Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  Ezras reached his hands out, clasping Darien’s father by the shoulders and turning him gently but firmly away. Aghast, Darien watched as the glowing wraiths turned away from him as one, departing back into the shadows of the walls from whence they came. His father looked back to cast an imploring glance his way before he, too, faded and was gone. Complete darkness stole in, descending on the chamber like a moonless winter night. Darien took a step toward the center of the room, eyes groping desperately through the shadows.

  “Father....”

  He sank slowly to his knees, bowing his head in shame. There had been tears in his father’s eyes. Never in life had he ever seen that proud man cry.

  Never, until now.

  Kyel followed Naia down the dim passage, back toward the large chamber of vaults. The strange flickering creature did not seem to be there. But neither was Darien; except for its macabre stone and marble furnishings, the wide corridor was empty. The priestess had stopped in a narrow alley between two rows of sarcophagi, gaping around as if suddenly lost. Kyel felt a moment of panic, clinging fiercely to the reins of the two horses.

  “What do we do?” he wondered, staring around at the stone faces that surrounded him.

  The priestess appeared to be considering, a hand brought up to her chin beneath her veil. At last, she said, “There is only one place to look. The walls would take him for a lost spirit and direct him back to the Hall of the Masters. Fortunately, the way is not far.”

  Kyel nodded. He did not wish to give voice to his next question, what they would do if Darien was truly lost. Sighing, Kyel led the two horses after Naia, following the priestess back through the maze of stone monuments. They wound their way around through dark alleys between sarcophagi and statuary toward a broad doorway in the wall. As he walked around the corner, Kyel stopped, seeing the priestess kneeling over a dark stain on the floor that looked like a puddle of black water.

  “What?” he wondered, then noticed a trail of dark pawprints leading away down the corridor in the direction they were heading. The sight chilled him. The prints looked to be made by a massive dog. But if it were a dog, it had the largest paw he’d ever heard of.

  “Blood,” Naia muttered softly, standing up.

  “Darien?” Kyel whispered, aghast.

  “No,” the priestess shook her head. “Demon blood. A thanacryst, by the prints. We must hurry. Come.”

  Kyel stared down at the tracks, appalled. Naia led them onward, opening stone doors with a wave of her hand and rounding corners until Kyel felt lost in the vast maze of corridors. She led them into a dark passage that was too narrow for the horses to walk side by side. He had to stop and tie the Tarkendar’s reins to the saddle of his own mount, leading them ahead single-file into the darkness ahead.

  “This is it,” he heard Naia say at last, her words echoing back at him. He didn’t like the sound of her voice. The priestess’s tone was sharp with a stiff undercurrent of worry. He stopped, waiting, listening for her to say something more. But there was only the sound of lingering silence in the corridor. Minutes dragged by in the darkness, and he had no idea what the priestess was doing. He could see nothing, not even the horses right behind him.

  And then a door slid open just ahead. He heard the sound of it, even if he couldn’t see. He heard the noise of Naia’s horse moving forward. He followed slowly, a cold feeling of unease tingling his skin.

  “Darien?” the priestess called, the sound of her voice echoing as if from very far away.

  Kyel felt along the walls, finding the opening of a doorway. The air felt distinctly cooler here, and there was a slight draft coming from just ahead. He had the feeling he was entering a large chamber, but there was no light to verify his guess. He walked forward cautiously, groping along the wall with his hand and trying to focus his eyes in the darkness.

  Then he saw it, the soft green glow of the aura that surrounded Darien’s body. The mage was sitting on the ground, alone in the black emptiness of the hall, knees drawn up against his chest. Kyel gaped at the sight of him; he had almost taken him for a shade. Darien didn’t seem as if he was even aware of them. His head was bowed over his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. His long hair was spread forward, shrouding his face.

  “Darien,” Naia said again as she moved toward him.

  The Sentinel looked up, his hair falling back to reveal his eyes. His features looked haunted, the wraith-like glow that covered his body only serving to accentuate the troubled shadowplay that swam behind his gaze.

  “We must go,” Naia prompted him, seen only as a dark silhouette as she placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

  Darien nodded, visibly collecting himself before rising to stand. He looked almost dazed, glancing around the dark chamber in confusion. Naia took him by the arm, guiding him out of the middle of the room and back toward the door. But as he approached the opening, he drew up, turning back.

  “He said I don’t belong here,” Darien uttered, eyes gazing into the shadows of the hall. “He said I’m destined for another place. What did he mean?”

  “You spoke with a shade?” the priestess gasped, blanching. In the muted light emanating from the mage’s body, Kyel could see her eyes widen in alarm

  “No,” Darien shook his head. “He spoke to me. What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know,” the priestess whispered, drawing a hand up to her mouth. A look of sorrow grew on her face as she contemplated the man before her.

  Kyel thought perhaps she did know, but he didn’t want to say anything. Darien seemed to accept her words, moving forward to claim his horse. He still looked shaken, more so than Kyel had ever seen him. He wondered what had happened, but was too afraid to ask.

  He followed silently as Naia led them back through the labyrinth of passages, drawing up before a large, dark opening in the wall. There, she paused, her eyes once again fearful as she turned to look back over her shoulder.

  “This is the exit to Glen Farquist,” she stated, her words carrying a heavy undercurrent of doubt. To Darien, she said, “This is where we find out if what you did broke the Strictures of Death. If everything is fine, you will arrive at a shrine in a subbasement of the High Temple.”

  “And if it’s not?” Darien wondered in a voice devoid of emotion.

  The priestess’s face looked pale as she replied, “Then you will find out what that shade you met was trying to tell you.”

  Darien nodded. Moving around her, he led his horse forward. He did not hesitate as he stepped into the darkness of the opening. Kyel looked on, watching as his image flickered once then was gone, utterly consumed by the shadows on the other side.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Temple of Death

  KYEL FOUND HIMSELF stepping out of the shadows of Death’s Passage into a gush of white, diffused light. He was relieved to find Darien there ahead of him, leaning against a carved soapstone column. Naia led her mare toward him and whispered something in his ear that Darien obviously took as a rebuff. He pulled away from her and stood gazing upward at a large marble statue of a woman recessed into an alcove in the wall.

  Kyel let his eyes trail over the medium-size hall he found himself within, rendered awestruck by the wondrous beauty of it. The chamber was made entirely of a brown stone marbled with streaks of white and cream. Light streamed down in liquid bands from holes in the ceiling above, glistening off laced stone curtains that hung from the roof in concentric rings, spiraling outward to the walls. The walls themselves were so ornately carved that there seemed to be barely a square inch free of elegant filigree patterns and strange interlaced designs. The whole effect of the hall was otherworldly, but in a way completely different from the frightening surrealism of the Catacombs.

  Kyel found himself leading his horse forward to stand beside Darien at the base of the statue, fascinated by the strikingly compelling figure. The woman’s face was serene, yet remarkably powerful. One of her long, elegant arms was swept back behind her, the other extended forward, palm u
pward and fingers slightly curled, almost as if she were expecting him to press an object into her waiting hand. She seemed to be considering his arrival at her feet with a pensive expression. He had the feeling that he was being judged, scrutinized by those daunting marble eyes.

  Behind him, he heard the sound of an unfamiliar voice, and turned to find that a young man had joined them in the room and was speaking quietly to Naia off to one side. The priestess gestured back toward the door to the Catacombs, but all Kyel could make out was the word “bittern”. The young man was dressed all in white robes with a white stole draped over his shoulders. He turned and regarded the entrance to Death’s Passage uneasily then took the reins of Naia’s mare. He led the horse forward, walking toward Kyel.

  “May I take your horse?” the young priest asked, a kind expression on his face as he reached out and removed the scarf from the gelding’s face. Kyel watched as the man tied all three horses together in line and then led them out of the room through a wide arching doorway.

  When he was gone, Naia approached Darien. The mage was still standing at the base of the statue, intent on the compelling marble figure. The priestess placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, drawing up slightly behind him.

  “Who is she?” Darien wondered, not taking his eyes from the statue.

  “The Goddess of the Eternal Requiem,” Naia replied softly, though Kyel detected a trace of hesitance in her tone.

  At her response, Darien’s study of the marble statue became at once more intense. The priestess’s mouth drew into the slightest frown as her gaze wandered from the figure of the woman to stare at Darien’s back thoughtfully. Kyel had the feeling that something more had just passed between the two of them than he was aware of, something that had to do with the statue. The priestess did not seem to care for Darien’s interest in it one bit.

  “I’ll show you to the guestrooms,” she announced suddenly, striding away a few paces before stopping to wait for them to follow.

  But Darien shook his head wearily, saying, “We’ve come all this way. I wish to see my mother, now.”

  Naia’s frown deepened, became a look of concern. “Perhaps it should wait until after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

  “I’m fine,” Darien insisted stubbornly. “I’d just like to see her, please.”

  The priestess seemed as if she wished to protest, but nodded instead.

  “I’ll wait right here,” Kyel offered, not feeling comfortable with the idea of viewing the body of a dead woman he had never even met. Not to mention that this particular woman must have been dead now for some time, at least since before Naia had left to begin her journey north to find Darien. He had always been raised to think of funerals as hurried affairs. In Coventry, families usually spent only a day or at most two with their dead before the priests arrived to perform funeral rites and remove the body for burial. To Kyel, the very thought of looking at a corpse that had been lying around for months seemed repugnant.

  “I think you need to come, too, Kyel,” Naia told him, glancing at Darien for confirmation. The mage nodded slightly, though Kyel didn’t understand why. If it had been his own mother, he would have wanted to spend his last moments with her in private.

  But he did as they asked and followed the priestess through a doorway. They climbed a flight of stairs to a wide corridor with windows on one side that looked out upon a large garden courtyard. Kyel was impressed, realizing at once that this particular temple was altogether different from anything he had ever seen. He had almost forgotten where he was, at Glen Farquist in the Valley of the Gods, where existed the largest and most magnificent temples ever constructed, and where all of the governing bodies of the various religious sects dwelt. This was no ordinary shrine, but rather the High Temple of Isap, a palace in its own right.

  And it was spectacular. Looking across the courtyard, Kyel saw what he took to be the main sanctuary, a majestic domed structure easily as ornate and lavishly carved as the room they had just left. Row upon row of stained glass windows graced its sides, and a high bell tower topped the crowning arch of the dome, which was constructed of filigreed bronze that had weathered to verdigris over time. The garden in the courtyard had the look of a carefully manicured slice of paradise. Sculpted bushes flowed down to a long reflecting pool teeming with white and black swans that paddled in slow circles across the water and roosted along the shore.

  Kyel turned away from the garden and fixed his eyes on the sway of Darien’s black cloak in front of him. The mage was walking with his head lowered, shoulders slumped in weariness. Naia murmured something into his ear, earning herself a sharp glare of reproach. Kyel had never seen him look so haggard, as if all of the recent events were just now catching up with him. And Darien seemed to have his back up even more than usual. Naia bristled at his glare, dark eyes flashing even through her veil. Kyel wondered what she had said; Darien’s stride had shifted until he was almost stalking, fists clenched in anger. He didn’t look at the woman again after that, keeping his gaze trained on the floor.

  Under his breath, Kyel heard him mutter, “It’s my right.”

  The priestess was glowering at him, shaking her head in frustration. “I cannot bar you from the shrine, Darien,” she said after a moment. “But I must urge you to reconsider, and think very carefully about what I told you the night we met.”

  “And do what?” Darien growled. “Stand down and allow Aidan to admit a second Enemy host through the Vale below Aerysius?”

  “There are other ways.”

  “No. Even if I could convince the Black Prince to hand over his entire Northern Army, it would hardly be enough. This war will be won or lost by magic, not through military strength.”

  “So, instead you intend to set yourself against your brother and the Enemy, alone?” Naia flung her arms out in exasperation. “I’m sorry, Darien, but as strong as you might be, you are only just one man.”

  “Orien was just one man,” the mage reminded her, lifting a finger. “Yet he was able to turn back the entire Third Invasion almost by himself.”

  “Orien was a martyr.”

  “He was an effective martyr.”

  “The people of this land don’t need another Orien,” snapped Naia with a look of outrage kindled in her deep brown eyes. “What they need is you, alive.”

  Darien stopped walking, turning to regard the priestess wearily. To Kyel, the expression on his face seemed almost a plea for mercy. Softly, he said, “I don’t see any other way. And I don’t believe you do, either. I appreciate your intentions, Naia, I truly do. But don’t make this harder on me than it is already.”

  The priestess squeezed her eyes closed, drawing a deep breath. Her voice trembled slightly as she said, “Very well. I’ll leave it in the hands of the goddess. I just pray that she finds your purpose unjustified.”

  “Unjustified?” echoed Darien with a laugh of bitter contempt. “Can you honestly think of one person in the last thousand years who’s had better reason to kneel at that statue’s feet than myself?”

  “No, I honestly can’t,” the priestess replied, resigned. “That is exactly why your decision worries me so terribly much.”

  The Sentinel stared deeply into her eyes, looking as if he wanted to say something more. His hand rose slightly from his side toward her. But then he let his arm drop and turned away from her, striding forward down the corridor as Naia stared after him with a stricken look on her face.

  Kyel waited until the priestess moved to follow him before he fell in behind, deeply confused by the interplay he had just witnessed. He had no idea what their words had meant, but the content didn’t seem to matter all that much. More important was the look in the mage’s eyes just a moment ago. He wasn’t sure, but Kyel thought he had just seen Darien display the first stirring of any emotion other than anger since the day he had agreed to take the Acolyte’s Oath. For just a moment, Kyel had thought he’d seen the glimmer of an almost human sentiment in Darien’s eyes. It was a hopeful sign; Kyel
found the man’s strange, brooding reticence very troubling.

  The corridor ahead of them took a turn to the right, ending at a glass door that entered into a transept of the main sanctuary. Darien waited there as Naia swept around him, swinging the door inward to admit them. Kyel followed him into the immensity of the sanctuary, noting the way the mage so carefully avoided the priestess’s eyes as he brushed past her. Naia let the door swing soundlessly closed behind them, then paused to draw herself up. Her fingers went to the folds of her white gown, stroking her hands over the fabric as she smoothed the wrinkles out of the silk.

  “This way,” she instructed in a lowered voice, and led them across the white tiles of the transept.

  Kyel let his gaze wander over the walls as he walked, finding himself surprised by the elegant simplicity of the sanctuary that seemed almost at odds with the temple’s ornate exterior. It was refreshing in a sublime sort of way, a welcome relief to the senses. The interior was faced from floor to ceiling with enormous limestone blocks that glowed warmly in the colored light that spilled in through rows of stained glass windows that lined the walls. There were no pillars or arches, and not a surface was etched or carved in any way. The sanctuary was simply an enormous open space decorated with nothing other than a wondrous kaleidoscope of dazzling light. The overall effect was profoundly stirring, like moving through a soothing, dream-like haze.

  Naia led them to the center of the sanctuary, where the transept merged with the main hall. There, on a raised dais surrounded by layers of white roses intermixed with wispy fronds of fern, rested the composed body of Emelda Lauchlin. Kyel drew to a stop, feeling a sudden pang of trepidation. The sight was disturbing, and yet deeply moving at the same time. The Prime Warden lay in a shimmering blanket of light that filtered down from windows set high above in the verdigris dome. Her pale skin seemed almost to glow, suffused with a warm radiance that recreated an almost natural flush of life. She was covered in a nearly transparent shroud set with thousands of tiny crystals that shimmered, scattering the light into a wash of glittering rainbows of color.