Naia spread her hands, face pale and eyes wide. “How could you even suggest such a thing? I know your intent, Father. This is no way of going about it!”
Kyel turned to her. “What is their intent?”
Eyes only for her father, Naia explained, “The temples and Aerysius have a very long history of vying for political advantage. The Conclave is exploiting our desperation to secure a position of dominance.”
Luther Penthos shook his head, eyes cold and detached. “There’s more to it than that. This council has access to knowledge that has, since the time of the Great Schism, been withheld from the mages of Aerysius.”
Kyel demanded, “What knowledge? And why was it withheld?”
“We can tell you nothing more than what you already know. But be assured that this is the only way we can feel comfortable enough to move forward.”
The grandmotherly Vicar of Magic crossed her arms across her chest. “Please consider this our final offer, Grand Master Kyel. If you reject it, then you’ll leave us no choice but to align the Rhen’s kingdoms against you. Which won’t take much convincing; Darien Lauchlin seeded fear and distrust everywhere he went. The entire kingdom of Chamsbrey wants nothing more to do with you. Even Emmery, your greatest ally, has only suffered your presence because of Meiran’s unfaltering diplomacy.”
Kyel closed his eyes, his anger drowning in desperation.
Naia said, “The office of the prime warden has existed intact for thousands of years. Kyel and I will not be the ones to concede its authority.”
Her father gave a slight, dismissive shrug. “The office is already vacant and obsolete. You would be conceding nothing.”
“He’s right, Naia.”
Kyel was startled by the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But he had. And Naia had heard him. She turned to gape at him in shock.
“What are you saying?” she gasped.
Kyel explained, “Aerysius is gone; there’s only just the two of us. By ourselves, we can accomplish nothing. We are obsolete.”
It hurt to admit it. But there was no use denying it, either. Before Aerysius fell, the combined might of the Sentinels had mattered for something. Even if they couldn’t inflict harm with their gift, they could still protect, and what they couldn’t protect, they could heal.
But the Sentinels were gone. Now there was only him.
And Kyel felt certain that, on a field of battle, he would be far more of a liability than an asset.
A strange sense of calm unfurled within his chest. He turned back to Naia’s father. “Neither of us has the authority to enter into negotiations that might result in limitations to the office of the prime warden.”
The Vicar of Magic waved a liver-spotted hand. “Then produce Meiran Withersby so we can negotiate with her.”
“We don’t know where she is.”
The woman sat gazing at him down the length of her nose as she tugged at the bottom of her shirt. “You two children may as well admit it: Meiran Withersby is lost. Name her as such and be done with it. Grand Master Kyel, Master Naia. The patience of this council is not without end. One of you must volunteer to act as prime warden in Meiran’s place.”
Naia shook her head. “We will not.”
“I will.” Kyel took a step forward.
Naia’s hand shot up, catching him by the sleeve. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m sorry, Naia. I have to.” Kyel felt saddened as he turned away from her. He knew what she had to be feeling. He felt it, too. To the Conclave, he announced, “I am willing to speak on the prime warden’s behalf.”
The Vicar of Magic nodded. She clasped her hands together, eyebrows raised in anticipation. “Very well. Then as acting prime warden, we formally ask that you surrender to this body all rights, powers, and authority vested in the office of the prime warden. In exchange, this council formally pledges its support in the theater of war in the defense of the Rhen. Do we have your agreement, Kyel Archer, Acting Prime Warden of Aerysius?”
“You have my agreement.”
To Kyel, the words didn’t sound like his own. He heard them as though from a distance. As if they were just words floating toward him on the air. Words without substance or meaning. They settled in on him gradually, bearing down slowly on his shoulders, until he felt almost crushed under the sheer weight of them.
It was getting very difficult to breathe.
“Thank you, Acting Prime Warden Kyel.”
The voice seemed disembodied, echoing from very far away.
“Don’t thank me,” Kyel gasped, staggering under the enormity of his own defeat. “Just help the Rhen. Help our people.”
There was no mistaking the gloating triumph in the voice of the High Priestess as she commanded them, “Leave. Your business here is done.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sharaq
Qul, The Black Lands
DARIEN WRENCHED HIS EYES from the ground, recalling Renquist’s admonition against lowering his gaze. He looked Haleem directly in the eye as he brought his hand up to his chest, bowing solemnly. Above them, stormclouds roiled. Fat, round drops of rain began streaking haphazardly toward the ground, hitting the soil in random patterns. The rain made little difference; Darien’s hair was already wet, plastered against the sides of his face. The sand at his feet smelled like wet, muddied ash.
“You have my thanks,” he told Haleem. Darien lowered his hand, fingering the golden tassels of the embroidered wrap the man had given him.
Haleem took him by the arm, drawing him into a brotherly embrace. Darien winced as he felt the man’s face brush the skin of his cheek. He was unaccustomed to such intimacy. The people of Malikar were used to far less personal distance than he was comfortable surrendering. Their constant closeness made Darien feel besieged, setting his already-frayed nerves on edge.
Haleem drew back, folding his hands and turning away. Darien was left staring after the man, trembling ever so slightly. He turned to find himself confronted by Azár, who stood gazing at him with a look of concern. The glare he shot her made her stare even harder.
“You don’t like people, do you?” she said.
“No. I don’t.”
The rain was letting up. They stood at the head of a trail that wandered around the perimeter of a rock escarpment. A knee-high stack of flattened rocks marked the trail’s entrance.
Darien took up the handle of one of the two carts Haleem had left for them. It was filled with bags of provisions, mostly salt and bricks of coal. He started down the trail, pulling the cart behind him, the thanacryst jogging behind.
The trail led them around the escarpment into a narrow box canyon bordered by tall cliffs. Darien didn’t like the feel of the magic field in this place; it made his skin crawl. He wondered if they weren’t close to another vortex. The field’s energies were stronger here, more charismatic. There was a certain pull, urging him toward the back of the canyon.
After a short distance, the narrow corridor opened up into a gaping bowl surrounded on all sides by a tumbling array of blackened cliffs. A village had been erected in the center of the basin, a haphazard collection of jagged buildings and high, crumbling walls. The light of many lanterns spilled toward them through the darkness, emanating from balconies and windows, glowing from gaps and recesses in the cliffs above. The sound of distant laughter drifted toward them on the air.
Darien paused, taking it all in, feeling apprehension settle deeply into his bones.
Azár drew up beside him with her cart. “This is Qul, my home. My village.” There was an uncharacteristic softness to her expression. “It is the home of the Jenn Asyaadi. They are my people.”
Darien’s eyes scanned over the layers of buildings separated by narrow paths between them. A thin gap cut into the outer wall marked the village entrance. He started toward it, dragging the wagon behind him. The hound padded after, head and ears alert. Its eyes glowed a sinister green.
The smell of coal smoke was heavy on t
he air, but not nearly as thick as it had been in Bryn Calazar. And there were other odors, as well, some pleasant. As they passed through the arch into a narrow walkway, the aroma of cooking made Darien’s mouth water. There was also the smell of fragrant incense lingering on the air.
A man stepped out from one of the houses into the shadows of the alley in front of them.
Darien spread his fingers, signaling the demon-hound.
The man noticed them as he turned. He stopped and stared, as if trying to make out features in the darkness. He stood there frozen, blocking their path.
Darien’s hand drew slowly toward his sword’s hilt.
“Fareen!” Azár called out.
Hearing her voice, the man strode forward. He was thick and burly, clothed in coarse linen covered by a padded overcoat. He had the same dark skin as Azár, his hair worn drawn back behind his head. He wore a pair of knives tucked into his belt, as well as a long, curving sword. His dark eyes were startled and concerned, raking over every inch of Azár.
When his gaze fell on the ebony-hilted dagger at her side, the man’s eyes widened in recognition. He bent forward, taking Azár by the hand and pressing her fingers against his lips. He muttered something under his breath that Darien didn’t catch.
Azár smiled. “This man is Fareen son of Mohsen. He is my cousin.” To Fareen, she said, “This man is Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie. He is here at the command of Prime Warden Renquist.”
The man recoiled, his face twisting in anger. His hand went to grip the hilt of his sword.
Azár reacted, positioning herself between Darien and Fareen. Her arm shot up, staying Fareen’s hand. “Darien has submitted to the will of Xerys!”
The man turned his head and spat upon the ground. He jerked his chin up, glowering as he bared threatening inches of his blade.
“Then deliver him to Xerys! Why did you bring him here?” He spoke perfect, though accented, Rhenic. He reached out as if intending to force the small woman from his path.
But Azár danced away, springing back to Darien’s side. “Darien Lauchlin has been named Overlord of the Khazahar! He is nach’tier!”
A broad smile grew on Fareen’s face, genuine humor filling his eyes. He scoffed as he slid his blade back into its scabbard. Then his expression chilled to ice. “Your hands are stained with the blood of the clans,” he said to Darien. “You may be nach’tier, but you are not welcome in our village.”
Darien nodded his head back in the direction they’d just come from. “What about over there?”
Fareen squinted, frowning as if he didn’t understand the question.
“Over there,” Darien specified. “The cliffs across from the gate. Is that part of your village?”
Fareen’s expression remained troubled. “No…”
“Then that’s where I’ll make my camp.” He turned and strode back toward the gate. He left the wagonload of goods behind for Azár and the people of Qul; he had no need of them. Thanacryst at his side, he walked back out through the narrow gate and crossed the dirt path to a pile of large boulders.
There, in a wide crevice between two curving legs of tumbled rocks, he rifled through his pack, finding a few morsels of flatbread and a small sack of coal. He grabbed his waterskin, throwing his head back and taking large gulps of the brackish water it contained. Then he threw himself down in the sand and began to go about the business of setting up his campsite. He found a flat rock and used it to hollow out a fire pit in the ground, laying out his blanket next to it.
“What are you doing?”
Darien glanced up into Azár’s bewildered face. “Avoiding problems,” he responded.
She lowered herself down onto a rock across the fire pit from him. Her face was set in grim lines of frustration.
“This avoids nothing,” she said, leaning forward over her knees. Her long braid swayed over her shoulder. “You want my advice? You must eat him for lunch before he eats you for dinner.”
“Are you suggesting I should murder your cousin in cold blood? That doesn’t sound very honorable.”
Azár scoffed. “So now you decide to worry about honor? Don’t. The wicked live longer.”
“I know.”
She was staring at him in consternation, the smile half-frozen on her lips. She rose to her feet, flipping her long shawl back over her shoulder. “I am going to my home,” she informed him. “You are welcome to come with me. If you decide to stay here, take mind: Fareen and his kin will most likely come for you in the night. You have no guest-right in this place.”
Darien tilted his head to the side, studying her profile. “Why are you telling me this, Azár? Isn’t your first obligation to your kin?”
“Normally, yes. But you are Overlord of the Khazahar, and I am your Lightweaver. It is my duty to help protect your life.” With that, she left, walking back toward her village.
♦ ♦ ♦
Darien woke to the sound of footsteps approaching in the night. Quiet. Stalking. He rolled over to free up his sword arm, lying still for a moment and listening, hoping the noises would retreat.
Of course, they didn’t. He was never that lucky.
“Go home, Fareen,” he grumbled into the night. He was exhausted; all he wanted was sleep. But his ears told him that Fareen wasn’t alone. Azár’s cousin had brought company. Which was problematic; Darien didn’t want to kill even one man. He certainly didn’t want to kill four. He pried his body up off the ground with an elbow, peering into the darkness beyond the rocks.
“It’s late. Go back to bed,” he called at the approaching figures. The glint of light reflecting off a drawn blade commanded his attention.
“We’ll sleep when you’re dead.”
Darien recognized Fareen’s accented Rhenic. He sighed, reluctantly scooping his sword up in his hand as he rose to his feet. He didn’t bare the blade. Instead, he held it down at his side, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. The shadows in front of him stopped, still paces away. He couldn’t make out the men’s faces in the darkness.
Darien reached out with his mind and tugged at the magic field. He summoned a glowing pool of magelight at his feet, feeding it with a trickle of power until the groping mist grew and spread.
Calmly, he uttered, “You’ve heard what I did to Malikar’s legions. What do you suppose I could do to the four of you?”
One of the shadows in front of him took a step backward. Another wavered, shifting uncertainly. Fareen’s face was revealed in the blue glow of the magelight. He didn’t look intimidated. If anything, Darien’s display of power seemed to only solidify the man’s resolve. He nodded once, lifting his chin.
“You won’t use your magic on us,” Fareen announced. “There is no sharaq in such killing.”
Sharaq. An ancient word for honor, or honor code. Darien understood the concept; he’d learned about it in his training, though he had no idea how the system actually worked in practice. Besides, the knowledge Darien had was a thousand years outdated.
Much had changed.
But he knew enough to guess he’d have to gain sharaq of his own if he hoped to stand a chance with these people. He couldn’t risk losing even a drop of it. Reluctantly, Darien released his hold on the magic field, letting the glowing mist dissipate around his feet. He felt a sensation of loss as the energies drained away, diffusing into the air. The shadows returned to settle in around him, seeming thicker now than they had moments before. Slowly, he drew the scabbard down the length of his blade and flung it aside. He kept the tip of his sword lowered, swept back.
He said, “There’s four of you and only one of me. How much sharaq’s in those odds?”
Fareen scoffed as he raised his own blade, a long scimitar. “You are a Sentinel of Aerysius. Whoever spills your blood will receive great reward.”
Darien trailed the tip of his own blade forward across the ground. He left his guard lowered, presenting Fareen an enticing target. “All right, then. Here I am. Come get your reward.”
> Two of Fareen’s men fanned out to either side. The third rushed in, sweeping his blade downward. Darien moved as if to parry, but allowed the blow to knock his blade aside. He twisted his sword, slicing his opponent in the neck.
The next man was already advancing.
Darien stepped back out of range, drawing his sword back with both hands. He blocked a diagonal slice, letting his blade slide down the length of the man’s steel. He stepped forward, pinning the man’s sword against his chest. Then he struck out with his foot, taking his opponent in the knee.
Darien sliced downward, gutting the man as he fell.
He jerked back, spinning just in time to parry a strike coming at him from behind. He twisted, catching the attacking blade on his crossguard. Darien pivoted his sword under the other man’s blade. His opponent fell with an agonized scream.
Darien whirled to confront Fareen. He swept his blade back over his shoulder in a two-handed grip, winding his arms.
The big clansman made no move to attack. He was frozen in a defensive posture with his sword raised straight out in front of him. His face had lost all trace of its former confidence.
Darien advanced, thrusting forward. Fareen recovered himself enough to block, catching Darien’s sword on the flat of his blade. Darien tested the pressure of Fareen’s steel. He fanned his sword to the right, disengaging.
Fareen stumbled backward, losing his footing. He brought his sword up, thrusting out in an attempt to keep Darien at a distance. Darien shoved the attacking blade aside and dove in close, trapping Fareen’s sword against his arm. He brought the hilt of his own blade up, bashing the man’s face with the pommel of his hilt. He smacked him again. And again, flaying back the skin of his cheek.
Fareen’s sword fell from his grip as Darien swept out with his foot, kicking his legs out from under him. He caught him by the hair as the clansman fell, holding him upright over his knees with his sword against the man’s exposed throat.
Looking up, Darien realized that they were no longer alone. At least half the village had turned out and stood arrayed before him, weapons brandished and ready to attack. Darien swallowed, realizing the gravity of his predicament. He couldn’t fight them all off. Not without magic. Not and retain any amount of sharaq.
Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3) Page 17
