Kyel took a few hesitant steps closer, unable to help himself as he stared at the woman’s body in unabashed wonder. The Prime Warden looked remarkably alive, even hale, as if reposed in the embrace of a deep and gentle sleep. And she was beautiful. Her hair was dark and rich, spilling down around her face in soft, gleaming strands. She looked no older than Darien, her face unlined by the passage of time, untroubled by the touch of years. She looked so much like her son that it would have been impossible to mistake the relationship between the two of them.
As Kyel watched, Darien moved forward into the wash of brilliant light and knelt silently at his mother’s side. Kyel found himself resisting a powerful urge to turn away, feeling that his very presence there was an invasion on the fragile privacy of the moment. He wished they had left him back in the shrine with the statue of the goddess, as he had asked. But for some reason Darien had wanted him there, so he forced himself to watch as the mage leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss upon his mother’s pale forehead. Then he turned to Naia and asked softly, “How did she die?”
The priestess moved forward, kneeling beside him as she placed her hand over his own in a gesture of compassion. Looking into his eyes, she told him, “A demon followed us into the Catacombs. Your mother was fatally injured, and she died here a week later.” She paused, allowing her gaze to slip down to the body of the Prime Warden. “I’m so sorry, Darien.”
The mage just nodded, looking thoughtful. He whispered, “Arden Hannah.”
Naia’s glance darted back up to his face at the mention of that evil name. But she made no effort to either confirm or deny it. Instead, she squeezed his hand and rose gracefully from his side, leaving him there alone as she descended the dais in a stir of white silk. She walked over to where Kyel was standing and, taking him by the arm, guided him away, back toward a wall of the transept.
Unable to help himself, Kyel whispered to her, “She’s been dead all this time? How....”
Naia smiled sadly as she released his arm, stopping to lean with her back against the limestone wall. “The methods of preservation are another of our temple secrets. For funerals of state, it is customary that the deceased be available for public viewing anywhere from one to six months. The truth is, a body so preserved is protected for many, many years.”
Kyel shook his head in wonder, marveling, “She seems alive.”
“Thank you.”
Kyel frowned, bewildered by her response. He started to open his mouth to say something, but the sound of a voice startled him so much that he flinched, turning to discover that a white-robed figure had silently come up next to him.
“The First Daughter’s talents are sought after throughout the land,” an old man wearing the stole of a priest of Death assured him. “In some circles, her work is considered an art form.”
Kyel gaped at Naia, amazed. So, the body of Darien’s mother had been her work, every meticulous detail carefully arranged by her own hands before she had even departed on her journey northward. The woman smiled with a trace of self-conscious pride at his reaction. Turning to the priest, she spoke:
“Your Eminence, may I present to you the acolyte, Kyel Archer. Kyel, this is His Eminence, the High Priest of Death, Luther Penthos.”
Kyel’s heart took a leap into the pit of his stomach as he gawked openly at the bald man who was smiling congenially at him with a kind-hearted face. Minus the white robes and the stole, Luther Penthos would look nothing other than someone’s aged grandfather. His light blue eyes were crystal clear, sparkling in the brilliant colors of light that swirled around him as he reached out a hand and clasped Kyel’s arm in a warm gesture of greeting.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, young Kyel,” he said, his smile broadening.
“Your Eminence,” Kyel responded, not even knowing if that was the correct way to address a High Priest, never having met one before. The man’s grip on his forearm was amazingly strong. When he released it, Kyel had to resist the urge to rub his skin where the man had touched it.
A motion behind the old man caught his eye, and he looked over the High Priest’s shoulder to see Darien walking forward to join them. The mage looked even more haggard than before as he stopped beside Naia and waited for her to introduce him.
“Your Eminence, I would also like to present the new Prime Warden, Darien Lauchlin, Grand Master of the Fifth Tier.”
“Eighth Tier,” Kyel corrected her absently, then winced at the sound of his own voice. He saw Naia visibly blanch as she turned to stare at Darien in candid shock. The High Priest blinked, obviously surprised as well, but his smile returned in short order as he reached out and clasped Darien’s arm in greeting.
The old man shook his head in wonder. “Eighth Tier. I’m not even certain if I’ve ever even heard of such a ranking.”
“It’s not meant to exist,” Darien confirmed darkly. “I fear I’d be considered something of an abomination.”
The High Priest’s eyes seemed to scan him consideringly, but he pursed his lips, shaking his head. “You don’t look like an abomination to me. Although, I must say, you do look like a man who could use some rest.”
“That we all could,” the Sentinel agreed.
“Then I suppose I should let you retire to the guest wing. But before I forget, I have something that is yours by rights.”
The old man fished in a pocket of his white robe, drawing out a heavy circular medallion attached to a wide silver band that resembled a collar. Kyel stared at the medallion, at what looked like an enormous ruby that sparkled at its center. The stone glowed a deep shade of crimson, the light seeming to come from deep within its myriad facets. It seemed almost to have a life of its own, the light inside it pulsating like the cadence of a heartbeat. The High Priest pressed the medallion into the palm of Darien’s hand, squeezing the mage’s fingers closed around it.
“What’s this?” Darien wondered, staring down at the radiance coming from the gem that moved over his hand like the scattered webs of light reflected off a pool of water.
Luther Penthos took a step back as if trying to distance himself from the object. “The medallion is called the Soulstone. It is a storage vessel that contains your mother’s gift. For someone to accept the Transference, they must simply put it on. I must, however, caution you against its other aspects.”
Darien was fingering the medallion in his hand, studying it in grim fascination as his eyes reflected the scintillating light coming from deep within the depths of the gem. He traced his thumb over the smooth silver of the gleaming band as he glanced up at the High Priest with an expression of concern.
“How is it that an object such as this came to be in the possession of the Temple of Death? Forgive me, Your Eminence, but Aerysius has always laid claim to such heirlooms of power.”
Luther Penthos nodded sagely, crossing his arms over the white fabric of his stole. “A thousand years ago, this medallion was the property of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. It was placed into our keeping before the fall of Caladorn, with the one restriction that knowledge of its existence should never be allowed to pass to the mages of Aerysius. However, since Aerysius is no more, I have decided to place the Soulstone into your hands. I have never felt comfortable holding such a thing, even in my deepest vaults. You’ve spoken lightly of abomination today, Prime Warden, but that object you are holding is a true abomination, if ever there was one. I am more glad to have it out of my possession than you could possibly know.”
“Why is that?” Darien wondered.
“Because it was with this very medallion that Zavier Renquist struck the first killing blow that precipitated the overthrow of the Lyceum. The Soulstone is far more than just a storage device, you see. When it is full with a mage’s gift the stone glows with an inner light, just as you see it now. But when it is empty, the stone is black and utterly lifeless. If it is placed in that condition around the neck of a living mage, the Soulstone has the effect of ripping the ability from that person. Such a death would be parti
cularly cruel, reminiscent of the executions Aerysius has sometimes awarded its traitors in the past. So have great care with that medallion, Prime Warden. Should it fall into the wrong hands, it might be sorely used against you.”
Darien stared down at the medallion in his hand with an expression akin to awe. Slowly, he closed his fingers around it, eyes widening. A play of emotion ranged over his face, as if a truly inspirational notion had just occurred to him, and he raised the Soulstone to clutch it tightly against his chest. A wistful smile appeared on his lips, growing until it spread slowly to touch his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” he breathed. There was no mistaking the ominous excitement in his voice.
The High Priest didn’t seem to miss it, either. The old man’s face hardened into a worried frown, and he spared an anxious glance sideways at the priestess. Naia was regarding Darien through her veil with a look of startled indignation. Kyel felt his own stomach wrench as he found it almost too easy to follow the mage’s train of thought. Darien wanted to use that medallion on his brother, and the desire for it was strong enough to make his green eyes shimmer with the thrill of anticipation. The look on his face was positively frightening.
In a carefully controlled voice, Luther Penthos uttered, “You have my condolences on the passing of your mother. I knew Emelda Lauchlin well, just as I also knew your esteemed father. And I can assure you, Prime Warden, that neither one of your parents would condone what is so obviously passing through your mind.”
Darien blinked, torn away from his dark thoughts by the old man’s blunt testimony. As Kyel watched, he fixed the High Priest with a look of brazen resentment, tightening his grip on the medallion until the hand that contained it was trembling.
“Before you presume to judge me, why don’t you go stare for awhile at the shades of my brethren in your Catacombs. While you’re at it, go look upon the ruins of Aerysius and the unholy light of Hell that corrupts the skies above it. Then, if you still can, come back and tell me that the man responsible for those atrocities doesn’t deserve to die a traitor’s death in pain.”
“He is your brother,” Naia protested before the High Priest could wave her into silence.
“The gods abhor the very notion of fratricide, regardless of intent or reason,” Luther Penthos growled stiffly, a dire warning. “Such an act would condemn your soul to the Netherworld for all eternity.”
To Kyel’s amazement, Darien only shrugged indifferently as he stuffed the medallion into a pocket on the inside of his cloak. “Then at least I’ll be at peace.”
As he strode away, Kyel heard Naia make a strangled gasping sound in her throat. Turning to the High Priest, she explained rapidly, “He wants to offer himself before the Goddess of the Eternal Requiem. I tried to convince him otherwise, but I fear he’s obsessed with the notion.”
Luther Penthos stared at Darien’s back until the mage disappeared into the corridor on the other side of the glass doorway. To Naia, he instructed, “If you cannot dissuade him, then I’ll try. But there is nothing we can do to stop him; it is forbidden to deny the petition of a supplicant.”
Kyel moved forward, inserting himself between them as he turned to Naia and demanded, “What are you saying? What exactly is he trying to do?”
The priestess looked up at him with an aggrieved expression on her face. “Darien intends to disavow his Oath of Harmony and commit himself instead to the Goddess of Death in an ancient rite called a Bloodquest.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Goddess of the Eternal Requiem
THE CORRIDOR WAS DARK and silent, the clipping echoes of his boots on the tile the only sound, the wash of a pale azure glow that trailed at his feet the only source of light. Through the windows that lined the corridor, the garden outside was swathed in darkness. The moon had not yet risen above the dome of the sanctuary to shed its light. If it hadn’t been for the magelight that crept like tendrils of mist along the floor under his footsteps, the wide hallway would have seemed as black as pitch. There was no one out in the halls but himself, no one to question him about where he was going and why. He had already made his decision. Now, all he wanted to do was get it over with.
Darien descended a flight of dark stairs and pushed open the door to the shrine, letting the magelight trail ahead of him into the room, watching it grope along the floor in pale blue ribbons. He fed the light with a trickle of power and looked on as it spread out toward the four corners of the room, illuminating the shrine in an otherworldly glow. A quick survey of the room revealed the shadows of unlit torches ensconced upon the walls. Darien turned his stare to the nearest and the torch sputtered into flame. He swept his gaze along the walls, watching impassively as fire erupted from the sconces all around the room, each individual flame blazing into existence in quick succession. Then he let go of the magelight, allowing it to ebb slowly away, trickling down into the shadows of the floor.
Pacing forward, Darien raised his eyes to stare upward into the white marble face of the goddess. A tingling shiver of apprehension stole down his back, inspired by the statue’s serene but critical eyes. He stopped beneath her, his chest at a level with the goddess’s outstretched hand. Darien stared at the bent fingers as he contemplated the curious significance of the gesture. Then he dropped to his knees, bowing forward and pressing the palms of his hands against the cold stone tiles of the floor. He closed his eyes, emptying his mind of all thoughts save one, the singular focus of his destiny.
Sitting back on his knees, Darien raised his hand upward over his shoulder, passing it behind his back until his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. He drew the blade forth slowly, wielding it before his face as he grasped the hilt in both hands. The sword seemed to almost ripple as it gleamed in the ruddy hue of the torchlight. He lowered the hilt carefully, extending his arms as he arched the steel around and down, transferring the sword in his grasp to support it gently by the flat of the blade.
“Goddess have mercy on me,” Darien whispered as he stood and offered the sword into the statue’s outstretched hand. The hilt fit easily within the marble cradle of her palm, fixing itself perfectly in the clasp of her bent fingers. He stepped back, releasing his hold on the blade and staring in wonder at the sight of the goddess wielding his own sword, the point leveled at his racing heart.
A thin line of sweat streaked down his brow as Darien knelt on the floor, abasing himself before the statue. His breath was coming in gasps, heart pounding in his ears. Unbidden thoughts flooded into his mind like a drowning river, churning images and twisted feelings of violence and tragedy, betrayal and grief; the wrenching agony of loss, and the yearning ache for release from it all. The random thoughts focused, became an ardent prayer that wailed like a threnody in his mind.
Before the discerning eyes of the statue, Darien bared his innermost soul, ashamed by the twisted bleakness of it.
He knelt there on the chill floor of the shrine, staring up into the face of the goddess as slow degrees of exhaustion stole over him. Sometime deep in the darkest hours of night the torches burned low, winking out one by one into blackness. When the last flame finally guttered and died, he did nothing to restore the loss of light. Instead, he lay back and stretched out across the hard tiles, closing his eyes as he waited for sleep to take him. When it finally did, his dreams were plagued by visions of the shades that haunted the desolate vaults of the Catacombs, calling out to him silently across time and eternity. Only, it was impossible to tell whether that plea was a cry for vengeance, or an urgent appeal for him to abandon his perilous course.
Drenched in a cold sweat, Darien tossed and turned in his sleep, writhing on the stone floor of the shrine, completely oblivious to the changes taking place above him in the darkness.
He awoke to a wash of bright, saturating light. Squinting, Darien pushed himself up by an arm off the floor, feeling for a moment disoriented as he sat there blinking, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Slowly, dim memories of the night crept back to him,
and with them came a disquieting shiver of foreboding. With reluctance he looked up at the statue in the alcove, blinking through the glare of light as his eyes traced the silken flows of the goddess’s marble robes upward to her face. As he gazed up into her compelling stone visage, a glistening silver reflection above her caught his eye.
It was his sword, held aloft by a slender stone arm that was now extended over the statue’s head. The blade was poised in the air at a threatening angle. Darien froze, feeling a heart-numbing sense of dread steel over him. He closed his eyes in an effort to deny the terrible significance of the sword. But when he opened them again, the blade was still there, wielded firmly in the goddess’s stone grasp. And the statue’s face had changed, as well. No longer was her gaze pensively serene. The face of the goddess had become a study in furious resolve.
Darien pushed himself the rest of the way off the floor, rising stiffly to his feet. As he did, a soft rustling sound behind him made him turn. Startled, he almost didn’t see Naia sitting behind him on a tiled step by the doorway. Part of him wanted to turn away from her back to the statue, anxious to avoid the grief-stricken appearance of her face. But for some reason, he found that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Sitting there in her white gown, hunched over with her arms wrapped around herself, the priestess looked nothing more than a frail child, scared and alone, and so very innocent. The look in her eyes was imploring, affecting him at more levels than he could name. Part of him wanted to go to her and catch her up in his arms, offer her what comfort he could.
But she was a priestess of Death, the white veil that stood between them an outward symbol of her vow of chastity. And then there was Meiran, not yet even two months dead. Darien bowed his head with a grimace of self-loathing, ripping his eyes away from her and letting his gaze trail back over his shoulder to the statue of the goddess with fresh resolve. He took a step toward it.
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