Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3)

by M. L. Spencer

  Kyel shot Naia a look of alarm. “Now, hold on just one moment! We haven’t discussed this!”

  The pale priest blurted out, “Has something happened to the prime warden?”

  Naia raised her hand, drawing in a long-suffering breath. “Brother Carol. Please. Help us get this corpse to Glen Farquist. As you can probably tell, our need is quite dire.”

  Brother Carol looked even paler now than he had upon arrival. His face was grimly set, thin lips pressed together in consternation. “Yes. Yes, of course. Please, if you will excuse me, I must make a few ministrations before the body can be transported.”

  But Naia shook her head. “Hold off on any ministrations, Brother. This corpse must be left pristine.”

  The man’s frown deepened considerably. “That is…inadvisable. But it will be as you say, Great Lady.”

  He moved toward the door and grasped the handle of the cart he had left there, pulling it forward into the room. Kyel realized immediately what the contraption was: a wheeled bier, crafted of wood with the purpose of transporting the dead to the temple.

  Brother Carol cautioned, “We’ll have to handle her carefully. She must be kept as level as possible. I’ll need your help.”

  Kyel felt a pang of queasiness in his gut. The sudden thought of body fluids made his stomach twist into knots. He stepped forward, regardless.

  “Thank you, Great Master,” the priest muttered. “I’ll take the head if you take the legs.”

  Kyel swallowed, feeling suddenly rather ill.

  Chapter Seven

  Daffodils in Winter

  Emmery, The Rhen

  MEIRAN WITHERSBY GLANCED over at the silent darkmage who rode at her side and felt suddenly very afraid. She wasn’t afraid for herself. She had given up long ago on the delusion that her life would ever be peaceful or fulfilling. Everything important to her had already been cut away, severed and cast down the Well of Tears. The man riding next to her on his shaggy horse was just another reminder of how desolate her life had actually become.

  The sun was at their backs, filtering down through a dense, white blanket of haze. Meiran loosened the coarsely woven shawl she wore over her shoulders. She had purchased the shawl from a peddler on their way out of the city. Her white cloak of office she’d left in the guestroom back at the palace. In the thick winter garments of a peasant, Meiran knew that few would be able to recognize her. Only the chains on her wrists might identify her, and only then to a very observant eye.

  “So where, exactly, are you taking me?” she asked of her silent companion. Quinlan Reis hadn’t spoken so much as a word since they’d left the city gates. Meiran reached down and patted the neck of the brown mare she was riding. The horse snorted and twitched its hide beneath her touch as if shaking off flies.

  “I’m taking you to Malikar. What you know as the Black Lands,” the somber darkmage answered without looking at her.

  Meiran peered over at him skeptically. “Then aren’t we heading in the wrong direction?”

  “We’re not riding all the way to the Khazahar, Prime Warden. Especially not in this intolerable contraption.” The man gestured down, indicating the leather saddle beneath him with a grimace of distaste. “Believe me, I’ve endured enough torments already. I’d rather not have to suffer any more.”

  Meiran raised her eyebrows. So, either the man wasn’t familiar with horses or was more practiced at riding bareback. She suspected the former. Although, in the case of Quinlan Reis, anything was possible.

  She gazed openly into his chiseled, almost skeletal face. Meiran couldn’t help herself; she found the darkmage fascinating. For one thing, Quinlan Reis was from a time and place that no longer existed in the world. His skin was olive, darker in pigment than any person Meiran had ever met. His features were distinctly different, foreign, and yet somehow vaguely familiar. He might have been rather handsome if he weren’t so terribly gaunt.

  “Then, where are we riding?” she demanded.

  The man shrugged. “We’re riding to the nearest transfer portal. From there we’ll transfer north to the Black Lands. After that, we’ll have to walk a fair distance to get to where we’re going. I’m afraid we can’t take the horses.”

  Meiran was intrigued. “What is a transfer portal?”

  The man’s eyes snapped wide open, clearly astounded by her question. “Why, Prime Warden, how is it possible that you’re so thoroughly unenlightened?” Shaking his head, he flashed her a scornful grin. “Upon second thought, perhaps I shouldn’t be all that surprised. I’m likely the reason you’re so grossly ill-informed.”

  Meiran opened her mouth to respond but closed it again quickly. His reaction shocked her. On the surface, Quinlan Reis seemed nothing more than a sardonic, self-absorbed ass. But there was far more to it than that, Meiran was starting to realize. She was beginning to wonder just how far Quin’s egotism went. And what flaws it had been cultivated to mask.

  “Was that supposed to be some kind of answer? Or are you trying to be purposely evasive?”

  The darkmage managed to smile through a sneer. “In my time, there was an entire transit portal system. Unfortunately, I destroyed the Portal Chamber beneath Aerysius, which, actually, does explain your ignorance. Without that hub, most of the Rhen’s satellite portals would have stopped working.”

  Meiran raised her eyebrows, absorbing this new information in silence. She was uncertain which she found more intriguing: the existence of a lost technology that surpassed any wonder she’d ever heard of, or the knowledge that her newfound companion was the person responsible for its loss.

  She demanded, “Where is this portal?”

  Quinlan nodded ahead of them, gazing down the empty path. “A few hours’ ride to the west of here.”

  Meiran stared at him hard, speculating on the scale of destruction this man had wrought in his lifetime. “Tell me,” she pressed. “What made you choose to become a Servant of Xerys?”

  Quinlan Reis frowned, twin lines etching themselves deeply across the bridge of his nose. He lifted his hat and stroked his hand back through his hair. “My brother and I sought to defy Renquist,” he answered, replacing his hat and adjusting the brim. “We were captured. Things didn’t go so very well, as you can probably imagine. Renquist can be…persuasive…when he wants to be. My brother refused him and was put to death. Suffice it to say that I lacked that kind of courage.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Meiran said. “About your brother, I mean.”

  The darkmage scowled. “There’s nothing for you to feel sorry about. Braden died a thousand years ago. As much as it pains me to admit it, I can’t remember what he even looked like.” His scowl deepened, the shadows sculpting his gaunt face.

  “What was he like?”

  He drew in a slow breath, his mouth screwed into a grimace. “Braden was a man of integrity. Not like me.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve never had one scrap of honor.”

  She gazed at him for a long moment, waiting to see if there was any more insight forthcoming. But Quinlan Reis bowed his head, slouching in the saddle as his gaze drifted downward to the ground.

  Meiran’s mind wandered back to the events of the previous evening. When she had stood in her guestroom in Emmery Palace, attempting to gauge this same man’s character.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  As soon as the door had closed, Meiran spun back around to confront the darkmage.

  “You’ve got one minute. Start talking.”

  Quinlan Reis responded with a gushing torrent of words. “Darien sent me. Well, Renquist sent me—but I’m really here for Darien. He needs you to—”

  “You have fifty seconds. Start making sense.”

  “I’m trying! It’s complicated.” He was starting to look angry. Frustrated.

  “Forty-five seconds.”

  He threw up his hands. “My people—you know them as the Enemy—they’re all going to die unless you can help us escape the Black Lands.”

  “Why is that?” Meiran demanded.


  “Because the magic field is going to reverse in polarity. We tried to stop it before, but all we really did was put it off for a thousand years. When the Reversal finally does happen, every person living north of the Shadowspears is going to die.”

  Meiran scowled. “Thirty seconds. Why?”

  “The light is going to go out,” he growled. “Without light, there will be no crops. Without crops, there will be no food. Everyone in Malikar is going to starve to death if we can’t escape the darkness.”

  Meiran contemplated his words. “What does Renquist want?”

  “He wants to deliver his people, Meiran. That’s all. Renquist is leading a nation of refugees who, for a thousand years, have wanted nothing more than to simply escape the Black Lands.”

  But that wasn’t true. Quinlan Reis was lying, at least about this.

  “They’ve never come to us as refugees,” Meiran argued. “Always, they have come as invaders. As conquerors. Never once have your people ever laid down their arms and thrown themselves on our mercy.”

  He sighed. “Well…there’s a catch.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Xerys is the catch. If we come, the Dark God comes with us. It’s part of the covenant we made a thousand years ago. If we use the Hellpower to stabilize the magic field, then we must remain His servants. We can be subject to no laws but His own.”

  “I see,” Meiran muttered. “Thank you, Quinlan, for your honesty. What does Darien have to say about all this?”

  “Darien has a lot to say, actually. But he wants to say it to you himself. In person. Not through me. Will you come with me and hear him out?”

  Meiran shook her head, not trusting this man at all. “I’ll think on it.”

  “Unfortunately, you don’t have time to think on it. We have to go. Now. Without telling anyone where we’re going. You can trust me, Meiran. I’ll take you to Darien.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why do we have to leave here with such urgency? Why can’t this wait till the morrow?”

  “Because I just killed Sareen.”

  Meiran gasped, her eyes growing wide.

  Relentless, Quinlan Reis continued, “Renquist wanted to use you to guarantee Darien’s allegiance. Sareen was part of that plan. But when Renquist finds out what I’ve done, he’s going to come looking for us. We can’t tell anyone where we’re going. If they know, they’ll be made to talk. It’ll go worse for them. And worse for us.”

  Meiran was reeling. If he spoke the truth, then they were all in terrible danger.

  “I don’t trust you,” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to trust me,” he asserted. “Trust Darien. You read his note. If you don’t come with me then you’ll all be executed. They’ll show you no mercy, Meiran. Renquist’s legions will march over the Rhen, conquering and subjugating everyone in their path. Darien and I won’t be able to do a damned thing to stop any of it.”

  Meiran didn’t trust Quinlan Reis at all. But she did trust Darien. She couldn’t help it, even though he had given her every reason in the world not to. Meiran existed in a state of flux, caught somewhere between abhorrence and guilt. Hating him while blaming herself. It was a horrendous place to be.

  “I can’t just leave!” she exclaimed. “I have to tell Kyel and Naia. I have to warn them. If what you say is true, then their lives are in grave danger!”

  “They can know nothing!” he insisted with a feverish heat in his eyes.

  Trembling, Meiran scooped up Darien’s letter into her hand. She bent to retrieve her pack off the floor, shoving the scroll inside. She moved to the wardrobe, stuffing her white cloak deep within.

  “Gods damn you both!” she swore at Quinlan Reis as she stalked toward the door.

  The darkmage glared at her with a wounded expression. “Well, isn’t that just original.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They rode in silence for a very long time. Meiran occupied herself by keeping track of the vegetation that grew on either side of the rutted roadway. The valley was aglow with an unseasonal supply of yellow daffodils. Meiran frowned at the sight of the cheerful blossoms dancing on the breeze, hundreds of them. The sight brought back a half-remembered saying from her youth: ‘Daffodils in winter herald misery in spring.’ Considering their present set of circumstances, Meiran found the sight of the joyful flowers full of ominous portent.

  She turned and inquired of her companion, “So, tell me, Quinlan. If you’ve never had any honor, then why does Darien trust you?”

  The acerbic darkmage took the reins of his horse together in his left hand. With his other hand, he reached down and brought a water skin up to his lips, taking a long, thirsty sip. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before answering her.

  “There’s an old proverb,” he explained. “I suppose it’s now an ancient proverb. Translated, it would go something like this: ‘I and my brother against my cousin. My cousin and I against the world.’”

  Meiran contemplated his words carefully, trying to get a sense of their meaning.

  Noticing her struggle, Quinlan elaborated, “I grew up in a tribal society. In Caladorn, loyalty was always kinship-based. Immediate family comes first, then extended family. Then clan.”

  Meiran nodded slowly. “I think I understand. But what does that have to do with Darien’s trust in you?”

  Quin shot a sad smile in her direction. “Because Darien’s mother was born Emelda Clemley, daughter of Lester Clemley. She descends in a direct line from Prime Warden Sephana Clemley and my own brother, Braden Reis. So that makes Darien and I very distant kin. In truth, he’s the closest thing to family I have left in the entire world.”

  Meiran gaped at Quinlan Reis in shock. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she whispered, not sure whether she should be feeling more awed or appalled.

  “I’m afraid so,” he muttered. “I am sworn to the service of Xerys. But, after that, my loyalty is to Darien. Even ahead of Renquist.”

  Meiran stared back down at the worn road, her eyes wandering to the nearest clump of daffodils. The bright yellow flowers bobbed their heads in the breeze. Meiran considered them joylessly. The sight filled her only with melancholy.

  They travelled in silence for the remainder of the day. At sunset, they arrived at a place where the road curved around a sharp rock spur that ambled up into the high country toward the Craghorns. There, they turned their horses off the road. It was already getting dark, the sun shedding its last light over the ridge in front of them. Quinlan nodded ahead with his chin.

  “The transfer portal is up this way.”

  With that, he climbed down off his mount. He staggered as his shoe caught in the stirrup. While he struggled to free it, Quinlan’s gelding continued walking forward. He reached out and took the horse by the bridle, forcing its head around and pulling the animal firmly to a halt against his chest. The gelding stamped its hoof in protest as Quin managed to reclaim his foot.

  “Whoever invented such a contraption obviously knew nothing of horsemanship,” he muttered testily, claiming his pack and sword from the saddle. He turned back to Meiran, face expectant. “Are you coming, Prime Warden? It’s starting to get dark. Better say your farewells to the sun while you still can. You won’t be seeing it again for a long time.”

  He loosened the horse’s girth strap and lifted the saddle off its back. He removed the blanket, stroking the beast’s damp fur with the palm of his hand. Then he slipped the bridle over the horse’s ears and off its head. With a slap on the rump, he set the animal free. The shaggy horse sprinted forward, head and tail carried high.

  Meiran reached the ground with much more grace and set immediately about the task of liberating her own mount. She glanced back at Quinlan as she uncinched the saddle’s girth.

  “What do we do if this transfer portal doesn’t work?” she asked.

  “It will work,” he assured her, adjusting his hat. “It’s one of the portals tied in with the Bryn Calazar hub.” He shouldered his pack a
nd fixed his sword’s scabbard to his belt.

  Meiran turned her horse loose and watched the mare trot away. Standing there with her pack, she glanced sideways at Quinlan Reis. For the first time, she noticed the intricate artistry of the belt he wore at his waist. It had a large golden buckle that was worked into the image of a horse bent over backwards. It was a beautiful piece that had the look of something from antiquity.

  “Your belt,” she stated, nodding toward it. “What type of craftsmanship is it?”

  Quinlan glanced down at the buckle, running his hand across the body of the golden stallion. “Omeyan,” he answered. “My family’s clan. This was my brother’s warbelt.”

  Meiran admired the belt, noticing the small collection of implements and sacks that hung from the worked leather. “It’s beautiful,” she told him sincerely. Her eyes went to the weapon that hung at his side.

  “Your sword. Show me?”

  Quinlan shrugged, drawing the curved blade from its scabbard and offering it up to Meiran with both hands. She didn’t accept it. Instead, she examined the blade as he held it up in front of her. Reaching out, she touched the thin scimitar with her hand, letting her fingers trace the carved elegance of the sword’s ivory hilt.

  “It’s a masterwork,” she commented. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Nor shall you ever again,” Quinlan Reis smiled. “Zanikar is the only one of its kind.”

  Meiran nodded in appreciation. “Where did you come by such a weapon?”

  “I forged it.”

  Meiran blinked. She crossed her arms over her chest. “You forged it? Quinlan Reis, are you an Artificer?”

  “I was,” Quinlan responded as he slid Zanikar back into its scabbard. “A long time ago. Not anymore.”

  “What are you now?” Meiran whispered, almost afraid to hear his response.

  “Now?” Quinlan shrugged, looking down at the ground at his feet. “Now I’m just a demon. The only thing I create anymore is pain.”