Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien paused, his frown deepening as he felt a sudden brush of panic steel over him. He had expected to find Renquist inside the tent. Casting a sidelong glare at Connel, he turned around to find that Krane had halted, bodily blocking the only exit.

  “Is this how you honor a badge of truce?” Darien demanded, taking a step back away from the two demons. He should have been more afraid. But the anger he felt overshadowed even his fear.

  “Be at ease,” issued a low voice from behind him.

  Darien flinched, spinning toward the sound. There had been no one there. But suddenly, inexplicably, there was. Zavier Renquist stood and moved toward him, emerging from the shadows of a corner.

  Darien stared, too frozen to even draw breath. He felt Renquist’s stare moving over him, eyes so dark they were almost black and filled with a passionate, raking intensity. Darien found himself unable to do anything but stand and be measured, feeling that his every nuance was being probed and exposed.

  Renquist paced slowly forward, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fiercely inquisitive. He was tall and exceptionally broad of shoulder, his figure impressive and imposing. His long brown hair was worn pulled back from his face, gathered in a braid at the crown of his head. He was similarly robed as the other two men, the white cloak of a Prime Warden hanging down his back, an elaborate silver necklace of many draped chains laced over the front of his robe. He had the look of a raptor, one poised in the air with claws and wings extended.

  Shoulders relaxing slightly, he said at last, “You’re not remotely what I was expecting. Come. Have a seat.” He extended his hand, indicating the rugs thrown over the ground as he lowered himself down on them cross-legged.

  Darien struggled to collect himself as he sat across from him. Renquist had caught him off-guard; he had obeyed the summons thinking it an opportunity to evaluate the nature of this legendary man, but instead had become himself the object of scrutiny. Grimacing, Darien tried to swallow the rigid lump that was rising in his throat, threatening to claw its way out. Now that it was too late, he realized he had made a serious error in judgment. He should never have come.

  Trying his best to maintain his composure, Darien leaned forward and stared unblinking into the ancient demon’s eyes. What he saw there was harrowing; Renquist’s eyes were sinister pools of shadow that perfectly mirrored his own. Shaken, Darien had to fight to keep his voice steady as he asked numbly, “What were you expecting?”

  “A twisted and pathetic wretch such as your brother. But you’re nothing like him, I see.”

  Darien hesitated before stating guardedly, “No. We are nothing alike.”

  Renquist’s eyes bored into him, probing. Darien felt horribly uncomfortable as the object of that piercing stare, not liking the look in the man’s face at all. It was almost as though Renquist was considering him with sinister intent, and was only too pleased with what he was finding.

  Renquist leaned back, knitting his fingers together with elbows resting on his knees. “The truth is, I find myself rather fascinated by you,” he admitted with an approving smile. “You are the first mage in all of history to ever successfully employ a Grand Resonance. And it seems you have bested one of my own. I take it that is Arden’s thanacryst?”

  Darien followed his stare, finding the beast curled up behind him in a corner of the tent. Darien gave a slight nod, wondering what Renquist had to be implying from his possession of the creature.

  To his astonishment, the ancient Prime Warden’s smile broadened. “I thought I recognized it. An unusual pet, for one such as yourself.”

  Darien shrugged. “It seems to like me well enough.”

  “So it seems,” uttered Renquist softly. “But I must caution you; thanacrysts have a tendency to turn when you least expect it. They make unreliable pets, at best.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Renquist nodded thoughtfully, looking down at his hands. “I brought you here to make a proposition.”

  Darien waited, half-afraid of what he had in mind.

  “My army is twice the strength of your own. I still have six mages at my disposal, along with some unusual pets of my own. Orien’s Circle has been reduced to a lump of slag by your abuse of it; I was up there myself this morning. I’ve seen it. You are left with very few options.”

  Darien shook his head. “If that were the case, then you would not have bothered with this parley.”

  The demon’s stare was beginning to unsettle him. Darien could feel himself becoming unnerved, cold beads of perspiration collecting on his brow.

  Renquist raised a hand. “What I propose is this: I will withdraw my forces back into the Black Lands and agree not to attempt any overt hostility for a period of two years. All I ask is that you agree to my terms.”

  Darien leaned forward, asking suspiciously, “What are your terms?”

  “You. I want you to surrender yourself to me.”

  Darien glared at him contemptuously; he had seen this coming. It made perfect sense. If he was taken out of the equation, then Renquist could afford those two years to sit back, bide his time, and replenish his armies. He would not want to risk another Black Solstice.

  “I’m no fool,” Darien grated. “My father was murdered in your fires, and Arden already gave me a taste of your flames. I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

  But Renquist only smiled calmly. “It is not my intent to kill you. You have rather impressed me, and that is no easy thing to do.” He paused for a moment, gaze slipping to the side as if in thought. Then his stare snapped back to lock on Darien’s with rigid intensity. “What I propose is that you accompany me back to Bryn Calazar as my apprentice. I seem to be down a mage, and our number has ever been Eight. You would make a formidable Nach’tier.”

  Darien blinked, taken completely aback; Nach’tier was an ancient term for darkmage. Renquist was offering him Arden’s place at his side. He would make a demon of him, a minion of Chaos such as himself. Darien was utterly unprepared for the suggestion. The very notion made his skin crawl. Yet, at the same time, it was almost flattering.

  Behind him, the thanacryst purred.

  “No.” He had hesitated only a moment before answering.

  It was only a moment, but Renquist hadn’t missed it. Black eyes gleaming, he seemed to be savoring the gloating smile on his lips. “Why not? You are almost there already. I can sense it in you. It would take only the lightest brush of a finger to push you over the edge.”

  His words were like a whispered omen of damnation. Darien felt them almost physically, slithering over his skin like the cold coils of a serpent. He couldn’t deny the truth of those words; Renquist was excruciatingly right. Which made it all the more critical that he deny them urgently.

  But there was no conviction in his tone as Darien mumbled softly, “I’m nothing like you.”

  He felt dazed, the cold sweat on his brow now running in icy rivulets down his face. The dim lighting of the tent seemed suddenly even darker, the air frigidly cold and atrociously stale. The sound of his own shivering breath hissed like a voluble gale in his ears.

  The smile on Renquist’s face was almost fatherly. “We have so much in common, you and I. A thousand years ago, I sold my soul for a price that to this day I’ve never regretted paying. Tell me, Darien. What is your price?”

  Darien squeezed his eyes shut as he fought to gather his scattered thoughts, whispering, “You could never afford it.”

  “Can’t I?” Renquist challenged ominously. “Then let me sweeten my offer. In addition to the withdrawal of my forces, my Master has agreed to relinquish the spirit of Meiran Withersby and reunite her soul and body, returning her to life. It is within His power. What do you say? Commit your soul to Xerys. With one simple word you can save thousands of soldiers under your command and give them a chance to live to fight another day. And you will be saving the mother of your only child from an eternity of despair and pain.”

  Renquist’s words hit him with the force of a
deathblow.

  Darien reeled, utterly stunned. It was impossible. Meiran would have found some way to get word to him. But he had been at the front for two long years, where news was scarce. Only two birds had arrived from Aerysius the entire time he was there, both from his mother’s private coops.

  In a tremulous voice, he whispered, “I have no child.”

  “That’s not what your brother told me.”

  “Aidan’s lying.” He silently pleaded it was so, even as he knew it was too much to hope for.

  “You have a son, Darien,” Renquist insisted. “His name is Gerald, after your father.”

  “No...it can’t be.”

  Even as he said the words he realized that he was wrong; Aidan was simply not creative enough to come up with something so clever. His brother had a knack for taking the ideas of others and corrupting them to fit his own particular needs. But actually devising something so subtlety, perfectly cruel? It was as beyond him as the stars.

  Aidan would have known that he would never accept Renquist’s offer for any advantage to himself. But this was about Meiran. For months he had dreamed of her, sometimes falling, sometimes screaming, sometimes writhing in tortured agony. At other times she was simply smiling at him, the green light of Hell shining from her eyes. She had meant everything to him; she had been the singular passion of his life.

  And, together, they had made a son.

  Aidan had chosen the one leverage he knew Darien could never endure. He had passed along the information knowing it was exactly the fatal brush Renquist would need to send him hurling over the edge.

  But Darien had already taken that step himself. At the cliff’s edge in Aerysius, he had looked his brother in the eye and denied him then.

  Somehow, Darien found the strength to stand up. Staggering, he backed away, shaking his head. As he moved to duck under the low opening of the tent, he heard Renquist’s gentle voice behind him:

  “I’ll leave the offer open. Should you decide to change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”

  Chapter Forty

  The Edge

  KYEL WAS TIRED of waiting. And he was growing increasingly apprehensive as the long minutes dragged by. Everyone was, especially Swain. The blademaster had a look on his face like curdled death, his oily hair stringing forward into his eyes unchecked. The interior of the command tent seemed almost charged with the compressed tension in the air. Even Wellingford was pacing, every so often slapping the pair of white gloves he held against his thigh with a sharply resounding crack.

  “We’re here to discuss strategy,” Blandford announced finally. “Let’s get on with it.”

  But Wellingford shook his head, objecting, “We can’t hold this meeting without the Prime Warden. We need his input; he told me this morning that there is a darkmage with the approaching army, and only he knows how to counter them.”

  Kyel saw Swain’s grimace at Wellingford’s use of Darien’s self-proclaimed title. But that was nothing compared to the glare of fury that sprang to his eyes at the mention of the word ‘darkmage’.

  Swinging his glare at Kyel, Swain demanded, “You told him about Renquist’s summons?”

  At the mention of that name, the tent fell abruptly silent. Kyel felt all eyes suddenly train on him. He glanced around to find every man there standing with faces tight and paled in astonishment. Wellingford was slowly shaking his head, lips moving soundlessly. Even Blandford’s usual composure was shattered; Emmery’s general stood with mouth slack and eyes glazed as if poleaxed.

  “No!” Kyel gasped, backing up as Swain stepped forward to glare his wrath down at him. “I tossed it away!”

  “Where by all the graceless gods did you toss it?”

  Kyel’s mind was spinning so furiously, he couldn’t think. He didn’t know what he had done with the note. He remembered crumbling it up in his hand, but after that....

  “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I can’t remember.”

  Swain’s oath was lost in the clamor that exploded in the tent. Everyone was shouting, bandying words like “Renquist” and “darkmage” in panicked voices. Things were deteriorating rapidly, Kyel decided, staring around at the faces of the officers around him. Someone was going to have to get the men back under control.

  He was about to raise his hands to gain their attention when all motion suddenly halted, the commotion silencing as all eyes were directed at something behind him. Turning, Kyel could do little more than gape as he took in the form of the man standing in the opening of the tent.

  It was Darien, but not the Darien he knew. The mage’s face was ghostly white, eyes squinting and bloodshot. He stood as if wracked, arms clutched across his chest, shivering. His black hair was spilled over his face, but nothing could hide the look of tortured devastation written there. Darien’s staring eyes were dull and blank, absent even a trace of the presence and confidence that was his signature. He looked well past grief, well beyond torment. To Kyel, he looked like a man utterly destroyed.

  Swain surged toward him first, grabbing Darien by the arm and swinging him around, maneuvering him swiftly back out of the tent. Kyel followed, only dimly noticing Wellingford stepping in behind him to block the pressing bodies from trailing after. Outside, he followed as Swain dragged Darien into a space between two tents. There, the captain seized him violently by the shoulders.

  Kyel ran toward them, fearing that Swain was going to start tearing into him by the look on his face and the posture of his body. But as Kyel stopped behind him, he realized that Swain’s strong grip was the only thing keeping Darien standing. His knees were slack, his body wilting like a droughted stem.

  Swain swiped a hand up and gripped Darien’s face by the chin, demanding in an infuriated voice, “What did he do to you?”

  Darien didn’t respond. He just stood staring dimly into Swain’s face, sweat trickling down his brow. Kyel looked on in horror as Swain increased the pressure of fingers, squeezing them mercilessly into Darien’s skin.

  “By the whoring mother of the gods—what did he want?!”

  With a growl that sounded like an injured wolf, Darien broke away from him, twisting his face out of the blademaster’s grasp. He bent over, hands on his knees, glaring up at Swain contemptuously through the sweat-plastered strands of his hair. His eyes were red pools of scalding hatred.

  “He wants me.”

  It took Kyel a moment to understand Darien’s whispered words. His voice was so low and broken that it was almost unintelligible.

  “What were his terms?” Swain demanded.

  Darien ignored him, eyes sliding distantly to the side.

  “His terms, Darien!”

  Without looking at him, the mage uttered flatly, “He offered to withdraw.”

  “What else?” Swain insisted.

  Darien glanced up at him, eyes imploring. To Kyel’s horror, he saw that Darien’s eyes were filled with tears that spilled freely down his cheeks. The sight struck Kyel with alarm; in the entire time he had known him, through every trial and every sorrow, he had never once seen Darien break down. The sight was as terrifying as it was heartrending.

  “He told me I have a son,” Darien said in a trembling voice. “And he told me he could bring Meiran back.”

  Swain spun away from him with an oath.

  Kyel recoiled, throwing his hands up. The despicable bastard. Renquist had found the one thing certain to tear Darien apart, the one temptation his nature would never allow him to refuse. Yet, somehow, he had. Somehow, Darien had scraped up just enough strength to refuse him and walk away from that meeting.

  But, Kyel realized with dismay, Renquist may have achieved his goal, nonetheless. Darien would never be able to bear the guilt that decision had cost him. One look at his anguished face made it clear that the mage believed he had damned Meiran all over again, just as surely as if he had thrown her into the pit himself. And the part about his son...Kyel groaned. What was worse, Darien thinking that he had a son somewhere that he
could have chosen to bring a mother home to? Or the closure of knowing the boy was dead?

  If it were his own child, Kyel decided, he would rather know the truth.

  “You don’t have a son, Darien,” he said softly.

  “What?” the Sentinel gasped, staring at him in confusion.

  Kyel shook his head, fighting back tears of his own. “The boy’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  “How do you know?” Darien whispered.

  “They had a book about your family in the Temple of Om. I read it.”

  Darien collapsed to his knees on the ground, face constricted in grief. Kyel looked away, glancing over to Swain for help. The captain slowly drew his sword with a shivering scrape of steel, bringing the blade up and around over his shoulder. The oiled folds of metal gleamed molten-silver in the moonlight. Voice impassively calm, he stated softly, “This is sick, Darien. I’m going to end it right here.”

  Darien just stared at that glistening length of steel as though it was the one thing he desired most in the entire world. His face relaxed, and for a moment he looked calm, almost relieved. But then, firmly, he shook his head.

  “No,” he sighed, resigned. “That sword you’re holding would be a mercy. But I must finish what I began. There’s no one else to do it.”

  Swain’s blade held fast, steady in his black-leather grip. He regarded Darien with a leveling stare that Kyel found impossible to read. There was no trace left in his eyes of the hostile contempt that had always been there before whenever he had so much as glanced at his former student. Nor was there the barest hint of compassion, or even clemency. But, slowly, the blade faltered, lowering. Swain took a step back and dropped his swordarm to his side, nodding his head: the signal for stalemate.