Darien just stared at the closed door, thoroughly stunned and utterly confused.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Pursuit of Wisdom
THE VAULTS OF OM’S temple were not what Kyel had been expecting. He’d thought they would be like the libraries of Aerysius his father had often spoken of, well-lit rooms with shelf upon polished shelf of ordered manuscripts and well-tended documents. But the vaults of Wisdom were nothing like a library; they reminded Kyel more of Death’s Catacombs. The chambers where Om’s clerics stored their vast accumulation of knowledge were a warren of man-made caves existing well below even the level of the High Priest’s chambers. Indeed, they were so far beneath the earth that Kyel could almost feel the weight of the soil overhead crushing down on him every time he stared up at the low stone ceiling.
After three days of research, he still could not pretend to understand the system used by the clerics to categorize it all. Had he not managed to secure himself an assistant to help find the materials he needed, Kyel figured he could have spent years down there in the bowels of the earth without finding anything remotely related to his topic. As it was, progress was tediously slow. The silent cleric assigned to him had found him a small table with an oil lamp as its sole adornment. Since then, the cleric simply came and went at long intervals, depositing odd assortments of manuscripts, maps, codices, and scrolls of parchment. By the third day, Kyel found himself encased by stacks of books he hadn’t even had a chance to thumb through yet. He had no idea how the man did it, but the brown-robed cleric was much quicker at locating information in the maze of vaults than Kyel was at searching through the man’s findings. He was starting to grow desperate; as he stared down at the amassed collection around him, he wondered if the priests weren’t trying to throw him off his search by inundating him with information.
Most of which was completely useless. Kyel stared down at a dusty leather-bound manuscript on the table in dismay before carefully closing the ancient cover. After three days, it seemed that he was no closer than when he’d first begun. Oh, he had learned a lot of interesting facts that he hadn’t known before, but scarcely any of it pertained to the illusive subject of the Well of Tears. Kyel was beginning to consider himself an expert on the history and traditions of Aerysius, and was even growing confident in his knowledge of other, darker, areas as well. His hand moved to a copy of The Mysteries of Aerysius, which had been one of the first treasures the cleric had unearthed for him. Before now, that text had been his only source of written knowledge on the subject, and he had sentimentally refused his assistant when the man had silently offered to take it away. But Cedric Cromm’s work, like almost everything else, yielded almost nothing pertinent.
In all of his browsing, he had found the Well of Tears mentioned only three times. The first instance had been almost as an aside, just a vague reference to its link with the Gateway. The Well was mentioned again in a fragment of parchment the cleric had found somewhere in his delvings. It was a small piece of information, but at least it was somewhat useful. It told of how the Well had been opened once by a rogue mage who had sought to augment his own strength with the power of the Netherworld. The Well had been successfully resealed that time only with the aid of Aerysius’s Circle of Convergence. But Kyel did note that the author of the parchment seemed to believe that the Well had never been fully open in the first place. He seemed skeptical about whether that tactic would have worked if there had been more than just a faint seepage of the Netherworld’s taint.
Which was not very inspiring. Kyel was starting to come to the conclusion that Darien had set him to the task of chasing his own tail. When he had first arrived in the vaults, Kyel thought he knew exactly what he was looking for: a set of instructions, preferably detailed, describing the procedure for sealing the Well. But Kyel knew better, now; it was not going to be that easy. Anymore, he doubted that such a thing even existed. All he could possibly hope to accomplish would be to gather scattered fragments of information that he could attempt to piece together later. If he was lucky.
He found the third mention of the Well of Tears in an enormous, dilapidated manuscript. The book was an account of the fall of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar that referred to the subject of the Well frequently throughout its ancient pages. Kyel found himself scanning the text avidly, intensely fascinated by its contents. He hadn’t known that the evil that had consumed Caladorn had actually started in Aerysius itself—or, rather, beneath it. Apparently, in the cliffs that supported Aerysius there existed a network of passageways used by the founders of the city. But after hundreds of years, the network had fallen into disuse and was eventually abandoned. It was discovered again some centuries later by the forbidden cult of Xerys. The followers of Chaos sequestered themselves down there in the dark, using the forgotten halls and chambers as places to convene secret meetings and dark masses, even ritual sacrifices. It was the malevolent priesthood of Xerys that had created the Well of Tears in the first place.
The Gateway to the Netherworld had been established so that the powers of Chaos could be used in the war for Caladorn. The Prime Warden of Aerysius, Cyrus Krane, had conspired with Zavier Renquist to open the Well and establish a link with the Netherworld that would tilt the balance of power in favor of the darkmages. The Well was eventually resealed, but the damage had already been done. In the end, Bryn Calazar fell and the rest of Caladorn was consumed by the Netherworld’s taint. It was a war that had never really been won. The same battle was yet ongoing, the reason why Greystone Keep had been erected to defend the Pass of Lor-Gamorth from the Black Lands in the first place. Renquist had aspired to remake the world in Hell’s dark image, and the sinister machinations he had fostered in life had lived far beyond his span of mortal years.
The text was fascinating, and even though Kyel knew he ought not be spending his precious time reading it, he simply couldn’t help himself. The book even contained a map of the vast cave network beneath Aerysius on a half-rotten page. He wasn’t able to resist the temptation; the page was already loose and falling out. So Kyel waited until he was sure that the cleric would be away for some time. Then he quickly pulled the map the rest of the way out, folded it up, and shoved it hastily into the pocket of his cloak alongside the weight of the Soulstone. He felt awful after doing it, sorry to have desecrated the ancient text.
Heart pounding, he kept glancing around to see if anyone had noticed his abuse of the book as he continued with his foraging. By the dim light of the oil lamp, he scanned over the faded letters on a crumbling scroll of parchment, rolled it back up, then stuffed it into the pile collecting at his feet. He reached for the next book on the top of the pile and read the gilt title, Diplomatic Etiquette. Kyel scowled down at the text, wondering what could have possibly been running through his assistant’s mind when he’d pulled that one down from the shelf. Surely, there would be no mention of the Well of Tears in such a work. Still, Kyel found himself intrigued, and couldn’t help at least opening the cover and leafing through a few pages. He would have need of such knowledge for his meeting with the Queen of Emmery.
With a shrug, Kyel closed the text and set it aside, thinking he would take it with him to read later that night. The next book in the stack was a spectacularly illustrated manuscript with the title Sieges and Scrimmages: A Compellation of Modern Warfare Tactics and Strategy. Noticing the date on the cover, Kyel couldn’t help chuckling as he shook his head. The tactics described by the manuscript couldn’t possibly be very modern; according to the date on the cover, the book was over six hundred years old. He took a quick peek at some of the hand-rendered illustrations then delicately set the manuscript down at his side. Again, he had to wonder why the cleric would have brought him such a thing.
The man returned again, heaping another armload of diverse books onto the top of the tall and narrow column already building by his chair. Kyel nodded his thanks at the cleric as he reached for the first book on top.
He almost dropped the thin text when his ey
es caught sight of the title. The Family Lauchlin was inscribed on the tan leather cover, the first cover he had seen unsullied by years of layered dust. Kyel’s mouth went dry as he flipped open the book and, thumbing to the first page, considered the painstaking, flowing script of the author’s hand. To Kyel’s amazement, he found that the first chapter was an encapsulated overview of Darien’s family history.
Since the first recorded mention of a Lauchlin in the annals of Aerysius (circa 1266), the name has figured prominently in the histories and governance of the Assembly of the Hall. To date, Lauchlin has been the surname of six seven renowned Sentinels and two three Prime Wardens....
Kyel skimmed the rest of the page, amazed, and flipped quickly to the back of the book. But, strangely, he discovered that almost half of the thin manuscript’s pages were blank. Thumbing forward again, he found the last entry at the end of the written portion of the text:
Darien Lauchlin, Grand Master (1718 – 1747): Mage of the Order of Sentinels(?). Son of Grand Master Gerald Lauchlin and Prime Warden Emelda Clemley Lauchlin. Confirmed Acolyte in 1730 at 12 years of age. Mentored by Master Lynnea Nelle, Master Harrison Geary, Master Cedric Fisk, and Grand Master Roland Blentley. Commendations for Meritorious Achievement (6), Dedicated Service (9), and Distinguished Scholar (12). Demerits for Violating Curfew Restrictions (17), Insubordination (4), Willful Defiance (2), Unauthorized Research (3), Trespassing in Restricted Areas (3), and Gross Misconduct (1). Subject of Expulsion Inquiry (1745); suspended from active mentorship and exiled to Greystone Keep (1745 – 1747). Received Fifth Tier Transference from Grand Master Ezras Nordric in 1747 at 29 years of age. A casualty of the destruction of Aerysius in 1747. The only known survivor of the destruction of Aerysius and self-declared Prime Warden. Foreswore the Oath of Harmony in 1747. Possible second Transference of Third Tier magnitude, source unknown; report unconfirmed. Father of Gerald Withersby (1746 – 1747).
Shaken, Kyel scanned the last line again.
Too appalled to read further, he closed the book’s cover. Meiran had given him a son, and Darien didn’t even know about it. And, Kyel silently swore to himself, he never would.
Not if he had anything to do with it.
It was going on early evening when he finally broke off his research with a feeling of utter failure and headed back up the long sloping corridors toward the levels of the living quarters. His brown-robed and cowled assistant led him back to the cell they had provided for his use, where Kyel collapsed down on the pitifully small and hard bed, thoroughly exhausted. His time had run out, and he still had no idea how to go about sealing the Well of Tears. Darien had given him only three days. Even if it had been three months, Kyel doubted he could have come any closer.
It was almost time for supper, and His Eminence would be expecting him again. Kyel had promised the man three nights of his company, and this was going to be their last meeting. Already, he had been forced to yield more information than he had originally planned on; the voiceless old man had a disturbing aptitude for knowing when he was trying to be deliberately vague, and Cadmus was exceptionally talented at digging for details and prying facts out of him. By the end of the previous night’s conversation, Kyel had left feeling sickened by the amount of information he had been forced to divulge.
He’d tried his hardest, but he found himself persistently pulled down the exact paths he had been determined to avoid. Last night he had found himself telling them what little he knew of Aidan’s sacrifice of Meiran and Darien’s run-in with Arden Hannah. He should have taken more care to avoid both topics, but the two men had already inferred them from other things he had already mentioned. The pair was damnedably clever; too clever, by far. The topic of Meiran had been wrung out of him when he was trying to explain why Darien still carried his sword. And though he’d done his best not to mention the cruelly seductive Arden, he couldn’t find a way around it. They probed him constantly for anything he could tell them of the forces that had compelled Darien to give up his Oath and commit himself to the Bloodquest, and Arden’s chapter was a pivotal point in that story.
Kyel sighed, wondering what ordeals he would find himself put through again tonight. He washed up and quickly shaved, running a comb through his hair. He had the feeling he was already late, though he didn’t know the time. The only clock he had seen in the warren of Om’s Temple was an enormous waterclock that had to be at least three stories tall. He walked by it every night when he wandered down from his guestroom to the High Priest’s dining room. But the time really didn’t matter; whether or not he was late, he would get there as soon as he could.
Brushing the lint off his black cloak, Kyel left his small cell and began the journey again, hopefully for the last time. Wandering through underground hallways and large subterranean avenues, he passed the chamber where the waterclock stood, pausing as he gazed up at it. He was late; the High Priest had been expecting him ten minutes ago. He hastened forward at a quicker pace, past scores of brown-robed clerics moving by him with distant expressions on their faces. It was a strange life these men led, living down here in the dark with only the smell of dusty manuscripts to keep them company, the only words ever heard the thoughts that arose from within the confines of their own minds. It seemed such a lonely existence. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to commit themselves to such a way of life.
Kyel arrived yet again at the door of the High Priest’s chambers. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, and the door opened almost instantly. Kyel found himself confronted by a beaming Cadmus, who beckoned him inside with a wave of his hand. Within, the smell of hot supper made his mouth water as he crossed the foyer to the entrance of the dining room. There, he was amazed to find what looked like a bountiful feast spread out across the long table, with more courses than he could possibly eat. Kyel resisted the impulse to throw himself down in a chair and dive in; his stomach had been growling ever since he had made the decision to skip his midday meal and work through it instead.
But he hesitated, looking at the form of the High Priest seated at the head of the table. Suspicious, Kyel doubted that the spread of food was simply the kind gesture of a parting gift; he had worked in trade long enough to know when someone wanted something from him. Kyel took his place at the High Priest’s right hand, the honored seat of a guest that had been offered him two nights before. As he did, he saw that Cadmus’s smile suddenly seemed forced. What was going on that he didn’t know about?
As Cadmus took the seat opposite him, Kyel sat back and waited nervously for his host to serve him the first course, as was the courtesy even in Coventry. The old man took Kyel’s plate and spooned on the helpings solicitously, even ceremoniously, before offering it back to him. But as Kyel stared down at the servings of food on his plate, he found himself slowly losing his appetite. Even Cadmus had not spoken a word, and an uneasy silence seemed to linger over the dining room in the absence of conversation.
His Eminence lifted his fork to his mouth. As he silently chewed, Cadmus fidgeted in his seat, appearing to ponder the helpings on his own plate. Kyel merely stirred his food around with his fork, unable to compel himself to take a bite of it. At last he set his fork down, unable to stand the silence a moment longer.
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” Kyel all but growled, addressing Cadmus instead of the High Priest. He regretted the words almost instantly, knowing full well that he was overstepping the bounds of courtesy.
Cadmus shared a long, silent look with His Eminence, then slowly brought his spoon down from his mouth, setting it carefully across his plate. Standing up, he walked around the edge of the table, having to twist sideways to squeeze his portly carriage around the corner of a bureau. From a drawer, he produced an elegantly bound text, which he held tucked against his chest so that Kyel couldn’t see the title of the volume.
“We have something for you,” Cadmus spoke as he moved stiffly back to his seat with the book.
He handed the text across the table to Kyel,
who frowned as he received it into his hands. The black leather cover was imprinted with the words A Treatise on the Well of Tears, by Master Dalton Umbridge. Kyel felt his jaw drop as he folded back the dusty cover, supporting it delicately in his hand so as not to crack the ancient binding. Quickly scanning the first few pages, he realized that the text was exactly what he had been searching for the entire time, exactly what he needed. He couldn’t believe it. But, instead of feeling appreciative for the find, the leather manuscript in his hand filled him with ire.
“You’ve known about this all along,” he accused them. “Why did you have me waste my time down there for three days?”
He closed the book with a snap that tossed a small cloud of dust up into his face, making his nose itch. The High Priest and Cadmus were watching him silently, their expressions blank. What had they been doing, just feeding him rubbish while he could have been halfway to Emmery by this time? Delaying him while they milked him for information at night?
“Was it truly a complete waste of your time?” asked Cadmus.
“Yes,” Kyel responded adamantly. But then he thought about it. His research in the vaults had given him a much deeper perspective on the current situation they were facing, as well as some surprising revelations. “No,” he admitted finally, grudgingly.
The High Priest nodded. At his motion, Cadmus reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment, which he held up between two fingers. Kyel stared at it, at the words inscribed with heavy strokes of thick, black ink: His Eminence, the High Priest of Wisdom.
Handing the letter across to Kyel, Cadmus informed him, “We received this note from your master shortly after your arrival.”
Unfolding the crisp parchment, Kyel felt fury rising like angry heat to his cheeks. He traced his eyes over it, noting the exacting, careful script that seemed almost impressed with force into the page. A strange tingling sensation filled him the moment he started reading.
Darkmage Page 40
