The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  The temple doors were shut and bolted from the inside. Emelda pounded on the heavy wood with both fists, then stepped back to gaze upward at the walls. The temple was far from the largest building in the city. The followers of Death were not many. Most people usually honored the goddess only when they had to.

  No one came, so Emelda picked up a brick and used it to bang even harder. She shouted up at the windows, calling for anyone who might hear her pleas.

  At last, the temple door cracked open. A face glimpsed out, but in the shadow of the doorway, Emelda couldn’t see well enough to make out features. When the door opened a little wider, she realized she was looking into a face hidden behind a sheer veil of white, the trademark of a priestess of Death. The eyes looking at her through that translucent fabric were wide and dark, gently untroubled.

  “Sanctuary!” Emelda cried, almost throwing herself into the arms of the priestess. The woman received her, ushering her across the threshold and bolting the door behind them. Emelda could hardly see through the tears of gratitude clouding her vision.

  The interior of the temple was dim, lit only by a few tapers on tall iron candlesticks. There were only two windows above the door that admitted little light. But the shrine at the far end of the room was brilliantly lit by the combined flames of hundreds of glowing votive candles.

  Emelda blinked, not understanding how there could possibly be so many. Then she realized: each candle represented a soul lost in the catastrophe that had destroyed Aerysius. Those candles had probably saved her life. The priestess had lingered behind instead of fleeing to safety, probably to offer those hundreds of tiny prayers. It was a valiant effort. Emelda turned back to the priestess with a new appreciation for the woman.

  “I claim the right of Sanctuary,” she announced, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I request passage through the Catacombs of Death, by right of the temple’s agreement with the Hall. I am Prime Warden Emelda Lauchlin. I demand my right of passage.”

  The woman blinked at her through the diaphanous white veil. She was striking, with dark auburn hair that flowed down her back past even the length of her long veil. Her eyes gleamed with the bright spark of intelligence.

  “That would explain why your candle refused to light,” the priestess said, the sound of her voice soft and resonate. Emelda immediately recognized the lilting accent of Chamsbrey on her tongue.

  “I am Naia Seleni, First Daughter of the Goddess Isap,” the young woman informed her. “Perhaps you should sit a moment before we attempt the shadows of Death’s Passage. The journey is not easy. I recommend we wait a bit.”

  Emelda doubted they had time to wait. But, too exhausted to argue, she allowed the priestess to guide her to a bench in front of the shrine. Emelda waited there as the woman retreated into the shadows of the temple.

  As she sat, she allowed her gaze to drift toward the rows of flickering flames. Looking at them, she wondered about the death each candle represented. How many had been lit for mages she had known and worked with all her life? Emelda stared harder, seeing each candle individually, allowing her gaze to drift gradually down one of the lines. She must not think of them collectively, she realized. Each candle added its own, distinctive light to the dance of flame, and each deserved singular consideration.

  The priestess returned, carrying a chalice in her hands, the white gown she wore flowing behind her as she moved. The woman handed Emelda the chalice and waited while she drank deeply. The priestess accepted the empty cup, gazing at her from behind the glossy sheen of her veil.

  “Would you care to offer a votive candle? I lit as many as I could, but I fear there are thousands more my prayers have neglected.”

  Emelda nodded, feeling the grief rise up again inside. She would light two candles: one for Darien and one for Tyrius. There were many more she would like to include in her prayers, but she knew the list would probably take days and fill many such shrines. She did not have that kind of time.

  So she accepted a candle from the priestess and took a striker into her hand. Kneeling down before the shrine, Emelda decided the first prayer should be for Tyrius, who had died trying to save her life.

  She depressed the striker, and the wick of the candle flared instantly to life: a bright golden flame that wavered gently. Closing her eyes, Emelda whispered a soft, heartfelt prayer for the soul of her dear friend. Then she placed the votive candle on a shelf with the others, its single flame adding its light to the collective brilliance. A tear ran down Emelda’s cheek as she withdrew her hand.

  “Another?” the priestess offered.

  Again, Emelda could only nod. She accepted Darien’s candle into her hand, her fingers closing around the soft tallow. Her hand trembled as she depressed the striker. The first glowing spark missed the wick and floated to the floor, burning out long before it hit the stone. Emelda pursed her lips in concentration, desperately willing her hand to stop shaking. She squeezed the striker again.

  This time the spark went right to the wick. A soft flame flared into being, glowing strongly. Then it immediately smoldered out.

  Emelda sobbed in frustration. She tried again, but the candle refused to light. She started pumping the striker, producing spark after spark that rained down in a glowing shower to the stone floor of the shrine. She stopped only when she felt the woman’s hand close around her own. Emelda looked up into the face behind the veil, her own eyes filled with tears.

  “I don’t understand,” she cried, shaking her head. “Will the goddess not accept my prayers for my fallen son?”

  The priestess looked down to regard the candle in her hand. “Try again.”

  Emelda squeezed the striker one last time. The spark wafted straight toward the wick of the small candle. The wick caught, the flame flickering only once before dying out again. The priestess nodded slightly, raising her gaze to look Emelda in the eye.

  “The goddess accepts only prayers for the souls of the dead.”

  That meant nothing to Emelda. She shook her head again, weeping in frustration. In a voice quavering with suppressed grief, she whispered, “I don’t understand.”

  The priestess’ mouth turned upward in the faintest hint of a smile. In that comforting, resonate voice, she promised, “Your son’s spirit yet lives.”

  5

  Sweet Lady Luck

  Kyel Archer slouched, hands in his pockets, as he slogged with his head bowed through the muddy streets of Covendrey. His clothing was drenched, soaked through with rain, his hair dripping and plastered against his face. It had been storming for days, with no sign of letting up. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be warm.

  He hadn’t been gone from home two days, and already he missed the comfortable chair by the hearth. That chair had been lovingly shaped by his own hands. It fit him perfectly. He was not a craftsman by trade, though perhaps he should have been. He had a certain feel for wood. But he’d decided to keep to the craft as a pastime, afraid of losing his love of wood if he took to it for a living.

  So he had apprenticed himself to a merchant instead. He had a wagonload of trade goods to get all the way to Rothscard and back in a fortnight. In this weather, Kyel was skeptical he would be able to make that deadline.

  The door of the Dancing Boar Inn wasn’t hard to find, even in the rain. Kyel pulled the door open, stamping the mud off his feet. As he strode into the comforting warmth of the inn’s interior, he was surprised to find it nearly deserted. The Boar’s common room was generally filled with patrons at any given time of day, but strangely there were only two people sitting at a long table, another man squatting by the hearth, warming his hands over the flames.

  Kyel knew everyone in Covendrey and recognized the men at the table as Aber Feldman and Dale Hodgens, the Boar’s joint owners. The man by the fire was Traver Larsen, who ran a dye-house on the other side of town. Kyel had grown up with Traver but knew Dale and Aber only socially. None of the men had noticed Kyel standing behind them, his wet clothes making a small pool of
water on the floor.

  He took another step and a board groaned beneath his weight. The sound made all three men startle. Traver jumped to his feet, whirling toward him. A slow grin formed on his narrow, wolfish face. He started toward Kyel with his hand out, gesturing broadly.

  “Well, look what the wind blew in!” he laughed. “What are you doing, Archer, sneaking up like that? Either you’ve become damn good at skulking, or I’m getting deaf in my old age.”

  Kyel couldn’t help but smile. Ever since Traver had become a father for the third time, he’d gone around bemoaning the fact that his family was going to drive him to his deathbed at the ripe old age of twenty-three. How that was going to happen, Kyel couldn’t imagine, since Traver was scarcely ever home.

  If anyone should be complaining, it was Traver’s wife, who was usually stuck raising the children and running the dye-house while her husband was out carousing. Traver had spent the last five years becoming a regular at every taproom in the township and had racked up more debt than the business his father had left him was worth. There were few establishments left in town that would even allow Traver through the door.

  “I came in the back way,” Kyel said, directing his words to the two men sitting at the table. Both Dale and Aber stared at him with eyebrows raised, no doubt wondering if Traver’s accusation of skulking had any grain of truth to it.

  “Did I leave that damned door open again?” Aber rose from the bench, clunking the tankard he was holding down on the table.

  “Next time use the front door,” Dale admonished. “And don’t just stand there, drippin’ wet. Grab a towel and dry off by the fire next to that drunk of a friend of yours.”

  “You’re drunk, Traver?” Kyel asked, making his way toward a neat stack of towels.

  “Cold sober. These good gentlemen here won’t even grant me a drop.”

  “And why should we, Larsen?” Dale asked. “You still haven’t paid for last month’s binge. Plus, all the crockery and chairs that were broken when you picked a fight with that fellow up from Southwark.”

  “Harlen Wood.” Traver scowled, tossing his head against an unruly lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “He started the fight. I was just defending myself.”

  “Whatever you say.” Dale hefted his tankard to his lips. “Just mind your manners, or you can find your way back out again. You know where the door is.”

  “Sure do.” Traver’s wry smile was almost a sneer. “You’ve thrown me out it enough times.”

  “How are the boys?” Kyel asked, though he doubted Traver had any idea.

  “Oh, they’re just fine. Getting to be real pains in the arse.” He took a chug of water then grimaced, as if the taste of mere water repulsed his palate. “How’s your own get?”

  “Just fine.” An image of baby Gil with his hand outstretched filled Kyel’s mind. Suddenly, he felt very homesick. “I’m going to miss him.”

  “Aye, I’ll miss mine too.”

  Kyel frowned, glancing sideways at Traver. “Where are you going?” He suddenly felt more than just homesick—another sensation filled him, one akin to panic. Little bits and pieces he’d missed began tallying together in his head, like a column of numbers on the inventory sheets he worked with. What they added up to was certain trouble.

  A broad grin broke out on Traver’s face as he reached over and clapped Kyel on the back. “Why, I’m going with you!” he announced splendidly. “I’m your driver! How’s that for luck? It’ll be just like old times, won’t it, Archer?”

  Kyel reeled, feeling as if the bottom had just been yanked out of his stomach. What was the old man thinking, hiring Traver of all people? Just like old times—that was an exasperating thought. Kyel had the sudden urge to find a privy and empty his guts into it. This run was too important for anything to go wrong. If Traver mucked it up…

  “I don’t understand,” he said, forcing the words out and blinking like a bludgeoned ox. “What of the dye-house? Who will take your business into hand? What of Ellen and the boys?”

  Traver waved his hand dismissively. “She gave me the boot weeks ago. Where have you been, Archer? That’s old gossip. I thought everyone in town knew. I came home one night and found all my things out on the street. All stacked up in gift boxes! Mum even helped her pack it all. She gave Ellen the dye-house. My own mother! Can you believe it?”

  Yes, actually, he could. Quite easily. He was just surprised Ellen hadn’t kicked the bum out sooner. The rest of the numbers totaled up in his head and, when they did, he almost groaned. So now Traver was looking for work, had no place to live, and no coin to pay for his habits. Somehow, he’d gotten snatched up by Kyel’s own employer, who’d been looking for someone to make the Rothscard run after firing the last man two days before. And now Traver was Kyel's problem.

  “I need a drink,” Kyel said, standing up. He reached out and steadied himself against the hearth as his knees wobbled and threatened to give out from under him. Pushing off from the stone, he walked with shoulders slumped and head bowed toward the back of the inn as images of drunken Traver disasters filled his mind.

  “This is going to be great, Archer!” Traver called after him. “Like old times!”

  Kyel did groan, then.

  The Great Northern Road looked more like a half-forgotten cart trail in the leagues between Dansbury and Hunter’s Home. After almost a week of bumping along in the seat beside Traver in the wagon, Kyel still found himself wincing every time one of the wheels slipped into one of the ruts in the road. He couldn’t help but wonder if Traver wasn’t trying to bounce them around intentionally.

  Even still, they were making good time, despite the bad weather. Kyel slept under the wagon, afraid someone was going to plunder his goods in the night or assault them at sword-point. There was rumor of deserters drifting down from the Front, which didn’t instill Kyel with much reassurance. He almost wished he had hired a mercenary.

  As the sun was starting to set, the wilderness gave way to farmland and pastures: a sure sign they must be approaching a town up ahead. They had left Dansbury three days before. There, they had stayed at a decent inn where Kyel had managed to get a good night’s sleep between fits of Traver’s snoring. Since then, they’d been sleeping under the wagon again.

  Kyel’s back longed for a bed. Almost every town they’d come across had offered some type of accommodations for travelers. The Great Northern Road was a major trade artery connecting many of the Rhen’s kingdoms. Kyel just hoped the inn at Hunter’s Home would be a civilized one and not like the seedy Scarlet Maiden in Weeping Springs or the Pig’s Ear in Gentry.

  The sun had already set by the time Traver drew the horses up in the inn’s yard. Kyel jumped down and stretched his legs for the first time in hours. There were not many people about, just two men standing by the door of the inn and a stable boy crossing the yard with a bucket in hand. Kyel signaled the boy over, flipping him a coin for stabling the horses and locking the wagon up for the night. He waited for Traver to climb down then made his way toward the inn.

  Two rough-looking men standing by the inn’s door glared at him as Kyel gathered his things and crossed the yard. When he reached the door, the pair refused to move aside, forcing Kyel to turn sideways to brush past them. He looked down, unable to meet their stares. He’d run into other men just like them on the road and didn’t like their type. Although unarmed, the two had the look of mercenaries, and not the kind looking for legitimate work.

  The interior of the inn was musty and dark, redolent of smoke and liquor. Kyel crossed the great room toward a balding innkeeper who stood at a counter polishing crockery with a cotton towel. Kyel decided after a minute of waiting that the innkeeper either didn’t see him or was ignoring him on purpose. He conspicuously cleared his throat to get the man’s attention.

  “What do you want?” The bald man didn’t look up from his task.

  “A room and a meal. And a place to lock my wagon up for the night, and board and feed for my hors
es.”

  The innkeeper raised his eyebrows as he set the crock he’d been polishing down on the counter, flipping his towel over his shoulder. Then he extended his hand, palm upward.

  Kyel had to reach into his coin purse a few times before the man was finally satisfied. Then he turned to see where Traver had gotten himself off to. Kyel found him leaning against a wall by the door, staring longingly at a pair of men in the corner intent on a quiet game of cards. Kyel shook his head, starting toward him.

  “Come on,” he urged, tugging at Traver’s sleeve. “I’ve got us a room for the night.”

  Traver glanced at him with a pleading expression. “Might I borrow some coin? I’ll pay you back from my wages.”

  Kyel rolled his eyes and sighed. Traver had been behaving himself rather well the entire trip. It wasn’t as if the Elk’s Horn was a gambling den, and the two men in the corner seemed harmless enough. Reaching into his coin purse, Kyel pulled out a few coppers and dropped them into Traver’s eager hand. The way the man’s face lit up made Kyel shake his head.

  “You have a problem,” he told him as he clapped Traver on the arm.

  “It’s never a problem if you’re winning,” Traver grinned.

  Turning, Kyel swung his pack over his shoulder and made his way toward the staircase. He didn’t look back as he took the stairs up to the second floor. He was going to wash up and have supper. After that, he was going to bed.

  He considered canceling Traver’s meal but decided he’d better not. Traver was going to have to do an awful lot of winning. Kyel had only given him five coppers.