trying to gather the kind of courage he’d never had.

  He gazed at Braden, unconscious and bloodied at Connel’s feet. His eyes shifted back to Renquist. Then another movement behind them all caught his attention.

  His mouth opened at the sight of Merris—Arden—descending the stairs toward them. She wore a new dress made entirely of thin layers of silver-blue silk that surrounded her body like a cloud. Her platinum hair flowed to her waist in perfect, spiraling ringlets. In all his life, Quin had never seen a woman look so desirable, so vulnerable. He stared up at her in open, unabashed wonder.

  “Don’t do it, Quin,” she implored him, eyes sad and sweet and so very fragile.

  She was everything he had ever wanted in life.

  Quin grimaced, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.

  Then he lashed out, flinging the ebony staff away as hard as he could. It exploded into shattering fractals of shadow against the wall as he turned his back on them all and took a staggering step away.

  Quin covered his face with his hands, unable to bring himself to face the consequences of his own decision.

  14

  Rites of the Fallen

  Quin gazed miserably around the dark dungeon, his eyes finally coming to rest on the silver talisman that hung at Byron Connel’s side. Strange; he hadn’t noticed it there before on the long walk down the stairs to this sublevel below the Lyceum. The sight of the spiked morning star filled Quin with a sinking feeling of desperation.

  He commented, “I thought Thar’gon only suffered one master at a time.”

  Byron Connel glanced downward to the weapon at his waist, patting the leather-wrapped haft possessively. “The Assembly voted to formally declare your brother a traitor. He is no longer Warden of Chancellors.” There was no malice in his voice; he stated only the plain and simple facts. For a darkmage, Byron Connel was almost affable.

  They moved through a pool of violet magelight produced by Nashir Arman, who strode before them, illuminating their path. Quin wished he could summon a light of his own. But he could not; they had spent a great deal of effort shielding his mind, making certain his connection with the magic field was quite thoroughly dampened. He couldn’t even sense the field any longer. The conspicuous absence of its comfort was like an open sore, a constant and insistent irritation.

  Bryon Connel continued almost amiably, “That was quite a feat you pulled off, just you and the girl. You made a good account of yourself today. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Quin frowned back at him. “Ashamed? Quite the contrary. You and I are both entirely beneath shame. Shame is an emotion reserved only for those with an actual conscience.”

  Molten energies raged like an electrical storm through his mind. Quin sank to the ground, moaning as he brought his shackled hands up to ward against the pain. When it was over, he remained in a crouch on the floor, trembling violently. He lowered his hands back down in front of him.

  “You will learn to show respect for your betters,” Nashir growled, glaring down at him derisively.

  Quin rose unsteadily to his feet. His body was still shaking from the man’s excruciating assault.

  He narrowed his eyes, glaring his hatred. “You’ve never been my better, Nashir, so let’s make certain we have that straight. The truth is, I should have put you down years ago like
the rabid dog you are.”

  Nashir’s eyes narrowed in malice.

  “Don’t,” Byron Connel commanded, stepping between Nashir and their prisoner. “Let him be. He’ll see reason soon enough.”

  Connel unlocked one of several oaken doors that lined the passage, swinging it wide and gesturing for him to enter. Quin went into the cell complacently, having no desire to be taught another lesson by Nashir. The interior of the cell was indeed quite small. There was a rusted iron cot at one end with only a little space to stand in front of it.

  Quin turned at the sound of a commotion outside. Another group of mages had entered the dungeon. He got a quick glimpse of Sephana and another of Braden being half dragged, half carried into a cell across from his own. Eyes filled with concern, he demanded of his jailor, “Aren’t you going to heal him?”

  Byron Connel took a step back out of the doorway, saying in a voice suffused with compassion, “Better start praying for your brother. I don’t think he has much time left.”

  Quin grimaced as the door of his cell was firmly closed, encasing him in darkness.

  Braden clung tenuously to consciousness as they laid him out on the cot in his cell. He lay there shivering as layers of armor and clothing were stripped away from his body. At last they had him down to his trousers, naked and bloody from the waist up.

  A woman came in with a washrag and bucket. She went efficiently about the task of sponging him off. Braden flinched away from her touch as she went to dab at his face. She reached up, running a hand through his hair in an effort to soothe him, continuing with her ministrations much more delicately.

  When the woman was finally gone, Braden laid his head back, closing his eyes and allowing his mind to fade quietly toward sleep. His mouth felt horribly dry; if he could wish for anything in the world, it would be for a cup of water.

  He heard a movement in the cell and opened his eyes to gaze up blearily into the face of Byron Connel. The man had wandered in through the open doorway and stood, arms crossed, leaning over him.

  The red-bearded Battlemage told him gruffly, “I’ve never liked you. You’ve always been a constant thorn in my side, and I find you arrogant and insufferable. But I do want you to know that I take no pleasure from any of this.”

  Braden somehow managed to find his voice, though it was raspy and very weak. “Go to hell.”

  His mind exploded in pain. It chased him downward toward unconsciousness. Mercifully, the torture was short-lived.

  “That’s enough,” Connel barked. He placed a hand on Braden’s chest and appeared to be concentrating for just a moment. Then he turned to a woman standing behind him. “He’s worse for wear. I think I need to heal him.”

  “We were told not to offer him clemency of any kind.”

  Braden recognized the voice of Myria Anassis. The last he’d seen of Myria had been in the gorge below Vintgar.

  “I know,” said Byron Connel. “But at this point, I don’t think it really matters, do you?”

  Braden felt hands upon him, then the warm surge of security that always seemed to accompany a healing. He gasped, feeling the terrible ache in his head dissolve, melting right away. Greatly comforted, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift toward sleep.

  An insistent shaking jostled him awake.

  Braden opened his eyes, struggling to sit up. His head no longer hurt, but his mind was working as if through a thick blanket of fog. He still felt terribly weak. They had not given him enough time to fully recuperate from the healing. His mouth was horribly parched; if only they would give him just one sip of water. But after hearing Myria’s comment about clemency, he knew better than to ask.

  “The Prime Warden is ready.”

  Braden recognized Nashir’s voice. He nodded, standing up. The sinister-looking mage strode forward to inspect Braden’s shackles very carefully, yanking at the links to make certain they still held. Tugging roughly on his chains, he forced Braden to walk forward, hastening him out of the cell.

  In the dark corridor outside, Braden could make out the form of Byron Connel standing in a toxic-looking pool of magelight. The Battlemage was standing beside Quin, one fist entwined around the iron chains that bound him.

  “Hello, Brother,” Quin greeted him cautiously. Like himself, Quin’s wrists were tightly bound with iron manacles. More chains draped downward to both ankles, making it impossible for him to do more than shamble forward. Quin looked sickly pale, his face glistening with perspiration.

  Braden greeted him with a weary nod of his head.

  “I tried,” Quin said in a ragged voice. “I did my best.” He looked earnestly saddened. “I failed you, Brother.”

  Braden assured him, “You didn’t fail me. Your intentions were pure. That’s all that matters.”

  “Enough.”

  Nashir jerked on Braden’s chains to quiet him down and get him moving. They started forward down the lightless corridor, Nashir walking beside him with a painfully firm grip on his arm. Their feet trudged through foggy pools of glowing magelight encased by absolute darkness.

  They took the stairs up several floors. Braden kept his eyes fixed on the wooden railing to avoid Nashir’s unfeeling gaze. He noticed that, with each successive level, the workmanship of the railing became somehow less ascetic. By the time they arrived at the level of the main floor, the wooden rail had been entirely replaced by rose-colored marble held in place by chiseled corbels.

  How strange; he had traversed those self-same stairs thousands of times before in his life and had never once paid attention to the workmanship of the railing. He mused at how odd were the things one notices at such a time.

  The stairwell opened up out of the ground onto the floor of the Lyceum complex, to a wide hall several stories tall. It was crowded with mages who stood gathered about in tight clusters, some dressed in formal indigo robes, others wearing a great variety of assorted fabrics and colors. The din of the room was almost palpable with so many people talking all together at once, their voices raised in tension.

  At the sight of their small party, the fragile order of the room quickly disintegrated into chaos. Men and women rushed forward to surround them, faces hostile, brandishing arms and fists in the air and shouting despicable, hostile things. Braden bowed his head, fixing his stare on the ground just before his feet, unable to confront the brazen hatred in the eyes of his former peers.

  A contingent of guards swept forward, forcing back the surging throng. Despite the presence of the guards, Braden was repeatedly slapped and cuffed. A young woman in a bright-red dress ducked and slipped past the wall of guards, approaching close enough to spray a wad of spittle into his face. Braden did his best to wipe the offensive fluid off with his shoulder.

  They reached the end of the paneled hall and were propelled forcibly forward through a set of double doors. The doors were then thrown shut and barred against the crowd. Braden could hear the jarring thunder of people pounding with their fists from the other side, rattling the doors violently on their hinges.

  “Keep going.”

  Nashir jerked him forward by the chains, impelling him in the direction of a plain white door at the far end of the room. Braden struggled to keep up, his stride compromised by the length of the chain between his feet.

  They were led through the door into a modest-sized room beyond. Within, Braden stopped and peered around, his face a mask of confusion. The room was completely empty, save for patterned carpets laid out on the floor and many embroidered cushions upon which to sit. The walls were draped with silk in a variety of colors. An exquisite tea set of beaten copper was laid out upon a short-legged table in the midst of the room.

  Braden’s eyes darted to Quin with a questioning look. His brother returned his befuddled stare, shrugging helplessly. The room was a conference chamber. Not at all what he had been expecting.

  Braden was led to one corner of the room, Quin to another. There, he was made to kneel upon the floor while Nashir unlocked his shackles long enough t
o lace the chain through an iron ring affixed to the wall behind him. He settled down upon a cushion, leaning with his back up against the wall.

  Byron Connel stood in the front of the room, hands on his hips, glancing back and forth between the two brothers. Then he called back over his shoulder to Nashir:

  “Go convene the Assembly.”

  Upon hearing that, Braden felt his stomach tighten.

  Connel remained standing as Nashir left to follow his directive. His gaze was stern but not cruel. He was merely waiting, one hand upon Thar’gon’s silver haft.

  Braden caught Quin’s gaze and held it meaningfully. He didn’t have any last words he wanted to say, or even felt he could say. He hoped that one look would be enough.

  Quin swallowed, his stare faltering. He broke eye contact, bowing his head and lowering his gaze to the floor.

  The door opened. Prime Warden Renquist strode forward into the room, hands clasped behind his back, white cloak billowing out behind him. He stopped beside Byron Connel, who went instantly to his knees, bending forward until his forehead touched the floor. It was protocol to offer obeisance in the presence of a Prime Warden. Braden ignored that deference deliberately. He was not about to abase himself before any darkmage.

  Renquist appeared not to notice the slight. He gazed down for a long, searching moment, first at Braden and then at Quin, jaw squared and fists set against his hips. Then he dropped into a cross-legged position upon the floor as Connel drew himself back upright.

  With deliberate, careful motions, Renquist poured himself a cup of tea from the copper kettle. He raised the cup to his lips and took a long, savoring taste.

  Braden swallowed against the aching dryness in his throat.

  “I’m going to make this short, because I don’t have much time.” Renquist lowered the cup away from his mouth, setting it down on the carpet by his side. “The Reversal of the magic field is already well underway. I need eight mages tending eight Circles of Convergence within the hour. All must be Grand Masters, and that’s very hard to come by. Right now I have only six. So I will not mince words: I need both of you.”