“No.” The old soldier’s voice was as hard as tempered steel. “The war we fight is the battle for existence itself. No price is too high, no sacrifice too great. I am willing to do anything it takes to survive. And I expect no less from any man who chooses to follow me.”
Craig lowered his eyes, feeling chagrined. Not knowing what else to do, he handed his reins off to Henley and followed in Darien’s wake up the stairs to the keep. Around him, the archers were slowly releasing the tension from their bowstrings, the soldiers resheathing their blades. What had all that been about? Had Proctor seriously thought they would return to pose a threat to the keep? Apparently he had. Yet again, the Force Commander had seriously underestimated Darien Lauchlin.
He passed across the threshold of the fortress, the warmth flowing out from the door of the hall a welcome relief. He yearned to go in and sit beside one of the hearths, to relax and ease the tension that gripped his shoulders like a vice. But instead he let his feet take him up the winding stairs to the tower, upward into the shadows between the torches that blazed along the walls.
As he entered the circular chamber, he found Darien packing. The mage was squatting on the floor, tying up his bedroll as Archer stood behind him staring down with wide and fearful eyes. The Sentinel didn’t look up as Craig walked toward him, but the boy glanced at him with a beseeching expression, as if begging him to do something, anything at all. He stopped a few feet away from Darien’s back, watching him complete the knot he was working on with a sharp tug on the cord.
“You’re leaving,” Craig observed.
Darien just nodded, not pausing in what he was doing. Craig gazed down at him as the mage slapped his bedroll against his pack, securing it firmly with leather straps.
“Where will you go?” Craig asked him quietly.
Darien rose from the floor and, without looking at him, stalked across the room to the table, scooping up what looked like an old, rotten map.
“I’m going home,” he said finally, still with his back to him.
Craig breathed a heavy sigh as he brushed a hand through his hair. He felt at a loss; he had no idea what to do. Darien couldn’t be serious, but somehow Craig knew that he was.
“Then I’ll come with you,” he said at last.
“No.” Darien shook his head. “This is my battle. You’ve your own war to fight.”
With that Darien slung his pack over his shoulder, gesturing for the boy to follow him. Craig moved forward, stopping him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait. Don’t do this.”
Darien finally brought his gaze up to regard him. “I don’t have a choice.”
He disengaged himself from Craig’s outstretched hand and started to move toward the opening of the stairs. But there he stopped, drawn up short by the form of a woman emerging from below, robed all in white with a sheer veil obscuring her features.
Craig’s eyes widened in surprise. The woman seemed so utterly out of place against the stark confines of the chamber that her very presence seemed almost surreal. Distracted by her looks, he almost didn’t realize the significance of the white veil and dress. When he did, the shock was like a blow in the face.
What was a priestess of Death doing here?
The woman swept her dark eyes across the faces of the three men in the chamber, her stare finally coming to rest on Darien. She moved toward him and, to Craig’s astonishment, swept to her knees at his feet, bowing forward and pressing her face against the floor. She remained there as the mage stared down at the top of her veiled head, frowning in consternation.
“Rise,” he directed her finally.
Craig watched as the woman gracefully regained her feet, his mind spinning as he tried to make sense of the scene. It was not customary to abase oneself before any mage, even a Sentinel of Darien’s status. Only the office of the Prime Warden had ever commanded such a humbling display of deference. He wondered what the woman was trying to do.
In a voice that was by no means gentle, Darien asked her, “What would the Temple of Death have of me?”
The woman dipped her head slightly, dark auburn curls spiraling out from under her veil. With an equanimous expression on her face, she stated formally, “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Naia Seleni, First Daughter of the Goddess Isap. I bear urgent tidings of your mother.”
Darien just stared at her for a moment, jaw set in anger. Then he stated gruffly, “If you’ve come all the way here just to tell me she’s dead, then you’ve wasted your time. I already know.”
Craig felt stung by Darien’s harsh words. He stared back and forth between the priestess and the mage, feeling the almost palpable tension that was growing between the two of them. The woman blinked as if taken aback, her brow furrowing slightly as she seemed to be reassessing the man in front of her.
Finally, she bowed her head. “I offer my most sincere condolences, Prime Warden.”
Craig actually took a step back, floored.
Darien correct the woman firmly, “I am not Prime Warden. Aerysius has fallen. The dead have no need of titles.”
But the woman refused to yield. In a calm and yet adamant voice, she asserted, “You are the last surviving Master of Aerysius. Whether or not you acknowledge it, the responsibility of the Prime Wardency has fallen to you. And you are correct; the dead have no need of titles. However, the living still do.”
Darien glared at her with a look that would have sent any other woman scurrying in the direction of the stairs. But the priestess held her ground and returned his gaze with an expectantly patient stare, unfaltering in her countenance. Craig found himself thinking that whatever else they taught Death’s initiates, diplomacy must be high up on the list.
The woman continued evenly, “I have been sent to bring you back with me to the High Temple of Death at Glen Farquist, in the Valley of the Gods. There, your mother lies in state. The power of her gift has been transferred to a holding vessel and awaits you there to receive it.”
The woman’s seemingly innocent words had the effect of infuriating Darien. He stepped toward her menacingly, towering over her as he grated, “Do you take me for a fool? A mage’s gift can be transferred only through physical contact.”
The priestess gazed upward into his face through the screen of her veil, saying nothing. She waited calmly for a long moment before continuing in a placid voice, “I apologize if I have distressed you. The vessel I am referring to is a relic of the Lyceum. It was placed in the keeping of Death’s Priesthood before the fall of Bryn Calazar. I speak the truth, Prime Warden, this I swear.”
“Do not call me that again,” Darien warned, though some of the anger had left his tone.
The woman bowed her head, spreading her hands. “What would you have me call you, then?”
To Craig’s surprise, the mage simply shrugged as if defeated. “Call me Darien, like everyone else.”
“As you wish. Darien.” The way she said his name sounded almost like a taunt. “But though you deny your right to your title, I must urge you to never forget where the name itself was derived. The words Prime Warden were chosen because they mean, literally, ‘First Guardian’. Aerysius is no more, but that does not mean that your responsibilities ended upon the death of your home.”
“What exactly are you insinuating?” Darien growled, casting her a sidelong glare.
“Merely that I could not help but overhear your conversation on my way up the stairs. Tell me, Darien. Do you truly believe that the First Guardian of the Rhen would best serve his duty by wasting his life in a futile quest for vengeance? If you return to Aerysius, you will die. You have no chance against your brother’s strength or the power of the Gateway. Would not your life be better spent in service to the land?”
Darien’s eyes narrowed, seething. “You presume too much,” he hissed in an icy cold whisper. “You came here to take me to my mother. I suggest we go before she rots.”
As Craig stared numbly after him, Darien stalked past her out of the cha
mber, the sound of his heavy footfalls echoing up from below. Craig did not want to believe what he’d just heard. Once again, he had the gnawing feeling that something had shifted in the man, as if the part of him that had any feeling had simply just given up and died. He turned his head to find Kyel Archer staring at him, a look of questioning disbelief on his face. The priestess was regarding the opening of the stairs warily, mouth open and eyebrows raised.
Kyel turned and numbly followed his new master down the stairs, pausing only long enough to retrieve his bow, quiver and pack. He didn’t want to go with Darien, but his place was at his side, now. Ever since yesterday morning, he had found himself growing more and more nervous around the mage. He was starting to wonder if the man had finally broken. There was, after all, only so much a person could take.
Downstairs, he found Darien standing on the last step, glaring down at Garret Proctor, his whole body shaking. The mage’s eyes were wide and wildly intense, his hair falling in disarray over his face. To Kyel, he had the look of a madman. He stepped down onto the level of the floor, slowly circling the Force Commander with a glare of vicious contempt.
“Very soon the Enemy will sweep down on you in numbers unimaginable,” the Sentinel growled, leaning forward threateningly as he paced. “You must fall back. You’ll have to harry them as much as you can and try to buy me time. I’ll meet up with you at Orien’s Finger at dawn on the morning of the Solstice. Draw the majority of their strength into the eye, and I’ll see to it that you get your wish.” He started to turn away, but halted, glaring back at Proctor with scathing hatred in his eyes. “I hope you’re damn well satisfied. We’re both going to burn in Hell for this.”
With that, he strode through the door of the hall as Proctor stared after him in silence. Almost, Kyel thought there was the slightest hint of a smile on the commander’s face.
Shaking his head in incomprehension, Kyel let his feet take him forward into the hall. He moved as if through a haze, not really paying attention to anything but the panicked thoughts that were circulating through his mind. So absorbed was he that he didn’t even see Traver moving to intercept him.
“What’s going on?” his friend whispered, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him aside. Kyel looked at Traver in relief, feeling comforted just by the sight of his familiar face. He shook his head in bewilderment, heaving a sigh.
“I think we’re leaving.”
Traver’s eyes widened in alarm. “You’re going with him?”
He thumbed his hand over his shoulder in the direction of one of the hearths, where Darien was stuffing leavings from the evening meal into an oiled sack. Kyel hadn’t told Traver about his commitment to the mage, fearing what his friend would say. Glumly, he reached down and folded back his shirtsleeve, exposing the marking on his wrist. Just as he’d expected, Traver’s eyes widened in alarm, his face paling. He grabbed Kyel’s arm, closing his fingers over the emblem and glancing around as if making sure no one else had seen it.
Kyel found himself being propelled forward, dragged along by the firm grip of Traver’s hand on his wrist. The man led him to a corner, pressing him back against the abrasive stone wall of the keep.
“What are you thinking?” Traver hissed at him. “That thing could get you killed!”
“Traver—”
But his friend continued right over him, “Look, if you were having problems, you ought to have come to me. I’ve lots of friends now that—”
Kyel found himself shaking his head. “Traver, it was my decision.”
“Well, it sure was a bloody poor one!” the man shot back, gesturing wildly. “Perhaps it’s not too late. Tell the New Renquist you don’t take well to responsibility. He’d have to believe you, because it’s the plain truth. Tell him he’ll have to find someone else.”
“It’s too late,” Kyel insisted, louder than he’d intended. Seeing Traver glancing around sharply, he went on in a lowered voice, “I’ve already spoken my first vow.”
Traver threw his hands up. “Bloody hell, Archer! I always figured you were a little dense, but I didn’t know you were downright stupid!”
Over Traver’s shoulder, he could see that Darien was heading back toward the door of the hall. Kyel pressed his lips together, turning back to Traver and feeling suddenly saddened. He didn’t want to leave his friend. But the only other option was to talk Darien into bringing Traver along with them. He could only imagine how that would go over; Darien would put up with Traver’s rare character for about as much time as it would take the mage to toss him over the nearest cliff.
“Look, I have to go,” Kyel told him regretfully. “Good luck to you. Try your best not to get killed, all right?”
“You’re telling me not to get killed?! With that damned thing on my wrist, I’d be a little more worried about my own hide! Do me a favor, all right? If he tries to give you one of those bloody cloaks with the target on the back, just tell him black’s not your color.”
Kyel found himself forced to grin. Clapping his friend on the shoulder, he muttered, “So long, Traver,” as he walked past him toward the door to the hall. When he glanced back, he saw Traver slouching back against the keep’s cold wall, sadly shaking his head. Kyel walked out the door, across the floor of the tower, and out into the cold, foggy night.
He strode down the long flight of stairs, over to where his horse was still saddled and waiting. Just as he drew up at the mage’s side, Darien put his foot in the stirrup and slung himself over the Tarkendar’s back, sending it forward at a canter toward the path that led down and out of the pass. Kyel stared after the black horse, not quite sure what to think. Darien hadn’t even looked at him, had just turned and ridden away, as if the mere sight of him disgusted the mage. He didn’t know if the man still wanted him to come along or not; he felt utterly confused. Not knowing what else to do, he just stood there by his horse and waited for the priestess.
It did not take her long to follow them out of the keep. She glided down the steep stone steps with an almost regal grace, stopping beside him and regarding Kyel with a questioning look on her face. Her gaze slid slowly down to his hand, and for a moment Kyel could not figure out what she was looking at. He saw her eyes widen, as if she had just come to some startling revelation. When she looked back up again, all trace of uncertainty had disappeared from her face. The look she gave Kyel as she drew past him was one of sympathy.
It took him a moment to realize that he’d forgotten to pull his sleeve back down after showing Traver the mark of the chain. He felt suddenly embarrassed, swiping the fabric down and tugging it low over the back of his hand. He was going to have to be more careful about that in the future; Traver was right. In the wrong places, that mark could get him killed. Even in the right places, it was not something he wanted generally known.
“Now, where did he run off to?” he heard the woman wonder as she pulled herself up onto the back of a roan mare.
Kyel pointed in the direction of the path, at a bend in the mountainside where he had last seen the black horse disappear.
“He certainly wastes no time,” she muttered as she tapped her mare’s side with a crop.
The roan trotted forward before Kyel was even halfway on his horse. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was referring to the way Darien had already ridden ahead of them, or rather the haste with which he had bonded himself a new acolyte. Perhaps both. Kyel dug the heels of his boots into his mount’s sides, following after her.
They caught up to the mage about half a league down into the pass. Darien had slowed his horse to a walk and was riding with his head bowed. He did not show any sign that he even noticed them until the woman’s horse had drawn abreast of his own, and even then he only glanced her way. Kyel tried to read his expression, but found it impossible. There was no emotion written in the angular planes of Darien’s face, nothing in his eyes but the endless shadowplay that swarmed across them.
They rode in silence along the narrow path that descended out of the mountain
s, winding along the steep slopes ever downward toward the Cerulian Plains. It was the same path Kyel had taken coming up, but he hardly remembered it. He hadn’t been able to see much of anything that day, and had not been in the mood to notice very much, anyway. But tonight was a very different journey. The wind was still, the lights of the clouds brighter. The sharp peaks of the Shadowspears thrust upward all around him, ranging away into the foggy distance. It was, he had to admit, the most beautiful night he had seen so far in the pass.
The sound of Darien’s voice actually startled him. “Where is the nearest entrance to the Catacombs?”
Kyel glanced toward the priestess, watching the frown that developed on her face beneath the obscurity of her veil. As if hesitant to answer, she took her time about forming a reply. “Death’s Passage is no longer safe; its secrets have been compromised. We must ride to Glen Farquist from here.”
“Glen Farquist is a month’s hard riding,” Darien shot back. “I can’t afford that kind of time.”
The priestess only shrugged, her motion disturbing the neat drape of her veil. “You must make the time,” she insisted firmly. “The Catacombs are not an option. They have become infested with dark creatures and fell shades. Also, the Eight are abroad and making use of them. Your own mother was murdered within.”
Darien grimaced. “The Enemy is preparing to mount the largest offensive we’ve seen in a thousand years. At Winter Solstice, two great hosts will sweep down through the North to merge at Orien’s Finger. That’s eighteen days from now.”
The woman appeared startled. “How do you know this?”
“Arden Hannah told me.”
The way he said it made it seem like the most natural thing in the world. But his statement made the priestess gasp, yanking back on the reins and drawing her horse up. The look in her eyes was one of fear mixed with outright revulsion.
“You have actually spoken to one of the Eight?”
Darien nodded, drawing back on the reins. “That was right before she tried to kill me.”
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