Emelda Lauchlin was seated on a raised dais before the panoramic windows, her face impatiently expectant. Darien did not forget his manners. He went instantly to his knees, abasing himself until his black hair was spread out on the floor beside his face. He dared not move from that position until he was bid. So he waited, listening to the sound of his own breath. A long minute dragged by, followed by another. By the third, Darien had no doubt his mother was angry.
After five minutes, he knew she was livid.
“Arise.”
Darien swallowed as he pushed himself off the floor. He felt the blood rush out of his head and, for a moment, he felt terribly dizzy. He saw that his mother had risen as well. She glared down at him imperiously from her position on the dais. She wore her ebony hair pulled back from her face, which only served to augment the stern set of her features.
For a long moment, they stood staring at each other across the distance between them. Then, more graceful than a queen, the Prime Warden of Aerysius descended the steps of the dais. She stopped before him, having to look up to meet his gaze. Her blue eyes burned fiercely, her lips pressed into a frown of barely controlled rage. Then, abruptly, she swept forward to embrace him.
Darien was taken aback. He moved awkwardly to return the gesture, which was made more difficult by the baldric he wore, and the pack still slung from his shoulder. When they separated, he was surprised to see the anger on her face replaced by a warm smile of affection. Looks were not the only thing he had inherited from her; Emelda Lauchlin had a temperament just as unpredictable as his own.
“My son.” She stared up at him with wonder in her eyes. “You have changed a great deal.”
Her gaze lowered to fix on the leather strap that crossed his chest. This was the critical moment, he knew. She would either accept him for what he was or reject him utterly, and it all hinged on whether or not she accepted the sword.
She chose to ignore it.
Taking him by the hand, she led him to a white chair and claimed the one beside it. Darien struggled out of his pack and leaned his scabbard against the chair’s armrest. He tried to gauge his mother’s disposition by the way she held herself. She sat leaning forward slightly, arms open and resting on the cushions at her sides. It was a welcoming posture, one that invited him in instead of shutting him out. He took it for a good sign.
“Tell me,” she pressed, “how fares the Front?”
It was time to make his case. Darien had rehearsed this speech all the way down from the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. But now, when the moment to deliver it was upon him, the carefully rehearsed phrases eluded him. Shaking his head, he decided honesty was the best thing he could offer her.
“We’re dying,” he said, staring down at a smear of mud on his knee.
As if sensing his struggle, she set a hand on his arm. The touch strengthened him enough to continue.
“The Enemy is massing in numbers never before seen. We don’t have enough soldiers. We’re facing a critical shortage of weapons and supplies. We’re running out of ideas and, frankly, we’re running out of hope. There’s been precious little support from the South. The last group of men they shipped us was a pack of criminals up from Rothscard, and that’s been months ago. We’ll all be dead in another few months, either by the sword or by hunger, but it doesn’t matter which. The fact is, you’ll have Enemy hordes pouring down on top of you, and your only line of defense will be feeding the crows.”
As he let the last words die, Darien felt an instant pang of regret. He had not meant to raise his voice. Silence followed as his mother only stared at him, her expression impossible to read. He felt drained, as if the flood of words he’d let pour from his mouth sapped his strength.
“So, you are suggesting that the might of Aerysius should turn the tide of this war?”
Her words, though softly spoken, were deliberately chosen. She was trying to probe him to find out where he stood on the issue. It was a test, of sorts. Whether or not she approved of his Raising might even depend on how he responded. But Darien didn’t care. There was only one way he could answer her, and it was with the conviction of his beliefs.
“I’m suggesting there may not be an Aerysius if you don’t Unbind the Sentinels. The order exists to defend the Rhen against this very threat. I understand the need for the Oath of Harmony, but it has served its purpose. Times change, Mother. The time for the Oath has passed. If we don’t Unbind the Sentinels, then there will be no hope. The Enemy will slaughter us.”
Her eyes dropped to the leather-wrapped scabbard that leaned against his chair. Very carefully, she asked, “What then, Darien?”
Here was the crux of the test. Darien feared to step across this threshold. But he had already pressed too far to stop now.
“Let me receive the Transference from two Masters. Give me the strength to create a grand resonance. Then we can lure their forces southward and annihilate them.”
His words were met by utter silence, as if they had fallen on empty space. Darien knew he’d gone too far. It was a long time before his mother spoke again.
“Tonight, you shall be Raised to the Order of Sentinels, as your father was before you.” Her voice was cold, as icy as the mountain wind. “You will accept the Transference from Grand Master Ezras Nordric, who has decided to pass beyond and leave the trials of this war to the next generation. To you. You shall swear the Oath of Harmony in front of the full Assembly of the Hall. Before you do, you will take that thing at your side and cast it off the cliff. I will never hear the words ‘grand resonance’ out of your mouth again. Do I make myself clear, Darien?”
“Aye,” he answered, feeling the last of his hopes dashed by his mother’s resolve. Darien bowed his head, accepting defeat.
He would take the Oath, as she asked. Only, he didn’t believe he could keep it.
There was a harsh penalty for Oathbreakers. They would strip the power from him, which was tantamount to a slow and painful execution. Then they would hang his body from the arches as a warning, and also as a statement. The world needed to know that the justice of Aerysius was without mercy, even for its own. That was the price of betrayal, the price of Oathbreaking. Yet, if such an act could stop the war…
There was a text Darien had read once. It had been part of his curriculum: The Mysteries of Aerysius by Cedric Cromm. In it was a short biography of Grand Master Orien, who had stood on the crag now known infamously as Orien’s Finger to bring the vast power of a vortex to bear against an invasion long ago. Orien’s desperate act had turned the tide of battle and driven the Enemy from the North. Then Orien had calmly knelt and surrendered himself to his punishment. Orien’s face was among those of the Watchers in the Hall, his image carved severely in stone. He had been an Oathbreaker and had died a cruel death for his actions. Yet, he had also been a savior.
“You may go.” The Prime Warden dismissed Darien curtly, waving a hand in the direction of the door. “Spend the rest of the day in solitude and reflection.”
As he stood to leave, her voice stopped him.
“It’s good to have you home. You remind me of your father so much. He would have been very proud to see the man you have become.”
Darien nodded somberly as he gathered his things. His father had been a formidable Sentinel, and part of him was pleased at hearing his mother’s words. But he also found them bitterly ironic. Gerald Lauchlin had despised the Mage’s Oath yet had died preserving it. Darien had always aspired to follow the example set by his father, but he had no wish to meet such a similar, hypocritical end.
He strode back down the hallway, taking lengthy strides to put some distance between himself and his mother’s solarium. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, almost as loud as the sound of his ringing footsteps. He mounted a flight of stairs that took him up, spiraling, into the spire of the Hall.
He paused to catch his breath at a landing, cursing himself silently for the way he had mismanaged the interview. Heat rose to flush his cheeks as he clenched
and unclenched his fists in anger. Darien stood still, taking slow, deep breaths until the throbbing of his pulse subsided in his ears. He started to move forward again but a familiar voice stopped him short.
“So, the prodigal son finally returns.”
Darien sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, wondering just how many tests the gods would throw his way in one day. Then, opening his eyes, he slowly turned to face his only brother.
Aidan looked the same as Darien remembered. He stood leaning against the carved railing of the stair, his black cloak flipped back over one shoulder in the manner he was accustomed to wearing it. It lent him an aristocratic appearance. He stood with one hand tucked neatly behind his back, the other draped over the rail as if it were the armrest of a throne. He gazed upon Darien with narrow eyes that were a perfect copy of their mother’s.
“Still playing with your toys, I see? You should have abandoned them years ago.” Aidan arched an eyebrow, strolling forward down the stairs. He circled Darien slowly, eyeing the leather-wrapped scabbard with an expression of distaste. “Or is it your intention to swear the Oath of Harmony upon that sword?”
Darien sighed, shaking his head. He’d hoped things might have changed between them over the two years of his absence. Meeting Aidan’s gaze, he said, “I was thinking maybe we could just be brothers again. Perhaps it was too much to expect.”
Aidan blinked, a gallant smile springing to his lips. “Not too much, I assure you. It was only a jest.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder with a soft chuckle. The act was condescending, and the smile on his face seemed forced. “Really, Darien, you always take things much too seriously. Here, let me get that for you.”
Aidan swept the pack off Darien’s shoulder and into his own grip without waiting for a reply. He held the dusty leather away from his body, as if afraid some of the grime might smudge off and mar his appearance. He extended his hand in invitation and strolled ahead.
As they walked, Aidan made an attempt at conversation. “I trust your journey was safe?”
Darien nodded, thinking he didn’t have the breath to waste on a response as he considered the spiraling staircase still above them.
“Oh, I just remembered.” Aidan turned toward him, smiling pleasantly. “I have a message for you from Grand Master Meiran. You do remember her, of course?”
Darien glared at his back. His brother was taunting him under the infuriating guise of politeness. Aidan knew all about the scandal that had hastened Darien’s departure two years before. Everyone knew of it.
Darien had pursued Meiran for months, even though she was well above his station and he had no business even being around her. There were no laws forbidding Masters and acolytes from associating in private, but the traditions of Aerysius were more stringent than formal laws.
His mother had caught wind of the affair. Darien had been packed up and shipped off to the Front in all haste, without even a chance to say goodbye. Meiran had received a demerit, unheard of for a Grand Master of her status.
Aidan went on as if ignorant of the whole ordeal. “She sends her regards but regrets she won’t be able to meet with you before the ceremony. Really, Darien, you must have made quite an impression before you left. It usually isn’t considered proper for a Grand Master to be seen chasing around after acolytes.”
“I won’t be an acolyte much longer.” Darien fought to control the anger his brother always had a way of provoking. Then he silently berated himself. He was feeding right into Aidan’s ploy. Not wanting his brother to get the better of him, he added in a lighter tone, “Besides, I was the one who did all the chasing.”
They arrived finally at a level high up in the spire. Aidan led him down a well-lit hall, stopping at a mahogany door about halfway down the passage. He reached out and swept it open with a gallant swirl of his cloak, exposing the chambers within.
Darien stood in the doorway, surveying his new quarters with a feeling of trepidation. This was not the stark cell of an acolyte. The room was as large as his mother’s solar, decorated lavishly enough to suit a nobleman. There was a warm fire already blazing in the hearth on the far side of the room.
“Well, here you are,” Aidan announced. “I trust you find your quarters adequate? I chose the location, but Mother made all the arrangements.”
“I guess it will do,” Darien said, feeling stunned and more than a little overwhelmed. He took a step inside, wondering if it would be possible to get used to so much space after spending the last two years freezing in the cramped cellar of Greystone Keep.
At last, he collected himself enough to say, “My thanks, Aidan. It’s wonderful.”
His brother set Darien’s pack down by the door, hesitating as if uncertain whether he wanted the dirty thing to soil the polished tiles. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t get too comfortable, now. You’ll not want to miss your own Raising.”
Darien barely heard the sound of the door closing as his brother took his leave. He stood gazing around the chamber, feeling too exhausted to think. Moving awkwardly, he leaned his sword against the wall. Then he slumped down into a heavily cushioned chair and found a goblet of wine already poured and waiting on the table beside him.
His hand trembled as he raised the goblet to his lips. He took the liquid into his mouth in thirsty gulps. As he set the spent glass back down on the table, his head suddenly felt too heavy to hold up any longer. He snuggled back into the soft cushions and gazed up at the painted ceiling as a soft ringing sound filled his ears. The ceiling blurred, growing darker, the colors melting and running together.
He never remembered falling asleep. The drug in the wine acted swiftly.
2
Two Goblets, Two Rites
The dark altar existed deep within the heart of the mountain. It was accessible only by someone with knowledge of the vast network of passages that had been formed by the natural action of running water and the hard labors of men thousands of years dead.
The man carrying Meiran’s unconscious body had that knowledge, and other knowledge, besides. He had spent years of his life in preparation for this night, poring over forbidden manuscripts full of dark teachings and secrets purposefully forgotten. A perfect map of the entire cave system existed in his head, along with the methods of disarming the magical traps and devices rigged to prevent access. He had journeyed down these dark passages many times before. The ancient warren was his own personal sanctuary, the unholy shrine his private chapel.
The altar existed in a small chamber roughly hewn from the black rock of the mountain’s heart. The walls wept the wet blood of the mountain down their coarse faces, glistening in the pale magelight he cast. Puddles collected on the floor, stagnant pools that splashed foul droplets up to soil the hem of his cloak as his boots disturbed their black surfaces. He crossed the chamber to the far side, where he stooped to lay the woman upon the worn surface of the altar rock.
The altar was formed from a single slab of black stone with ancient, rusted chains set there to restrain a victim for sacrifice. It had been a common practice among the dark sects of ages past. He didn’t bother with the chains, had even dismissed the necrators after they had served their initial purpose. The woman on the altar needed no restraint, either physical or ethereal. Meiran had been touched by hell’s own shadow. She would never again awaken.
His nostrils sucked in the stale air of the chamber as he went about his business with meticulous efficiency. He removed the black cloak from Meiran’s body, folding it carefully before placing it on the floor.
He then paused a moment, eyes drinking in the thin silk his action exposed. His hand moved to caress the fabric’s texture where it lay smooth against the firm curve of her hips. The touch stimulated him, inciting his heart to quicken its pace. In all his careful planning, he had never imagined this moment could be so irresistibly erotic.
With the back of his hand, he stroked aside a wayward lock of brown hair that had fallen forward over Meiran’s pal
e, perfect face. He continued the motion, running his fingers down the side of her cheek, over her parted lips. He leaned over, brushing those lips with his own tender kiss.
When he bared the sword from its scabbard with a crisp ring of steel, he was pleased to find it just as sharp as he’d expected. In two quick motions, he laid open the skin of Meiran’s wrists to the bone.
Stooping, he bent to catch the pulsing blood flow in a crystalline wine goblet. When it was full, he let Meiran’s arm fall limply onto the surface of the altar.
He turned, then, toward the Well.
The Well of Tears stood in the center of the chamber, made of rough stone blocks and covered with a round slab of granite four inches thick. Around its rim were carved runes in an ancient, unholy script that looked like vicious slashes in the stone, as if made by the claws of a vile beast. The Well was a portal to the darkest depths of the Netherworld, a gateway that opened a conduit straight to the bowels of hell. Once opened, the Well would unleash the dark hosts of Chaos upon the world.
He would have the terror of the night at his command.
Kneeling beside the Well, he dipped a finger into the goblet of blood. The fluid dripped to the floor as he moved his hand to the first rune, tracing its form with the warm blood from Meiran’s veins.
The blood took a moment to absorb into the porous stone. When it did, the marking began to glow with a pale green light. He moved around the rim to the next rune in the sequence, then another, dipping his finger into the goblet and repeating the act all around the rim. He moved carefully, taking his time, until all of the markings glowed with the same pale, sickening light.
But his work was not yet complete. The Well had to be unsealed from both sides. His action had unlocked the side of the gateway that existed in this world. But someone else would have to open it from the other side.
The lid was far too heavy to be shifted by the limited strength of a single man. So he reached within, aligning his mind with the rhythm of the magic field. As if pushed by the invisible hand of a giant, the cover of the Well of Tears lifted and slid aside, falling sharply to the floor with a resounding crash.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 2