Limping, she staggered up the steps until she came to a landing. There, she stopped, scrubbing at her eyes with the palms of her hands, trying in vain to clear her vision. Sephana let out a gasping cry of frustration. She needed healing badly. She needed the magic field.
But the cadence of the field was still just the dimmest echo in her memory, chased away by the influence of the necrators. Choking on fear, Sephana brought her hands up again to grope at her eyes.
“It’s really quite a shame,” uttered a voice right beside her.
Sephana flinched backward with a cry.
Vintgar, Caladorn
The first thing Braden felt was pain. His head throbbed with each pulse of his heartbeat, his body aching at every joint. He closed his eyes with a groan, bringing his hands up to his temples.
“I know it hurts,” a soft, feminine voice whispered in his ear. “Go back to sleep. It will pass soon.”
The sound of that voice was vaguely familiar, like the dimmest recollection of a dream. Braden tried to open his eyes again, but the throbbing ache in his head prevented him. Instead, he found himself doing exactly what the voice suggested. He lowered his hands back to his sides and relaxed, letting sleep deliver him from the pain.
When he opened his eyes again, his head felt better. He was still far from hale, but the improvement was vast. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. It took him a moment to realize that they had him tightly bound.
He started to reach for the magic field.
“Don’t,” a man’s voice commanded severely. “Shield yourself; you are deep within a vortex.”
Braden closed his eyes against a surge of panic that was almost overwhelming. Never before in his life had he come so unwittingly close to death. Instantly, he threw up a shield between his mind and the dangerous flux of power that surrounded him, balling his fists in rage and fear.
Whoever these people were, they had come damned close to killing him.
A vortex was a place of power where the lines of the magic field swirled and converged with hurricane force, like a great cyclone of energy. No Master could tame such a torrent of raw power; merely touching the magic field here would liquefy his brain.
Within the energies of a vortex, he was utterly powerless. Which was probably why they had brought him here. Braden tested his strength against the bonds that held him, finding them secure.
The room they had him in was cold, cold enough for his breath to form a mist before his face. He glanced around, trying to get a sense of the nature of his surroundings. The walls were grayish blue and glistening, crystalline-solid. He was in some kind of cell made completely of ice.
Vintgar.
The realization that they had moved him to northern Caladorn was startling.
He turned to glance at the man standing beside him, the same man who had bested him in the warren beneath Aerysius. Nashir Arman was a mage Braden had grown up with, studied with, had worked with all his life. Nashir was neither friend nor foe; rather, more of a rival than anything else. Nashir was second-in-command of the Order of Battlemages. He was also one of the most powerful Grand Masters the Lyceum had in its arsenal.
“What have you done with Sephana?” Braden demanded of the quietly arrogant mage. “And why am I being held?” He spoke in the language of the clans, the same Northern dialect that Nashir spoke, as well. It was something that the two of them shared in common, distinct from the more conventional Rhenic tongue that had invaded Caladorn from the south.
Nashir’s face remained stoically placid. He was dressed in the same indigo robes as Braden, the Silver Star of the Lyceum embroidered upon his breast. He was darker in complexion than Braden, his angular face clean shaven, his hair a thick and lustrous black. Nashir’s eyes were a striking hazel.
“Sephana remains unharmed,” Nashir answered matter-of-factly. “As far as I know, your fate remains undecided.” He spread his hands apologetically. The expression on his face was not unkindly. He stood up, hands moving to smooth his robe. “I’ll go inform Krane and the others that you have awakened.”
Braden gazed after him as Nashir exited the ice cell. Cyrus Krane, then, was with them at Vintgar. There was no logic to that. To any of this. Why would the Prime Warden of Aerysius be working with Nashir? The absurdity of the thought made Braden’s mind want to scream in frustration. Caladorn and the Rhen were all but at war. No one knew this better than Braden himself, whose job it was to lead the hostile negotiations ongoing between their two nations.
That Nashir Arman and Cyrus Krane could have forged some sort of secret alliance was inconceivable.
Braden didn’t have long to wonder about it. Nashir reappeared quickly in the doorway. The Battlemage was accompanied by two guards in leather gear. The men swept forward into the cell and began loosening his bindings.
They led him out into a hallway. There, Braden realized that his previous guess was confirmed: they truly were at Vintgar.
The legendary ice fortress in the far north of Caladorn was well-known to him. The stronghold of Vintgar had been constructed from preexisting natural caverns. It was a living, breathing, dynamic cave system formed entirely of rock and ice. Vintgar’s galleries were decorated by spectacular ice sculptures and strange formations, all formed by water dripping in through fissures in the rocks.
They led Braden down a wide, ice-encrusted corridor. The walls of the passage were crystalline blue and iridescent. Braden could see through the walls all the way down to the bottom of the cavern. There, the blue-green waters of the River Nym flowed at the bottom of a great chasm, the start of their long journey to the sea.
His guards guided Braden to a large gallery thrust out over the gorge, overlooking the headwaters of the Nym. The air here was slightly warmer, the walls hewn from limestone but for a room-length window made of ice that looked down upon the sacred river. The floor was covered with finely woven carpets, the air thickly scented with incense. In the center of the chamber was a large, circular table surrounded by eight wrought iron chairs.
Braden’s guards gestured for him to take a seat and then bowed and left the room. He did as they bid, seating himself across the table from Nashir. He sat without speaking, absently rubbing at the depressions the restraints had made in his wrists.
Presently, a door at the far end of the room swung open.
Cyrus Krane still wore the white cloak of a prime warden, which rippled behind him as he moved across the chamber and took his place at the table beside Nashir. He was a tall man, dark of hair but pale of complexion, his features fine boned and aristocratic, distinctive of the people of the Rhen. Even after years of negotiations, Braden had never become immune to the formidable presence of Aerysius’s prime warden. He clenched his jaw, following Krane’s movements distrustfully with his eyes.
“I’m told that you discovered my little secret,” Krane remarked ominously.
Braden decided not to dignify the man’s comment with a response. Instead, he folded his hands in front of him and stared flatly across the length of the table at his adversary.
“And you are involved with Master Sephana Clemley,” the prime warden accused. “I was greatly displeased to hear that.”
Still, Braden refrained from comment. So deep was his contempt for this man that he didn’t trust himself to speak.
The slightest trace of a smile formed on Krane’s thin lips. “In all our years of negotiations, I’ve never known Braden Reis to be at a loss for words.”
If it was an attempt at humor, then Braden was thoroughly unamused. He moved his hand to a crack in the table, catching his thumbnail in the groove and rubbing it slowly back and forth along the crevice.
“I have nothing to say,” he muttered quietly, eyes studying the motion of his nail against the wood.
The prime warden considered him for a moment. He adjusted his posture in his seat. “I am told that my necrators have no effect on you.”
Braden seemed completely engrossed with the table’s surface, brazenly ignoring
the man’s comment.
Krane appeared not to notice the slight. Instead, he continued darkly, “Your immunity to my necrators speaks volumes about your character. And it actually works to our advantage. You see, we need your help, Braden.”
“I have absolutely no interest in helping you with anything.” Braden’s response was immediate and decisive. It was spoken without a glance at Cyrus Krane.
The prime warden’s voice was almost gentle as he argued, “I think you might change your mind after hearing me out.”
“I doubt it. Not unless I can gain some type of assurance that Sephana has been released. Unharmed.”
Krane turned to nod once in the direction of the wall behind him. Immediately, the door to the room cracked open. Braden looked up from his study of the table’s texture just as a woman appeared in the doorway, one he immediately recognized. His jaw went slack at the sight of her.
“How have you been, Braden? I’ve missed you.” Sareen Qadir smiled sweetly as she swept into the room, the chestnut waves of her hair flowing behind her as she moved.
Another woman familiar to Braden entered on her heels: Myria Anassis. She was beautiful, dark and statuesque, with sleek raven hair. Myria was both confident and intelligent, well-respected by her peers. Braden tensed at the sight of her; back in the warrens, it had been Myria who had helped Nashir take him down.
“Good to see you, Braden,” a masculine voice greeted him.
Braden’s attention was drawn to the bearded man with red hair who entered behind the others, his astonishment growing. Byron Connel was Warden of the Order of Battlemages and was the greatest contemporary strategist Braden knew. He carried a spiked silver morning star in his hand, the iconic badge of his office. On his face he wore an amiable grin.
Cyrus Krane nodded curtly. “Well, it seems that we all know each other. I gather we can skip the introductions?”
Sareen smiled sweetly as she claimed a chair next to Braden, brushing up against his arm as she situated herself in her seat. “I believe we're all very well acquainted.” She turned to Braden with a conspiratorial grin. “I just met the acolyte you sent us. Thank you, by the way! She is simply adorable.”
Hearing that, Braden’s stomach sank along with the remainder of his hopes. Somehow, they had found out about Merris. If they knew about Merris, then they likely knew about his attempt to involve Quin. He wondered if the two of them were even still alive.
Braden took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to regain what little composure he had left. He sat there for a moment. Then he fixed his stare on Cyrus Krane and stated in a gravelly voice, “Why don’t you start by telling me what this is all about.”
The Prime Warden of Aerysius nodded, knitting his fingers together in front of him. “Very well,” he allowed. “The mages that you see around this table have agreed to work together, to stand united for a common purpose. It is our goal to combine the strength of Aerysius with that of Bryn Calazar to avert a very credible threat that has the potential to destroy us all.”
Braden let his eyes wander around the table, taking in every face in the room one by one. There were five of them in all: Cyrus Krane. Nashir Arman. Byron Connel, Sareen Qadir, Myria Anassis. Curiously, there were two empty chairs at the table. Braden’s eyes lingered for a moment upon those chairs, wondering for whom they were intended.
“If that's true, then why the need for subterfuge?” he demanded of Krane. “Why not just present the problem before both Assemblies?”
Myria Anassis looked almost disappointed with him as she responded, “You already know the answer to that, Braden. There’s too much bad blood between Bryn Calazar and Aerysius. The Lyceum and the Hall will never work together willingly. At least, not in the foreseeable future.”
Byron Connell grimaced. “And there’s another problem,” he said with obvious reluctance. “I’m afraid that our methods would be considered…too unorthodox.”
Braden glared scathingly in Connel’s direction. “From what I’ve seen, ‘unorthodox’ doesn’t begin to describe what you’re doing.”
Myria sighed, looking impatient. “Braden, please hear us out.”
Braden shrugged then gestured brusquely at Krane, urging him to continue.
Aerysius’s prime warden nodded graciously. “Are you aware of Master Devrim Remzi?”
Braden frowned, nettled by confusion. “Remzi? Sure, I’ve met him once or twice.”
Krane continued, “Master Remzi stumbled across a rather disturbing find while doing research above Skara a few years ago.”
“Is that why Remzi and his whole team went missing?”
Myria made a petulant face, obviously frustrated by his reaction. “They never ‘went missing,’” she chided him. “That was just the story we put out. Actually, Master Remzi is still very much alive and working for us.”
Braden gestured around the table. “By ‘us’ you are referring to the five of you?”
“There are six of us, actually,” Cyrus Krane corrected him.
Braden sneered as his eyes slipped to the table’s two empty chairs. Whom are they meant for? “Of course. Please. Go on.”
Myria continued patiently, “Master Remzi was trying to find a more accurate way to map the lines of the magic field. His methodology involved looking at the alignment of certain minerals found in volcanic rock. What he found instead was evidence of an approaching catastrophe.
“Remzi’s rocks contain evidence that the entire magic field of our planet reverses in polarity every ten thousand years. He calls it a ‘geotheurgic reversal.’”
Braden nodded slowly, his mind chewing on the information.
Krane told him, “We have corroborated Master Remzi’s findings several times since. All of the data support his conclusions.”
Myria added quickly, “These events appear to occur with predictable regularity.”
Byron Connel nodded. “That’s the problem. According to the model Remzi came up with, the magic field is going to reverse itself again sometime within the next few weeks.
“Do you understand what this means, Braden?” Connel asked. “A Reversal such as this would be utterly catastrophic. Every mage on the planet will most likely die. We’ll lose anything ever wrought by magic. The entire heritage of both Aerysius and the Lyceum would be completely destroyed.”
Myria said, “The Circles of Convergence, Athera’s Crescent, the transfer portals…everything would be gone. The might of the temples—”
Braden raised his hand in the air to stop her. “I get it,” he said. Then he turned to cast a glare at Cyrus Krane. “What I don’t understand is how boring a gateway to Hell is supposed to improve the situation.”
He heard a rustle of silk as Sareen moved to set a hand lightly on his arm. “We’ve found a way to reinforce the magic field and postpone the Reversal for a thousand years,” she explained to him, her breath a gentle whisper in his ear. “Our plan involves linking together the eight Circles of Convergence. Then, when the magic field begins to collapse, we will stabilize it by using a different kind of power source entirely.”
What different kind of power source? Braden wanted to scream at her. Then, suddenly, he was hit with a flash of startling insight. In that moment, everything became shockingly very clear. He felt his stomach turn sour, the hair on the back of his neck standing upright. A slithering feeling of dread curled up around his insides, constricting his chest like the cold embrace of a serpent.
“By all the gods,” Braden whispered, patently appalled. “You’re planning to use the power of the Onslaught to stabilize the magic field.”
That explained the inception of the Well of Tears. Cyrus Krane was opening a gateway to Hell in order to harvest the corrupt power of the Netherworld to stabilize the magic field. He was hoping to prevent the Reversal by bolstering the magic field with the tainted power of damnation: Hellpower, they called it. The Onslaught. There were other terms, but it didn’t matter. Braden couldn’t fathom what these mages were even thinkin
g, seriously considering such a perilous endeavor.
Cyrus Krane nodded sagaciously at Braden’s perception. “That’s right. It is the only alternative available to us.”
Myria smiled across the table at Braden. “You guessed our purpose. What are your thoughts?”
Braden could only stare at her, aghast. “You really want my opinion?” he demanded incredulously. Glancing around the table, he spared none of them his ire. “I think that all of you are completely insane.”
He pressed on, “It’s a no-win situation any way you look at it. The best outcome you could possibly hope for would be to trade one disaster for another, potentially much worse. You can’t be sure that you could even control the Onslaught. You risk reducing the entire planet to a chunk of cinder.”
Cyrus Krane responded to his words with absolute conviction. “That is a risk we are all willing to take to preserve our lives, our heritage, and our future.”
“The alternative is to just sit back and wait for our own annihilation,” Byron Connel said. “I, for one, can’t do that.”
Sareen’s hand came to rest on Braden’s arm as she leaned into him, urging him in an imploring tone, “This can only work with all eight Circles of Convergence tied in together. As it stands right now, there are only six of us. We need you, Braden. You are a gifted Grand Master and the Warden of Chancellors. You have the strength to command the greater circle here at Vintgar. We need you to harness the might of this vortex for us.”
“And you’re immune to the influence of my necrators,” Krane reminded him ominously. “Which means that your soul is already corrupt enough to channel the power of the Onslaught.”
Sareen smiled, the light of excitement dazzling in her eyes. “That’s what makes you so perfect,” she insisted. “You’ve already sold your own soul; you’ve got nothing more to lose.”
Cyrus Krane nodded in agreement. “She’s right, Braden. Whether you want to admit it or not, your soul is already damned. You’re one of us already, even if you just haven’t realized it yet.”
Darkstorm (The Rhenwars Saga Book 1) Page 7
