He ran down flights of stairs, taking two and three steps at a time, finally spilling out into the darkness of the dungeon. Quickly, he produced a glowing mass of magelight, sending it spreading forward ahead of him over the ground.
He jogged up the narrow hallway between cells, trying to remember which one they had put his brother in. Picking a door he thought was the right one, he threw it open with both hands.
The cell was empty.
He tried the one across from it.
It, too, was empty.
He tried another door. And another.
The next cell was not empty. But it also did not contain Braden.
What it did contain was important enough to stop Quin in his tracks. He paused, groping forward through his burgundy glow of magelight.
In a pile scattered carelessly across the floor were all of the things that had been taken from them. His pack was there, along with his sword, Zanikar, still in its scabbard. Sephana’s light staff lay beneath a pile of blood-soaked rags.
Wincing, Quin reached down and plucked his sword up from the ground. He strapped the scabbard around his hips. He shouldered his pack and took up the staff.
And then he paused.
On the floor, half hidden by the pile of clothing they had stripped from his brother, was the war belt given to Braden by the clan chief of the Omeyan Jenn. Still attached to it were all of the weapons and tools that had been affixed to it when Braden had worn it last. Quin drew the belt on over his own waist, tying it in place before ducking out the door.
“Braden!” he shouted, slapping his hand on the wooden door of the cell across from him. “Sephana!”
He went door to door down the passage, thrusting open random doors, pounding on the walls until his knuckles were torn and bloodied.
And then he found someone.
Tearing open a door, Quin flinched back at the sight of an old and sickly looking man with thinning white hair, face quilted by wrinkles. Quin pulled up short, recognition dawning in his eyes.
“I thought you were one of them,” he said of Devrim Remzi.
The aged Empiricist rose to his feet, spreading out his shackled hands as far as his bonds would allow. Quin released him from his manacles, turning the locks with the power of his mind.
Then he assaulted Remzi, grabbing the old man by the shoulders. “Please,” he begged him. “Tell me, have you seen my brother? Or Sephana?”
The old Master took a step back away from him and sat back down upon his cot, gazing up into Quin’s face suspiciously. He raised his hand to his nose, wiping away a fresh drop of blood. The old Master had not been treated kindly, Quin surmised.
“You will find the woman two cells down on the right,” Remzi informed him, still glaring him cautiously in the eye. His gaze was intense, and intensely distrustful. “If you’re looking for your brother, then I’m afraid you are already too late.”
Upon hearing his words, Quin felt an awful, chilling weakness in his joints. He shook his head, unwilling to believe such dreadful tidings.
“No,” he gasped, whirling back out of the cell. With his shoulder, he shoved at the door the old man had indicated. It was locked.
He pounded on the wood, rattling it against its hinges.
He shattered the locking mechanism with the power of his mind. The door sprang open a narrow inch. He kicked it open the rest of the way.
Sephana careened toward him, falling into Quin’s arms, clinging to him desperately. She was crying, the abundance of her tears wetting his neck and cheek.
“They took him away,” she sobbed against his chest.
At first, all Quin could do was stare at her mutely. But then he clenched his jaw, rallying his strength.
“Then let’s go get him back,” he challenged her, tossing Sephana her staff.
She caught it up in her hand, eyes brimming with grief mixed with hope as they sprinted out of the dungeon and raced together toward the stairs.
In the hall of the Grand Assembly, the sound of a deep and resonant voice interrupted the silence:
“Braden Reis, you have been convicted, attainted, and condemned of high treason committed against the state of Caladorn and the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. A sentence of death has been pronounced against you. May the gods have mercy on your soul.”
Hearing that verdict, Arden leaned forward on the edge of her seat, hands gripping the railing in front of her.
Down on the floor in the circle of light, ropes of energy materialized to entwine tightly about Braden’s body. His guards forced him roughly to his knees, one man leveraging him down by the shoulders, the other taking him by the hair, jerking his head forward and forcing his chin against his chest.
Nashir tried to take hold of her hand. Arden ignored his touch, too entranced was she by the pathos of the scene unfolding before her. It was enthralling, intoxicating, wondrously stimulating. It excited her desperately. Her heart thrummed, her head dizzy with the thrill of expectation.
She watched as, down on the floor, Zavier Renquist strode forward into the glowing sphere of light. From his hands swayed a large pendant that hung from a thick silver band, the medallion’s stone faceted, dull and black.
Seeing that dark stone held before him, Braden Reis at last looked properly afraid.
The Prime Warden moved to stand behind him, pausing there for a moment, raising the pendant up over his head. He gazed up solemnly, perhaps even sadly, at the artifact in his hands. Then he was bending over, draping the bands of the silver collar around Braden’s neck.
In the silence that encased the chamber, Arden actually heard the click of the metallic clasp.
The sound made her flinch.
Braden cringed forward, his body held upright only by the considerable strength of the guards. He struggled against their grip, shuddering violently. On his chest, the black medallion began to glow, dark facets filling with a terrible inner fire.
They released his bonds of light, the guards stepping back away. Braden spilled forward to the floor, writhing and moaning in tormented anguish.
When he finally began to scream, Arden sucked in a sharp hiss of air. She was trembling all over, jaw slack and shivering, breath ragged and panting. Her fingers clenched the arms of her chair until her knuckles turned white.
The sound of Braden’s screams became desperate, horrific. Arden moaned, caught up in the throes of an exhilarated climax unlike anything she had ever felt before in her life.
Quin staggered out of the stairwell and out into the wide hall, his eyes making a quick survey of the room. It was the same place where the crowd had assaulted Braden and himself just hours before.
The wide hall was now completely empty. Scattered trash strewn across the tiles was the only reminder that so many people had even been there.
Frowning in incomprehension, Quin drew Zanikar from its scabbard and rushed forward across the hall, Sephana right behind him. He made toward an enormous set of double doors set into the end of a vaulted transept. One of the doors was already ajar, cracked partially open.
Quin began to raise his hand but then paused. He closed his eyes, steeling himself before asserting his weight against the door.
Sephana at his side, Quin stepped forward into the Grand Assembly. Terraced galleries soared upward along the walls of the massive dome.
The chamber was dim and empty. Completely deserted.
Only silence greeted their arrival.
Numb with fear and trepidation, Quin’s legs trembled as he moved forward down the aisle and out into the center of the floor. He sheathed his sword. His eyes scanned the painted tiles for evidence that his brother had ever been there.
There was nothing to find. No blood. No signs of struggle.
A fragile sound came echoing from somewhere down below.
Quin’s eyes darted to Sephana, questioning, then trailed back again across the floor. It took him a moment to notice the gaping entrance to a stairway set behind the lower gallery.
Quin surg
ed toward it, his breath ragged, desperate thoughts wildly flailing through his head. Sephana by his side, he clung to her arm as he staggered down the steps.
Halfway down, he drew up short.
Quin’s heart stalled in his chest. For a moment all he could do was stand there, unable to draw breath. Pressed up against him, he could feel Sephana’s body stiffen.
Below him on the floor, a woman in white was tending to his brother’s corpse. She was in the process of composing him on a bier. The woman glanced up, gazing at them through a sheer veil of white.
Quin groaned, turning away. He enfolded Sephana in his arms. Closing his eyes, he held her close, letting her spill her grief against his chest.
The priestess of Death paused in her ministrations, looking on with face full of sympathy.
17
Architect of Pain
The white-veiled priestess withdrew to the side, yielding them space to grieve. Quin remained behind on the stairs as Sephana swept forward to kneel at Braden’s side. She took his limp hand into her own, caressing it tenderly.
Quin wandered slowly forward, dropping to the floor. Blinking back scalding tears, he gazed down upon his brother. Braden’s dark eyes were open and staring, but they were dull and empty. Nothing of his character yet remained; the spirit inside had fled.
Quin bent down to press a kiss against his brother’s forehead. At the same time, he drew his hand down over Braden’s face, closing his eyes. He remained that way for a little while, just to be certain.
He sat back up, comforted to discover his brother appeared much more at peace.
He glanced over to Sephana. She was still grieving, shoulders quivering as she clung desperately to Braden’s hand. She was running her thumb back and forth over the interlaced markings on his wrist. The emblem of the chain shimmered coldly in her magelight.
Quin started to pull away, but hesitated as a metallic glint caught his eye. There, dropped carelessly on the floor beside the corpse, was the Soulstone medallion.
Quin’s breath hitched in his throat as fresh, hot tears spilled down his cheeks. No longer would he have to morbidly speculate how Braden had spent the last moments of his life. He knew exactly the manner of death inflicted by that artifact.
After all, the medallion was his own creation.
When Quin had first conceived the notion of the Soulstone, he had envisioned a benevolent talisman, a gentle means of Transferring the gift from a dying mage to an apprentice if the two were separated by distance or by time.
In his youth, Quin had been considered something of a protégé, the foremost master of his craft at a very young age. He had intended the Soulstone medallion to be his masterpiece, his opus, his crowning achievement. A precious heirloom that would endure long after he was gone, preserving magical legacies that might otherwise have been lost due to circumstance or atrophy.
It was never his intent to create such a malevolent device.
He hadn’t known about the flaw. Not until he had been forced to witness Amani’s execution. Quin had been made to sit there and watch as Amani died in agony, writhing and screaming in Braden’s arms.
Her death should have been a peaceful one. Quin had personally assured his brother that it would be.
Which was the only reason Braden had chosen to use the Soulstone in the first place.
Amani’s father, Prime Warden Renquist, had refused to recuse himself from the case when his own daughter had been brought forward for Inquiry. Amani had been condemned to death by her father’s pronounced judgment. And it was by Renquist’s command that Braden was forced to administrate his own wife’s execution.
Braden had not chosen to use the Soulstone out of malice or any kind of thirst for revenge. Not for justice or jealousy. No; he had made that choice out of compassion. Out of mercy. Because he had, once again, made the mistake of trusting Quin’s advice.
Quin swallowed heavily against bitter tears of self-hatred. He fully understood the enormity of his guilt.
If he hadn’t rushed to finish the Soulstone, Amani wouldn’t have suffered.
His brother, as well, need not have suffered.
At least, he could spare Sephana from knowing what manner of death Braden had been subjected to. Far better for her if she never knew.
Quin shifted his weight, letting the hem of his coat fall forward to cover the medallion on the floor. He slipped it away before she could see it, dropping the vile thing into the pocket of his vest. He leaned forward, brushing a kiss against her cheek.
“Take as long as you need,” he whispered.
Sephana nodded, grimacing against her tears.
He rose, hand in his pocket, and shambled away like a sad and abject man lost in a wilderness of regret.
It was to the priestess of Death that Quin wandered first. The woman was biding her time in an adjacent room, giving them space to be alone with their dead. The priestess rose to her feet when she noticed Quin’s presence in the doorway.
He gazed into the woman’s veiled face, not fully trusting his voice. He fished the silver medallion out of his pocket and extended it out toward her in his hand.
“I named this talisman the Soulstone,” he managed raggedly, his voice hoarse with misery. “It’s an artifact … a holding vessel for a mage’s legacy, but one entirely despicable. I created it, ” he admitted wretchedly, holding her dark eyes through her veil. “But I can’t destroy it.
“So please,” he begged of her, “take this back with you to your high temple and seal it away in your deepest vaults. Keep it there. Never allow knowledge of its existence to pass to the mages of Aerysius. Please, if you fear Xerys, you will do this for me.”
The woman gazed at him with compassionate understanding in her eyes. She nodded once. Then she reached out and withdrew the medallion from his hand, holding it cautiously by its silver band.
Quin turned and stalked away, not wanting to look back to see what she did with it. He had no interest in ever seeing it again.
Arden Hannah glanced upward at the sky from her perch on a high balcony overlooking the Lyceum. What she saw terrified her.
Black thunderheads churned across the night, flickering lights strobing deep within their depths. Every so often an arcing fork of lightning would crackle overhead, followed instantly by a rolling peal of thunder.
The turmoil in the sky was mirrored by the chaos beneath in the city. Arden gazed out across Bryn Calazar and wondered what could have gone so terribly wrong in such a short amount of time.
Outside the city gates, the rolling landscape was blackened, charred and empty. The besieging army of the horse lords no longer assailed the city gates. Their remains had been cremated by Connel’s assault with the Circle of Convergence, their ashes strewn across the ground by the careless fingers of the wind.
Below her feet, Bryn Calazar was dying. Citizens ran panicked through the streets as the city crumbled all around them. Everywhere she looked, walls were giving way, buildings toppled, bridges collapsing into rubble.
Arden turned to Nashir, her eyes deeply troubled. “How can this be happening?” she wondered. “What went wrong?”
He was gazing down at the fires that had ignited below in the courtyard, their orange reflection smoldering in his eyes. “It is the fault of Quinlan Reis,” he acknowledged at last. “He let go of Vintgar’s Circle too soon. The Onslaught has escaped our control.”
Arden turned to stare at him, wide eyes full of concern. “What can we do?”
He shrugged. “We can still try to stabilize the magic field with the other Circles of Convergence. It might not work. But that is all that can be done at this time.”
“Is there hope?” she wondered.
The cruelly handsome darkmage turned to gaze at her. He brought his hand up, stroking the back of his fingers gently down her cheek. With a sad smile on his lips, he whispered, “Maybe. If not, I look forward to spending an eternity in the Netherworld with you.”
Quin glanced through the doorway to
Sephana, still keeping watch at Braden’s side. He looked down. For the first time, he realized that he was still wearing his brother’s war belt.
He considered leaving it behind to be buried with the corpse, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was the only thing he had left of Braden.
Curious, he stuffed his fingers inside a pouch and, fishing around, withdrew a small object. He held the item up in his hand, frowning down at it. It only took him a moment to recognize what it was.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.
Quin remembered the day Braden had carved the wooden horse. Gazing down at the tiny stallion, he couldn’t help the small, sad grin that worked its way to his lips.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. Sephana had retired from her watch.
Quin realized it was time to go.
He wandered back in the direction of the stairs, kneeling one last time at Braden’s side.
“Goodbye, little brother,” he whispered. “I’ll never forget you. Never in a thousand years.”
Into Braden’s flaccid hand he pressed the tiny wooden horse, squeezing the fingers closed around it.
“‘From the Atrament we all come, and back to the Atrament we all return,’” he whispered as he rose. He turned to leave.
“Pardon, Great Master.”
He glanced back, an unspoken question on his face as he regarded the dark-haired priestess behind him. She nodded in his direction, a somber but compassionate expression on her face.
“I’m sorry to intrude, but … I do need to know his name.”
Sephana strode forward, drawing herself up nobly. To the priestess she announced in unfaltering tones, “His name was Braden Reis, Grand Master of the Sixth Tier, First of the Sentinels. He was the very best of us. So, please, lay him out properly.”
The priestess of Death dropped instantly into a low and formal curtsey. “He will be well cared for, Great Lady.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 171
