The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  “Prime Warden Krane has already heard my answer,” Braden informed him. The sound of his voice was coarse and gravelly.

  Renquist raised the cup for another long sip, holding Braden’s eyes with his own. “I’m the one asking this time, Braden, out of respect for the friendship we once enjoyed.”

  He set the cup back down, adjusting the lay of his robe. His face was very angular, his nose hawk-like. The age-inscribed lines beneath his eyes cast harsh shadows in the light.

  He continued, “You’ve always been the very best of us, Braden. In so many ways, you have exemplified everything it means to be a Master of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. I have always been able to depend upon you to do what you deem is right. There has only been one other issue that has ever come between us, and I forgave you for that a long time ago.”

  Braden bowed his head, knowing exactly what the Prime Warden was referring to.

  He told Renquist sincerely, “I apologize that my actions have ever brought you grief. You and I, we both come from two very different places on these issues. Just like last time, this situation is no different.”

  Zavier Renquist shook his head, eyes narrowing. “I disagree. We have so much in common, you and I. If you will just hear me out, I think you will come to understand what I mean. Would you do that for me? Hear me out? For the sake of the bonds of kinship we once shared?”

  Braden clenched his teeth at that painful reminder, but forced himself to nod anyway. “I will.”

  Zavier Renquist smiled. It was a chill smile, one with very little true emotion behind it. “I think we can both agree that all of us have a moral obligation to strive for the best possible outcomes in any given situation. Where you and I differ is that I believe some outcomes are so important that they must be achieved at all cost, no matter the price. Even if the actions we must perform to accomplish our goals do not sit very well with our conscience. Motives, intentions … none of those things ever matter in the end. The results of our actions are the only things that truly count, for that is the only part of us that has any real impact upon the world. Good intentions, empty of results, don’t count for much. They don’t count for anything at all, really.”

  He shifted his weight on the cushions before continuing. “Far more than just our own lives are at stake in this matter. At stake is our entire legacy, our history, our heritage, and our future. I’m not asking this only for the benefit of magekind. Magic is an asset to all of humanity. As a civilization, we define ourselves by our achievements, and only through magic have mankind’s greatest accomplishments ever been rendered possible.”

  Braden shook his head in disagreement. “The common folk won’t bat an eye if all of magekind passes on,” he stated pragmatically. “It would be far better for them to lose all memory and trace of us than to do as you suggest: to open the floodgates of hell and allow Xerys free reign to subjugate humanity.”

  Renquist pursed his lips, shaking his head. “You’re wrong, Braden. The common folk do need us. Without the guidance of the Masters, civilization as we know it will cease to exist. The temples will be abandoned, entire cities will decline into decay. Eventually, everything we have achieved, everything we have built, it will all collapse. A dark and unenlightened age will be thrust upon the world.

  “I want you to understand that the world under the reign of Xerys will not be as intolerable as you imagine or fear,” the Prime Warden reassured him. “All it will involve is a slight change in ideology for most people. The addition of a temple to the skyline. A different altar to worship at. A new face to add to the pantheon. Most citizens, so caught up in their own lives, will never even realize they have become the ignorant subjects of a different kind of tyranny. They will go about their lives completely oblivious and unaffected.

  “And, in appreciation for our service, Xerys has generously agreed to allow the eight of us, His Chosen Servants, to exercise His rule over the world. You and I, Braden, we will be the overlords of His dominion, to govern our territories as we see fit. It is part of the covenant we have struck with Him. We can each make of our own nations whatever we desire, to be as great or as modest as we please.”

  Braden tried unsuccessfully to wet his parched lips with his tongue. Staring down at the cup on the floor, he responded softly, “I am sorry, Prime Warden. I just don’t see it working out that way. I’m afraid I don’t share your optimism. Or your ambitions.”

  He drew himself up, raising his troubled eyes to meet Renquist’s gaze. “I beg you not to do this, Prime Warden. If we do what is right and pass without struggle from this world, then humanity will soon forget we ever existed. They will move on. Given time, they will eventually prosper. Someday, their achievements may even grow to surpass our own. All I ask is that you give them that chance. Give them the opportunity to prove you wrong.”

  Zavier Renquist shook his head. In his eyes was a deep and profound sadness, the first trace of true emotion Braden had seen since the conversation began. Very softly, even gently, he uttered:

  “You’ve fallen into the trap of shallow thinking, Braden, the kind that brings only enslavement to moral principles. There is no room there for shades of gray; it paints the world only in broad strokes of black and white. Life, very fortunately, cannot be reduced to such simplicity.”

  Braden bowed his head. “Then I’m sorry, Prime Warden. I’ve heard you out, but I’m afraid I still can’t help you. It goes against every principle I have.”

  Zavier Renquist threw his head back and downed the remainder of his tea. Then, very firmly, he set the small brass cup upside down upon the tray it had come from. He turned to Byron Connel and nodded once.

  Immediately, the red-bearded Battlemage rose and strode over to the door, rapping twice upon the wood. The door cracked open, slowly at first. Then it swung open broadly.

  Braden winced, turning away from the sight of Sephana being led forward into the room. Her face was streaked with tears, her dress blood-stained and rumpled. Her eyes sought Braden’s, full of sorrow and sympathy.

  Very softly, Zavier Renquist asked of Braden, “Which one, do you think, should die first? You or her?”

  Hearing that question, Braden grimaced and threw his head back.

  Renquist pressed on, voice urgent and relentless, “Should I force her to look on as I take your life slowly? Or should I make you watch your lover suffer the consequences of your decision?”

  Braden opened his eyes, shaking his head and gazing imploringly at the Prime Warden. He couldn’t help the tears that gathered in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Sephana as he whispered in a barren voice:

  “Kill her first. Just, please … do it quickly.”

  His voice broke with emotion. He lowered his head to his chest as silent sobs wracked his frame. He brought his hands up to cover his face.

  “No, Brother. I can’t let you do this again.”

  It was Quin’s voice. Braden glanced up, eyes wide and horrified, in time to watch Quin turn to look at Renquist with a feverish intensity. “If I do as you ask, will you promise to spare her?”

  “Quin, no!” Sephana cried out, her arms crossed around her chest as she hugged herself desperately. Her face glistened with tears. “Please, no! Don’t do it!”

  “You have my word,” Zavier Renquist responded gravely.

  Quin nodded, rising to his knees. “What do I say?”

  As Braden looked on in abject horror, his brother was guided through the ritual that would render him a darkmage. Nach’tier, in the language of the clans. He repeated the words exactly as Renquist pronounced them:

  “I commit my soul to Chaos. From this day forth,

  I will be the obedient servant of Xerys.

  I will serve faithfully all the days of my life…

  … and may not even death itself release me.”

  When it was over, the Prime Warden nodded once. Very formally, he uttered, “Thank you, Quinlan.”

  Then he turned to Braden, eyes simmering shadows of gla
ring intensity. “You have only this one last chance. Commit your soul to Xerys or Transfer your gift to someone who will.”

  Quin tried to jerk himself erect but was prevented by the constraints that held him. “No!” he shouted, flailing against his bonds. “You can’t do this! We had an agreement, damn you!”

  Zavier Renquist turned to regard him coolly, eyebrows raised, the expression on his face indifferent. “Your brother’s life was not part of that agreement,” he reminded Quin smoothly.

  Braden knew he had to end this, one way or another.

  Following Quin’s example, he rose to his knees, palms resting on his thighs, and bowed his head deeply. His whole body shaking, he uttered solemnly the first words that came to mind, a vow that seemed to be born of desperation:

  “I swear to live in harmony with all of creation,

  To use my gift with temperance and wisdom;

  Always to heal and never to harm,

  Or my life will be righteously forfeit.”

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that another metallic chain had appeared of its own accord, this time on his right wrist, identical to the one he had gained from the Acolyte’s Oath. Now both of his wrists were thus marked. He caught his breath as he stared down at the silvery emblem of the chains. They were beautiful, seamless and flawless, indelible and perfect in every way.

  Zavier Renquist glowered down at the twin set of markings engraved into the flesh of Braden’s wrists. His mouth curled into a grimace of distaste. Slowly, he gathered up his robes and drew himself to his feet.

  “Unfortunate,” he pronounced, voice gruff and resolute. “Now that you are well and truly shackled to your morals, your life is worthless to me.” To Connel, he commanded, “Take him back to his cell. I’ll have Arden prepared for the Rite of Transference.”

  He turned toward the door.

  Braden called after him, “I won’t willingly Transfer my gift to that woman.”

  Renquist paused, fingers on the handle of the door. He turned to glance back, the look in his eyes hateful and terrifying.

  “You won’t have to,” he assured Braden with a snarl. “I’ll rip the gift right out of you just like you tore my daughter’s soul from her living body.”

  15

  Damn the Consequences

  Quin leaned his head back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, rocking himself ever so slightly. His eyes wandered upward to gaze at the ceiling.

  They had just taken Braden and Sephana away.

  His brother had never once looked back at him again; he had kept his stare lowered, eyes trained on the ground at his feet. Quin brought his knees up to his chest, clenching his jaw, all the while trying very hard not to weep.

  Standing before him, Byron Connel shifted his weight over his feet. The motion made his long robes sway. Thar’gon gleamed coldly in the lantern light.

  “I’m sorry,” Connel stated in an attempt to console. “If it helps at all, you saved the one person whose life mattered more to him than his own. He’d thank you for it if he could.”

  Quin’s view of the ceiling blurred as tears welled in his eyes.

  “It doesn’t help.” His voice was ragged and drained of emotion. “All I’ve ever desired is for Braden to know how terribly proud—and how very grateful—I’ve always been to have him as a brother. But instead of being there for him whenever he needed me, all I’ve ever been is the architect of his pain. There truly is no end to my duplicity.”

  Byron Connel paced away, hands on his hips, moving his boot to swipe at a spilled teacup on the floor. “That has to hurt. Unfortunately, there is no way of going back and changing what’s already been done, of making things right by him. The only thing you can do now is to try to keep Braden’s interests at heart going forward. At least, in that, there is yet something you can still accomplish.”

  Quin scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “What is that?”

  “Protect Sephana. Make sure you live up to your end of the bargain. Keep her safe.”

  Quin raised his eyebrows, pondering the idea. “Is that truly what Braden would wish?” The question was rhetorical, addressed more to himself rather than Connel.

  “I believe so. What do you think?”

  Quin frowned, still gazing up at the ceiling. He deliberated the answer for a moment. At length, he responded with an element of certainty:

  “I think he’d want me to destroy you all and damn the consequences.”

  The Battlemage jerked his head around, hand moving to the haft of his weapon. He was ready to act, should Quin decide to try and deliver on his brother’s legacy.

  Byron Connel reminded him, “You couldn’t rise to that challenge before. I don’t think you can bring yourself to do it now.”

  Quin swallowed, realizing the man was absolutely right. “No,” he agreed. “I could not. And I’m far too much of a coward to attempt it by myself.”

  Connel’s hand relaxed at his side, slipping away from his weapon. He gave a curt nod. “Very well. At least we both know where you stand.”

  Quin sucked in a sharp breath, biting his lip against the feeling of despair that came with acceptance of Connel’s logic. There was no further struggle left within him; he had been too thoroughly defeated.

  “It’s time for us to go,” Connel announced, turning back toward the door. “I’m going to release the field damper on you now. I trust you won’t do anything stupid?”

  Quin scowled. “I assure you, I’ve already used up all the stupid left within me today.”

  He drew himself up away from the wall, rising uncertainly to his feet. He offered his manacled wrists out in front of him.

  “Fair enough,” uttered the Battlemage.

  With the power of his mind, Byron Connel released the locks holding Quin’s shackles in place. The manacles on his wrists and ankles opened of their own accord, falling away and dropping to the ground. Quin gazed down at the flesh of his wrists, reddened and raw and chafed from the weight of the bonds.

  Connel closed his eyes and unmade the ward that had been used to shield Quin’s mind from the magic field. The glorious power of the field flooded into him like a river surging back into its course, at first offering Quin a gentle and comforting security. He closed his eyes, savoring the sweet sensation he had gone so long without.

  But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all.

  Indeed, it was all sorts of wrong.

  Quin reached out with his mind, testing the capricious energies of the field, only to find his gesture rebuffed by its strange and peculiar tension. Quin’s mind flinched back away from the field’s acrid touch. He turned back to Connel with a look of alarm.

  “You feel that?” demanded the red-bearded Battlemage. “That’s our death riding toward us on the wings of apocalypse unless we do something to stop it. Follow me.”

  He turned and stalked out of the room, gloved hands clenched into fists. Quin followed after him, having to jog to catch up. He held on to his hat with his hand, falling into step and trying to match Connel’s long strides.

  He was led down long flights of stairs to one of the war rooms below the Grand Assembly. Connel threw open the door, sweeping it back and holding it open for him. Quin paused in the threshold, uncertain, eyes scanning over the chamber.

  A dark-haired woman whirled to confront him, eyes startled. A look of recognition slowly dawned on her face. Four other mages in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to stare, fixing Quin with questioning looks. He knew them all, of course, every face in the room.

  He swallowed, trying hard not to look away, feeling a profound sense of shame.

  From over his shoulder, Connel announced, “Let me introduce our newest associate, Quinlan Reis.”

  The dark-haired woman smirked, her eyes considering him dubiously. “I’m sorry, Quin, I almost didn’t recognize you. I forgot what you look like sober.”

  Reaching up, Quin carefully drew his hat off his head, holding it in his hands agai
nst his chest. “Why, thank you, Myria. I almost didn’t recognize you either. You look so much better when I’m drunk.”

  The woman chortled, rolling her eyes. With a quirk of her brow, she commented, “Welcome to the Servants, Quin. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your spark.”

  Quin drew himself up formally, addressing her, “If only my ‘spark’ was the only thing in jeopardy here today. As it is, I gravely fear you’ll be stuck with my catalytic disposition until hell freezes over.”

  Byron Connel smiled wanly, shaking his head. “Quin, this is Myria Anassis.”

  “We’ve met. Unfortunately.” Quin replaced his hat back on his head with a nod in Myria’s direction. “Madam.”

  She turned away with a look of exasperation. “Your dog needs a muzzle, Connel.”

  The Battlemage put an arm around Quin’s shoulders, drawing him near as he strolled back with him in the direction of the door. He whispered in a lowered voice, “I understand you’ve suffered a loss today. But you need to tread more carefully. These people are your allies now. And there are still a lot of ruffled feathers to go around.”

  Quin nodded, taking the warning to heart. Byron Connel turned back toward Myria. “Would you please brief Quin about his part in our undertaking?”

  “I will if he minds his manners,” she simpered. Myria turned back to Quin with a grudging smile on her lips. But when she actually started talking, her face became a mask of cool, businesslike efficiency.

  “The Reversal is already underway,” she explained in curt, professional tones. “Right now its effects are being felt further to the north, directly over Aeridor. But as the night lengthens, the field will depolarize progressively further toward the south.

  “Quin, you will be operating the Circle of Convergence at Vintgar,” she informed him. “That will be the first Circle under the effects of the Reversal. You will have to create and maintain a resonance to stabilize the magic field as it weakens. Then, at the moment of oscillation, the field strength will be reduced to null. When that happens, you will have to rely on the power of the Onslaught to maintain the Circle’s acceleration.”