Merris stepped out of the stairwell and glanced around at the dark vault that surrounded her. Her nose was immediately confronted by the familiar scent of mildew, dust and ancient leather. It was a comforting smell, one she had grown quite fond of from the years she had spent in the libraries of Aerysius. She gazed around, noting that the shelves that lined the small chamber were loaded with the weight of scores of books. She clutched the oil lamp she bore more tightly in her hand, afraid of the damage its flickering flame could do in here.
A movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn.
Searching the shadows of the vault, Merris discovered that she was not alone in the dim room. There was someone else in there with her. A man, seated in the far corner at a small writing desk. He appeared to be scribing notes into the margin of a text. At the sight of Merris, the man closed the book and immediately tucked it away into a shelf beside him.
“Peace! How long have you been there?” His voice was deep and thickly accented.
“My apologies,” Merris fumbled, holding her hand up as a stir of air from the stairwell played with the delicate flame of her lamp, threatening to blow it off its wick. “I didn’t know anyone else would be down here.”
The man rose from his writing desk, his hands going to smooth the lay of his robe. She could tell he was a Master of the Lyceum by the Silver Star emblazoned upon his breast. Older, with gray hair and beard, brows thick and wiry over dark and penetrating eyes. He stood beside his chair, regarding her cautiously.
“I’m used to working alone in this particular vault,” his voice rumbled through the chamber. “Company is actually rather hard to come by down here. If you don’t mind me asking, what is the nature of your research?”
Merris took a step toward him, raising her lamp to allow its glow to illuminate her face. “I’m trying to find information about the cult of Xerys.”
The old Master harrumphed, crossing his arms before his chest. “Are you, now? Might I inquire as to what inspired your interest in such a darkly peculiar topic?”
Merris swallowed. She had just spent the last hour or more mired in the very same conversation with Abir and his silent companion. “I’m really not at liberty to say,” she answered guardedly.
The old man seemed disappointed, but accepting, of her answer. “That’s unfortunate, for you have certainly piqued my curiosity.” He strode toward her, bringing his hand up to his chest. “Please allow me to introduce myself. Devrim Remzi, First Tier Master of the Order of Empiricists.”
Merris blinked; she had heard that name before. She smiled as she imitated his gesture, trying very hard to keep the surprise she felt from reaching her face. “I’m just Merris,” she introduced herself. “Nobody special, I mean.”
The aged Master smiled. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you, ‘Just Merris’. Although I can see with my own eyes that you are far more than what you claim to be. At the very least, you are an acolyte of Aerysius. So forgive me if I dispute the fact that you are nobody special.”
Merris gazed down at the symbol of the Acolyte’s Oath upon her left wrist, realizing that the marking had given her away. It was wrapped around her arm like a sinuous iron chain, its metallic sheen very visible in the lantern light.
“I am no longer an acolyte of anything,” Merris disagreed darkly, staring down at the markings of the oath set into her skin. She wondered, “What do I have to do to get rid of it?”
“Why, that should be obvious,” Master Remzi said, gazing at her sideways in confusion. “Should you wish to be rid of the oath, you must simply disavow it.”
It was now Merris’s turn to be perplexed; she had never heard of such a thing. Many an acolyte had been released from their oath; it was far more common to fail in the Hall than it was to actually succeed. But never before in her life had she ever heard of anyone giving up the oath voluntarily.
“How do I disavow it?” she wondered.
Master Remzi glowered at the markings on her arm, finally raising his eyes to stare at her from beneath his unkempt brows. “I think the far more pressing question is, why do you feel the need to disavow it in the first place? You are obviously more than qualified to become a Master. I can sense how strong the potential is in you. You must already have years of training behind you already. What could possibly motivate you to want to give all that up?”
Merris shook her head. She didn’t want to explain herself again. “I’m looking for something,” she redirected the conversation testily. “Maybe you can help me. What do you know about the rune dacros?”
The Master’s eyes widened as he took a step backward away from her. “I’m sorry, but the Venthic language is not my area of expertise.” He reached down and extinguished the light of the oil lamp on the desk he had been working at. “Perhaps you should consult a text on the subject.”
Merris took a step toward him, blocking off his path of retreat. She could tell that her question had agitated him, but she was determined to find out what he knew. It had to be no coincidence that she had walked in on him in this particular vault.
Remzi.
That was the name she had overheard spoken by Prime Warden Renquist in the cellar. Remzi was the name of the man he had working on the cipher.
“Master Remzi,” she stated firmly, “I don’t believe a text is going to help me, and I think you know that. I need to find out why Prime Warden Renquist wears a ring with the rune dacros set into the stone. And why both prime wardens, Renquist and Krane, are convening secret meetings beneath Aerysius.”
The aged Master eyes narrowed. He stood there cornered against his writing desk. He looked rather like an animal trapped in its own den. Even with so decisive a parallel, Merris lacked the good sense to be afraid.
This time when Remzi opened his mouth to address her, his tone was very cold and very flat. “I feel I must warn you, ‘Just Merris’, that the path you tread is fraught with danger. And I’m not entirely convinced that you will be happy with the places it might lead you. If I may be so bold to suggest, you would be wise to abandon your present course and search instead for safe harbor.”
Merris glared at him. “And do what?” she demanded icily.
Remzi shrugged as he returned her glare right back at her. “Survive,” he responded. “Now, please excuse me.”
Merris stepped aside and allowed him to pass. She watched as the old man ascended the spiral stair into shadow. When he was gone, she wandered over to the writing desk Remzi had occupied and set her oil lamp down upon its surface. She brushed her hand across the desk’s smooth grain then trailed her fingers up the bookcase beside it. Her fingers went to the text he had set there when she had first interrupted him.
Using her index finger, Merris pressed down and tilted the thin, leather-bound manuscript out toward her. She grabbed ahold of the binding between her thumb and middle finger, wriggling it the rest of the way out. She held the book in her hands, admiring the ancient leather cover as she traced her fingers over the title:
She bent the binding back and opened the text to the first page. The entire manuscript was written in a language she had never seen before. She turned the page, passing her eyes over more runes she did not understand. She turned to the next page, accidentally skipping a whole section at once. The binding bent back to reveal a page with notes written in the margin. The script was Rhenic, written in a delicate and precise hand.
Merris whispered, “Calebra, metha, benthos, noctua, ledros, dacros…” She drew in a quick intake of breath. “It’s the cipher.”
It was very early and Quinlan Reis was very tired. More than tired. He’d healed the injuries he had sustained during the attack at his residence, but now what he needed most was sleep. Either that or a good amount of drink. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like he was likely to come by either. At least, not anytime soon.
He leaned back against the bark of a date palm, eyes searching the faces of the passersby that drifted in front of him on the street. The crowd had thinned sub
stantially since the previous night. It was early; almost sunrise, he supposed. He was growing nervous. Merris should be back by now.
“Quin!”
He whirled and already had a shield ready to throw up before he saw that it was actually her. He released the magic field, dispelling the energies he had conjured as he caught Merris up in his arms. She fell against him with the soft weight of her body, her hands wrapping around his back as she squeezed him enthusiastically.
“Look what I found!”
Her voice was full of joyous elation. Quin pulled back just enough to see what she had in her hand: a thin strip of parchment with writing scrawled across it. He fought to keep his mind on what she was trying to show him, but really all he could pay attention to was her. His eyes raked over every inch of Merris as he reassured himself that she was alive and whole, standing right there beside him.
“You’re safe,” he gasped, gaze loosely focused on her radiant features. “What’s this?” He glanced down at the note she had shoved into his hand, spreading it open with his fingers.
“I think I found Remzi’s cipher,” Merris gushed excitedly, smiling at him.
“Remzi?” Quinlan frowned, still gazing down at the thin strip of parchment in his hand, turning it first one direction then the other. “As in Master Devrim Remzi? How peculiar; I thought he was dead.”
“Apparently not.” Her voice was almost giddy with excitement. “I met him in the vaults under Om’s temple. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Why, yes, that’s wonderful, but—”
Quin found his words cut off by the feel of her lips against his. For a full moment, nothing else mattered in the world. Only Merris, the feel of her touch, the sweet fragrance of her hair. She slid her arms around his back, pulling him even closer.
Then she jerked away, giggling with excitement. Quin was left staring slack-jawed into the space where she had just been, completely dumbfounded. He breathed in a large chestful of air, then pursed his lips as he blew the air back out again slowly.
“That was…unexpected…”
He stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment as she grinned up at him adorably. “You’re such a sweetling,” she said with a grin. “Quin, I want you to help me disavow the Acolyte’s Oath.”
Quin winced, taken completely aback by her statement and wondering if he had even heard her right. He found himself more confused than before, unable to do more than reach up and rub his temple with a fist.
She wanted what?
Merris smiled then, the look in her eyes bewitching him completely. “I want you to make me your apprentice, Quin. I want to learn from you. I want you to teach me everything you know.”
Quinlan Reis shook his head, not even sure if he had just heard her right. “That wouldn’t be very much, I assure you,” he finally managed to say, thinking of the corpse of the last apprentice he had mentored, which had been left lying in a puddle in the alleyway outside his home. He felt suddenly, terribly awkward. “Look, darling, you don't know anything about me. You don't even know which order I belong to.”
“I just assumed you were a Battlemage,” Merris admitted.
Quin couldn’t suppress a grin as he reached up and swept his hat off his head. With a flourish, he bowed low before her. “Grand Master Quinlan Reis of the Order of Arcanists at your service.”
“You’re an Arcanist?” Merris exclaimed. “How is that even possible? You killed a Battlemage!”
Quin shrugged, straightening himself as he replaced his hat back on his head. “Battlemages do tend to be an insufferably arrogant lot, but they’re not particularly well suited to the fine art of assassination,” he explained. “If what you need is massive numbers of casualties, then a Battlemage is the natural choice. But if the job requires any element of sophistication or subtlety, then setting a Battlemage to the task would be like turning a bull loose in a porcelain shop.”
Merris was shaking her head in disbelief. “But I thought Arcanists just engineered objects of power.”
“So says the charter of our order,” Quin agreed. He reached down and took her hand in his, guiding her forward down the avenue. “But our particular skill set lends itself well to a wide variety of dedicated tasks. Arcanists are masters of minutiae. If you don’t mind me asking, what order were you preferenced to back in Aerysius?”
“I was preferenced to the Order of Querers.”
Quin said, “Then it would certainly do you little good to become my apprentice. My particular knowledge base is far too narrow to be of any use to a Querer prospect. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not certain we’d be very compatible.”
Merris appeared to scoff at his words. “Why not? We seem to work very well together.” The sound of her voice was low and flirtatious. Her hand tugged at his own, trying pull him in closer.
But Quin refused to budge. He suddenly had a very bad feeling. There was something wrong about this situation; something about it just didn’t feel right. He tried to put a finger on exactly what the problem was, but couldn’t. He squirmed internally, writhing in consternation.
“Well, for one thing, my services have not exactly been in very high demand lately,” he explained, doing his best to put his apprehensions into words. “It would seem that my reputation has sustained a substantial amount of tarnish. Forgive me for saying this, but you seem to be rather ambitious. I think you’d be far happier with a master of much greater status.”
Merris appeared crestfallen, as if shocked and hurt that he would even suggest such a thing. “I am not ambitious,” she maintained. “I just want to continue my training. And I want to continue it with you.”
Quin swallowed. His mind was suddenly panicking, his mouth completely dry. “Why me?” he heard himself whisper.
Then she was kissing him again, this time much more adamantly. He felt her tongue caress his lips, her hands sliding up his neck and running down his back. He couldn’t stop himself; he kissed her back, long and hard, his hands stroking through the rich curls of her hair.
“Why not you?” she whispered against his ear after they had finally parted. Her arms were still around his back, her breath warm against the side of his face. “Despite what you think, you’re every bit the man your brother is.”
Quin felt himself stiffen at the mention of his brother. But her next words took away any last amount of resistance he might have had left:
“And besides, I want you, Quin. Not him.”
He could only stare at her, completely at a loss for words. He was not sure if he was even able to breathe.
“Give me your left hand,” Quin directed her hoarsely. He was barely aware of what he was doing or why he was even doing it. As if from a great distance, he heard himself say:
“Now, repeat after me:
‘I swear to serve the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. I will obey all commands given me by my master without question or hesitation. May my life be forfeit if either my service or my ability is ever found wanting.’”
He waited, holding his breath, listening as Merris repeated the words exactly as he had spoken them. When she was done, he opened his hand, releasing the fingers he had used to encircle her left wrist.
The mark of the Acolyte’s Oath was gone from her flesh. In its place was a red and textured scar.
Merris gazed up at him, her eyes moist with a quagmire of emotion. Quin swallowed, unable to break away from the compulsion of her stare.
“Kiss me,” was his first command to his new apprentice. “And this time, please don’t stop.”
Chapter Eight
The Sentinel
Vintgar, Caladorn
BRADEN AWOKE TO a jarring kaleidoscope of pain.
“Come on, come on!” someone was shouting over him, though the sound of the voice seemed to be echoing from very far away.
Braden opened his eyes, peering blearily up into Sephana’s panicked features.
“Wake up!” she hissed at him, shaking him urgently.
The motion brought such an
explosion of pain and nausea that Braden rolled onto his side, retching as his stomach emptied its contents onto the rocks beside him.
“They’re coming!” Sephana whimpered against his ear.
Braden forced himself to his hands and knees, glancing up. Through the mist of the grotto he could see dark forms approaching along the rocks above the river. He couldn’t make out faces in the shadows, but he didn’t have to. He already knew exactly who they would send.
“Can you stand?”
Braden feared he could not. The raging power of the vortex had exacted too great a toll on him, both mentally and physically. No amount of healing could fix what ailed him; sleep was the only cure for an overtaxed mind.
He reached down at his side and fumbled at the leather straps that secured Thar’gon to his belt. It was still amazing to him that the weapon would even suffer his touch at all. The talisman had been forged with a singular purpose: to be wielded only by the hand of the Warden of Battlemages.
When he had reached for the morning star on the table, Braden had known he was taking a risk. Normally, Thar’gon would have never allowed itself to be lifted by any hand other than Byron Connel’s. But Sephana had been right—during time of war, Braden’s own authority superseded that of even Connel. It was a technicality he had gambled on.
The moment Braden’s hand had closed around Thar’gon’s silver haft, the weapon’s allegiance had shifted to him. The talisman now recognized Braden as its master.
Which could only mean one thing: war with the Rhen had already begun.
Braden raised Thar’gon in his hand, wielding the short-hafted morning star like a club. Immediately, a flood of invigorating warmth rushed up his arm and into his core, lending his frail body the weapon’s own strength. The iconic talisman was sensing its master’s need and responding with arcane purpose.
Bolstered by the weapon’s vitality, Braden rose trembling to his feet. “Get behind me,” he ordered Sephana.
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