Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  The platform slipped silently into a bank of fog. At once, the world became a damp, white haze as the mist closed in around them. Darien could see nothing, not even the woman standing beside him. Dew collected on his face, wetting his hair. Then, miraculously, the mist parted and warm sunlight streamed from a brilliantly blue sky, revealing the foundations of Aerysius above.

  The city was carved from the side of the mountain, etched right into the vertical wall of granite. The spires of Aerysius seemed wrought from millions of glistening crystals, tendril-thin bridges arching between them thousands of feet above the Vale. To Darien, the sight was no less breathtaking than the first time he had seen it, and this time there was added meaning.

  He was finally home.

  The platform slowed to a stop against another ramp much the same as the one below, halting beside an arching foundation. Overhead, a waterfall spilled down from the top of a soaring spire. Birds dived playfully in and out of the mist created by the spray, riding updrafts of air on graceful wings. There was a gentle breeze here that was strangely warm for the elevation. It stirred wisps of hair across his vision. He brushed them away from his face with one hand, the other still gripping the babe tightly against his chest.

  The sound of the woman sobbing beside him dampened any joy he might have felt over his homecoming. Looking down, Darien saw that the babe in his arms now lay completely limp. He gazed numbly down at the child’s ashen face, clenching his jaw against a sharp stab of sorrow. He patted the small body with his hand, trying to prod any type of life out of it. But the infant did not stir. The tiny face seemed as if sleeping.

  The woman began to keen, but Darien was not listening. He just stood there, staring vacantly down, overcome by a turbulent mixture of anger and grief. He barely noticed as she removed the small bundle from his grasp. The gate opened, but still he stood as if in a daze while the crowd surged forward around him, rushing off the ramp with haste. He blinked, looking up to find himself alone on the wooden planks.

  The sobbing mother had departed with her dead infant in her arms, disappearing into the crowd of pilgrims mingled in the Square. He quickly scanned the crowd in search of her, but could not find her anywhere. The woman had vanished as thoroughly as if she had never existed at all. Darien felt almost physically sick with remorse. He deeply regretted trying to help the woman; he had fanned the flames of her hope only to have them quenched along with the spark of her baby’s life. It would have been better if he had left her with her family down in the Vale. If only he had found a Master with the knowledge of healing in time to save the child’s life...if only he had a Master’s ability himself.

  But he did not. So he closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer for the child’s soul. Then he set his tired feet moving up the street.

  As he walked, he noticed people staring at him and moving out of his way. Darien supposed that he probably made an intimidating sight. He was a tall man, well-muscled, and he knew that the quiet intensity of his light green eyes had an effect on people. Wearing the black cloak of Aerysius with the Silver Star emblazoned at his back, the hilt of the greatsword thrusting over his shoulder, he conveyed a sense of strength and authority that was uncommon even among most mages. It was the incongruence of the Star and the sword. Masters of Aerysius swore the Oath of Harmony. They did not walk about bearing weapons.

  He climbed the wide steps in front of the Hall of the Watchers, passing beneath the ancient Arches that stabbed upward into the sky like twin, twisted spears. The Arches were more than just ornamentation; they were the true Sentinels of Aerysius. No person insensitive to the pulse and rhythm of the magic field could pass beneath their attentive vigil.

  Inside, the circular Hall was dim and filled with a hazy amber light that filtered down from stained glass windows high above. It was enormous, easily the largest structure ever built by man, surpassing even the High Temples of Glen Farquist far to the south. Great pillars carved to resemble massive stone trees with spreading branches supported the weight of the domed ceiling. There were hundreds of them, row upon row. Walking among them, Darien had the feeling that he was moving through some ancient, petrified forest. High above on the walls, the Watchers regarded him with imposing stone glares that seemed to track his every movement.

  Darien paused under the center of the dome, his eyes scanning over the intricate pattern of lines set there into the floor. The Circle of Convergence in Aerysius was the greatest focus of power anywhere in the world. Its red marble tiles were inlaid with silver patterns that formed the design of the eight-pointed Silver Star. It was actually two stars, both of four points, but offset against one another.

  Just looking at the Circle filled Darien with awe. If only he could use it, just once. He would sweep the Enemy from North, back into the twisted lands where they bred. Sear them with the fires of his hatred, send their ashes billowing into the sky on the winds of apocalypse. He would bring the full power of Aerysius to bear against them and there would be one single, terrible moment of carnage. They would think that all of the Hells had opened up to swallow them in a fiery maw of desecration. But then there would be peace. Lasting peace.

  With difficulty, he wrenched his eyes away from the Circle of Convergence and took a flight of steps that descended into the base of the Hall. They led to a small chamber with a tile mosaic on the floor that depicted the star-pattern inlay of the Circle above.

  There, a woman was seated behind a small desk, scribing something with a feathered writing quill. She continued to write, appearing completely engrossed in her task, as Darien crossed the mosaic on the floor toward her. Only when he stood across the desk from her did she slide her spectacles off her face with one hand, looking sideways up at him with an irritated expression.

  “You’re late,” she growled.

  Darien nodded slightly. “I left a week after receiving the Summons,” he admitted, shifting his weight uneasily under the scrutiny of her gaze.

  He found himself wishing that he would have stopped at the Acolytes Residence to clean up a bit. The way the woman was staring up at him made him conscious of every speck of dust from the road, of the week-old growth of beard on his face. He saw her eyes come to rest on the hilt of the greatsword at his back. The woman’s eyebrows flicked upward, her look incredulous. Not many people had the gall to come armed to an audience with the Prime Warden of Aerysius.

  “I see you’ve grown too big for your britches, Darien Lauchlin,” she spat accusingly. “It might, perhaps, be wise to put off your Raising until you can remember that you are still yet an acolyte. You may be the Prime Warden’s own son, but that does not excuse you. If anything, it means you must be seen as an example for others.”

  He did not know whether she was referring to his late arrival or the unsubtle insult of the sword. If she was trying to get him to remove the weapon then she was mistaken; he had no intention of doing so. His mother would have to get used to the sight of it.

  He waited an uncomfortable minute as the woman merely stared at him. When it became obvious that he was not going to budge or offer apology, she shook her head and made a tsking sound with her tongue.

  “Well, if you insist on acting like a child, so be it. Let your mother deal with you. Have no doubt she will.”

  With that, she stood up, tossing her quill down on the desktop with an air of finality. “Come,” she snorted, turning her back on him and opening a door beside her narrow desk. He followed her at a good distance as she led him along a stone hallway. Darien had been here before, many times. He really had no need to be shown the way. But his mother expected—or, rather, demanded—formality at all times.

  At the end of the passage was a white door with a long silver handle. The woman opened it slowly and gestured for him to wait as she entered first. Darien paused just long enough to hear her announce him before brushing past her through the opening.

  The room inside was filled with brilliant, white light. Indeed, the entire chamber was encased with windows that ha
d scarcely a pane between them. The Prime Warden’s solar looked out from within the mountainside, the view an unspoiled panorama of the white-capped Craghorns and the Vale of Amberlie below through the mist. Everything was white in the room: the rugs, the wood, even the white marble floor and the fabric of the furniture. The only exception was the ceiling, which was a sweeping fresco of a perfectly blue sky adorned with white and wispy clouds.

  Emelda Lauchlin was seated on a raised dais before the panoramic widows, her face impatiently expectant. Darien did not forget his manners. He went instantly to his knees, abasing himself until his long hair was spread out on the floor beside his face. He dared not move from that position until he was bid. So he waited, listening fervently to the sound of his own breath. A long minute dragged by, followed by another. By the third, Darien had no doubt that his mother was angry.

  After five minutes, he knew she was livid.

  “Arise.” The command was spoken harshly, the irate inflection of her tone unmistakable.

  Darien swallowed as he pushed himself up off the floor. He felt the blood rush out of his head, and for a moment he felt terribly dizzy. He saw that his mother had risen, as well. She was glaring down at him imperiously from her position on the dais. Her opulent robes were of the purest white, covered by the white cloak that was the emblem of her office. She wore her ebony hair pulled back severely from her face, which only served to augment the stern set of her features.

  For a long moment, they stood staring at each other across the distance between them. Then, more graceful than a queen, the Prime Warden of Aerysius slowly descended the steps of the dais. She stopped before him, having to look up to meet his gaze. Her slate blue eyes burned fiercely, her full lips pressed into a frown of barely-controlled rage. Then, abruptly, she swept forward to embrace him.

  Darien was taken sharply aback. He moved awkwardly to return the gesture, which was made more difficult by the baldric he wore and the pack still slung across his shoulder. When they separated, he was surprised to see the anger on her face replaced by a warm smile of affection. Looks were not the only thing he had inherited from her; Emelda Lauchlin had a temperament that was just as unpredictable as his own.

  “My son,” she pronounced, gazing up at him with wonder in her eyes, adding, “You have changed a great deal.”

  Her gaze lowered to fix on the black leather strap that crossed his chest. This was the critical moment, he knew. She would either accept him for what he was or reject him utterly, and it all hinged on whether or not she accepted the sword.

  She chose to ignore it.

  Taking him by the hand, she led him to a white chair and took the one beside it. Darien struggled out of his pack and leaned his sword against the chair’s armrest. He tried to analyze his mother’s body language as she sat leaning forward slightly, arms open and resting on the cushions at her sides. It was a welcoming posture, one that invited him in instead of shutting him out. He took it for a good sign.

  “Tell me,” she pressed, “how fares the front?”

  It was time to make his case. Darien had rehearsed this speech all the way down from the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. But now, when the moment to deliver it was upon him, the carefully chosen phrases eluded him. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, unable to maintain eye contact as he groped for the right words. Shaking his head, he decided that honesty was the best thing he could offer her.

  “We’re dying,” he told his mother gruffly, staring down at a smear of mud on his knee.

  As if sensing his struggle, she set a hand lightly on his arm. The touch strengthened him enough to continue.

  “The Enemy is massing in numbers never before seen. We don’t have enough soldiers. We’re facing a critical shortage of weapons and supplies. We’re running out of ideas and, frankly, we’re running out of hope. There has been precious little support from the South. The last group of men we received was a pack of criminals up from Rothscard, and that has been months ago. We’ll all be dead in another few months, either by the sword or by hunger, but it doesn’t matter which. The fact is, you’ll have Enemy hordes pouring down on top of you, and your only line of defense will be feeding the crows.”

  As he let the last words die, Darien felt an instant pang of regret. He had not meant to raise his voice. But, by the end, he realized that he had almost been shouting. Silence followed as his mother only gazed at him, her expression impossible to read. He felt drained, as if the flood of words he had let pour from his mouth had sapped his strength.

  “So, you are suggesting that the might of Aerysius should turn the tide of this war?”

  Her words, though softly uttered, were deliberately chosen. She was trying to probe him to find out where he stood on the issue. It was a test, of sorts. Whether or not she approved of his Raising might even depend on how he chose to answer. But Darien didn’t care. There was only one way he could answer her, and it was with the conviction of his beliefs.

  “I’m suggesting that there may not be an Aerysius if you don’t Unbind the Sentinels,” he told her firmly, shocked by the harshness of his tone. But he pressed on, reminding her, “The order was created to defend the Rhen against this very threat. I understand the need for the Oath of Harmony, but it has served its purpose. Times change, Mother. The time for the Oath has passed. If we don’t Unbind the Sentinels then there will be no hope. The Enemy will slaughter us.”

  She nodded slightly, her blue eyes dropping to the leather scabbard leaning against his chair. Very carefully, she asked, “What then, Darien?”

  Here was the crux of the test. Darien shivered, fearing to step across this threshold. But he had already pressed too far to stop now.

  “Let me receive the Transference from two Masters. Give me the strength to establish a Grand Resonance. Then we can lure their forces southward and annihilate them.”

  His words were met by utter silence, as if they had fallen on empty space. Darien knew he had gone too far. It was a very long time before his mother spoke again.

  “Tonight you shall be Raised to the Order of Sentinels, as your father was before you.” Her voice was cold, as icy as the mountain wind. “You will accept the Transference from Grand Master Ezras Nordric, who has decided to pass beyond and leave the trials of this war to the next generation. To you. You shall swear the Oath of Harmony tomorrow in front of the full Assembly of the Hall. Before you do, you will take that thing at your side and cast it over the cliff. I will never hear the words ‘Grand Resonance’ out of your mouth ever again. Do I make myself clear, Darien?”

  “Yes,” he answered, feeling the last of his hopes dashed by the strength of his mother’s convictions. Darien bowed his head, accepting defeat.

  He would take the Oath, as she asked. Only, he did not believe he could keep it. If he did not, there was a harsh penalty for Oathbreakers. They would strip the power from him, which was tantamount to a slow and painful execution. Then they would hang his body from the Arches as a warning, and also as a statement. The world would need to know that the justice of Aerysius was without mercy, even for its own. That was the price of betrayal, the price of Oathbreaking. Yet, if such an act could stop the war....

  There was a text that Darien had read once as a new acolyte. The manuscript had been part of his curriculum: The Mysteries of Aerysius, by Cedric Cromm. In it was a short biography of Grand Master Orien, who had stood on the crag that was now known infamously as Orien’s Finger to bring the vast power of the vortex there to bear against an invasion long ago. Orien’s one desperate act had turned the tide of battle and driven the Enemy from the North. Then Orien had calmly knelt and surrendered himself to his punishment. Orien’s face was among those of the Watchers in the Hall, his image graven severely in stone. He had been an Oathbreaker, and had died a cruel death for his actions. Yet, he had also been a savior.

  “You may go,” the Prime Warden dismissed Darien curtly, waving a hand in the direction of the door. “Spend the rest of the day in solitude and reflection.”

&n
bsp; As he stood to leave, her voice stopped him. “It’s good to have you home. You remind me of your father so much. He would have been very proud to see the man you have become.”

  Darien nodded somberly as he gathered up his things. His father had been a formidable Sentinel, and a part of him was pleased at hearing his mother’s words. But he also found them bitterly ironic. Gerald Lauchlin had despised the Mage’s Oath, yet had died preserving it. Darien had always aspired to follow the example set by his father, but he had no wish to meet such a similar, hypocritical end.

  He walked quickly back down the hallway, taking lengthy strides to put some distance between himself and his mother’s solar. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, almost as loud as the sound of his ringing footsteps on the tile floor. Ducking through one of the open doorways, he mounted a flight of stairs that took him up, spiraling, into the Spire of the Hall.

  He paused to catch his breath at a landing, cursing himself silently for the way he had mismanaged the interview. Heat rose to flush his cheeks as he clenched and unclenched his fists in anger. Darien stood still, taking slow, deep breaths until the throbbing of his pulse subsided in his ears. He started to move forward again, but a familiar voice stopped him short.

  “So, the prodigal son finally returns.”

  Darien sucked in a sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, wondering just how many tests the gods would throw his way in one day. Then, opening his eyes, he slowly turned to face his only brother.

  Aidan looked just the same as he had on the day Darien had left for the front. He stood leaning casually against the carved railing of a balcony, his black cloak flipped back over one shoulder in the manner he was accustomed to wearing it. It leant him a polished, aristocratic appearance that was only heightened by the way he wore his dark hair combed back from his face and the perfectly groomed goatee on his chin. He stood with one hand tucked neatly behind his back, the other resting on the rail as if it were the armrest of a throne. He gazed upon Darien with narrow blue eyes that were a perfect copy of their mother’s.