The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  He entered the fortress, the warmth flowing from the door of the hall a welcome relief. He yearned to go in and sit beside one of the hearths, to relax and ease the tension that gripped his shoulders like a vice. But instead, he let his feet take him up the winding stairs toward the top of the tower.

  As he entered the circular chamber, he found Darien packing. The mage was squatting on the floor, tying up his bedroll as Archer stood behind him staring down with wide and fearful eyes. The Sentinel didn’t look up as Craig walked toward him, but the boy glanced at him with a beseeching expression, as if begging him to do something, anything at all. He stopped a few feet away from Darien’s back, watching him complete the knot he was working on with a sharp tug on the cord.

  “You’re leaving,” Craig observed.

  Darien just nodded, not pausing in what he was doing. Craig gazed down at him as the mage slapped his bedroll against his pack, securing it firmly with leather straps.

  “Where will you go?” Craig asked.

  Darien rose from the floor and, without looking at him, stalked across the room to the table, scooping up an old map.

  “I’m going home,” he said, still with his back to him.

  Craig felt at a loss. He had no idea what to do. Darien couldn’t be serious, but somehow Craig knew he was.

  “Then I’ll come with you.”

  “No.” Darien shook his head. “This is my battle. You’ve your own war to fight.”

  With that, Darien slung his pack over his shoulder, gesturing for the boy to follow him. Craig moved forward, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

  “Wait. Don’t do this.”

  Darien finally brought his gaze up to regard him. “I don’t have a choice.”

  He disengaged himself from Craig’s grasp and started toward the opening of the stairs. But there he stopped, drawn up short by the form of a woman emerging from below, robed all in white with a sheer veil obscuring her features.

  Craig’s eyes widened in surprise. The woman seemed so utterly out of place against the stark confines of the chamber that her very presence seemed surreal. Distracted by her looks, he almost didn’t realize the significance of the white veil and dress. When he did, the shock was like a blow in the face.

  What was a priestess of Death doing here?

  The woman swept her gaze across the faces of the three men in the chamber, her eyes finally coming to rest on Darien. She moved toward him, then swept to her knees at his feet, bowing forward and pressing her face against the floor. She remained there as the mage stared down at the top of her veiled head, frowning in consternation.

  “Rise,” he directed her finally.

  Craig watched as the woman gracefully regained her feet, his mind spinning as he tried to make sense of the scene. It was not customary to abase oneself before any mage, even a Sentinel of Darien’s status. Only the office of the Prime Warden had ever commanded such a humbling display of deference. He wondered what the woman was up to.

  In a voice by no means gentle, Darien asked her, “What would the Temple of Death have of me?”

  The woman dipped her head slightly, dark auburn curls spiraling out from under her veil. With an unruffled expression on her face, she stated formally, “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Naia Seleni, First Daughter of the Goddess Isap. I bear urgent tidings of your mother.”

  Darien just stared at her for a moment, jaw set in anger. “If you’ve come all the way here just to tell me she’s dead, then you’ve wasted your time. I already know.”

  The woman blinked as if taken aback, her brow furrowing as she seemed to be reassessing the man before her. At last, she bowed her head. “I offer my most sincere condolences, Prime Warden.”

  “I am not the Prime Warden,” Darien corrected her. “Aerysius has fallen. The dead have no need of titles.”

  But the woman refused to yield. In a calm and yet adamant voice, she said, “You are the last surviving Master of Aerysius. Whether or not you acknowledge it, the office of the Prime Warden has fallen to you. And you are correct. The dead have no need of titles. However, the living still do.”

  Darien glared at her with a look that would have sent any other woman scurrying for the stairs. But the priestess held her ground and returned his gaze patiently.

  “I have been sent to bring you back with me to the High Temple of Death at Glen Farquist, in the Valley of the Gods. There, your mother lies in state. The power of her gift has been transferred to a holding vessel and awaits you there to receive it.”

  The woman’s seemingly innocent words had the effect of infuriating Darien. He stepped toward her menacingly, towering over her. “Do you take me for a fool? A mage’s legacy can be transferred only through physical contact.”

  The priestess gazed into his face through the screen of her veil. She said in a placid voice, “I apologize if I have distressed you. The vessel I am referring to is a relic of the Lyceum. It was placed in the keeping of Death’s Priesthood before the fall of Bryn Calazar. I speak the truth, Prime Warden, this I swear.”

  “Don’t call me that again.”

  The woman bowed her head, spreading her hands. “What would you have me call you, then?”

  To Craig’s surprise, the mage simply shrugged as if defeated. “Call me Darien, like everyone else.”

  “As you wish. Darien.” The way she said it made it sound like a taunt. “But though you deny your right to your title, I must urge you to never forget from where the name itself was derived. The words ‘Prime Warden’ were chosen because they mean, literally, ‘first guardian.’ Aerysius is no more, but that does not mean your responsibilities ended upon the death of your home.”

  “What exactly are you insinuating?”

  “Merely that I could not help but overhear your conversation on my way up the stairs. Tell me, Darien. Do you truly believe the First Guardian of the Rhen would best serve his duty by wasting his life in a futile quest for vengeance? If you return to Aerysius, you will die. You have no chance against your brother’s strength, nor the power of the gateway. Would not your life be better spent in service to the Rhen?”

  Darien’s eyes narrowed, seething. “You presume too much. You came here to take me to my mother. I suggest we go before she rots.” He stalked past her out of the chamber, the sounds of his heavy footfalls echoing up from below.

  Craig did not want to believe what he’d just heard. Once again, he had the gnawing feeling that something had shifted in the man, as if the part of him that had any feeling had simply just given up and died. He turned his head to find Kyel Archer staring at him, a look of questioning disbelief on his face. The priestess was regarding the opening of the stairs warily, mouth open and eyebrows raised.

  Kyel followed his new master down the stairs, pausing only long enough to retrieve his bow and pack. He didn’t want to go with Darien, but his place was at his side now. He’d found himself growing nervous around the mage. He was starting to wonder if the man had finally broken. There was, after all, only so much a person could take.

  Downstairs, he found Darien standing on the last step, glaring at Garret Proctor, his whole body shaking. The mage’s eyes were wide and wild, his hair falling in disarray. He stepped down onto the level of the floor, slowly circling the force commander with a glare of vicious contempt.

  “Very soon, the Enemy will sweep down on you in numbers unimaginable.” Darien leaned forward threateningly as he paced. “You must fall back. You’ll have to harry them as much as you can and try to buy me time. I’ll meet up with you at Orien’s Finger at dawn on the morning of the Solstice. Draw the majority of their strength into the eye of the vortex, and I’ll see to it you get your wish.”

  He started to turn away, but halted, stabbing a glare back at Proctor with hatred in his eyes. “I hope you’re damn well satisfied. We’re both going to burn in hell for this.”

  With that, he strode through the door of the hall as Proctor gazed after him in silence. Almost, Kyel thought there w
as the slightest hint of a smile on the commander’s face.

  Kyel let his feet take him forward into the hall. He moved as if through a haze, not really paying attention to anything but the panicked thoughts that circulated through his mind. So absorbed was he that he didn’t notice Traver moving to intercept him.

  “What’s going on?” Traver pulled him aside. Kyel looked at him in relief, comforted by the sight of his familiar face.

  “I think we’re leaving.”

  Traver gawked. “You’re going with him?”

  He thumbed his hand over his shoulder in the direction of one of the hearths, where Darien was stuffing leavings from the evening meal into an oiled sack. Kyel hadn’t told Traver about his commitment to the mage, fearing what his friend would say. Glumly, he reached down and folded back his shirtsleeve, exposing the marking on his wrist.

  Traver’s eyes went wide in alarm, his face paling. He grabbed Kyel’s arm, closing his fingers over the emblem and glancing around, making sure no one else had seen it.

  Kyel found himself propelled forward, dragged along by the firm grip of Traver’s hand on his wrist. The man led him to a corner, pressing him back against the abrasive stone wall of the keep.

  “What are you thinking?” Traver hissed at him. “That thing could get you killed!”

  “Traver—”

  But his friend continued right over him, “Look, if you were having problems, you ought to have come to me. I’ve lots of friends now that—”

  Kyel found himself shaking his head. “Traver, it was my decision.”

  “Well, it sure was a bloody poor one!” the man shot back. “Perhaps it’s not too late. Tell that darkmage you don’t take well to responsibility. He’d have to believe you, because it’s the plain truth. Tell him he’ll have to find someone else.”

  “It’s too late” Kyel shook his head miserably. “I’ve already spoken my first vow.”

  “Bloody hell, Archer! I always figured you were a little dense, but I didn’t know you were downright stupid!”

  Over Traver’s shoulder, he saw Darien heading back toward the door of the hall. Kyel pressed his lips together, suddenly saddened. He didn’t want to leave Traver behind. But the only other option was to talk Darien into bringing him along. He could only imagine how that would go over. Darien would put up with Traver for about as much time as it took the mage to toss him over the nearest cliff.

  “Look, I have to go. Good luck to you, Traver. Try your best not to get killed, all right?”

  “You’re telling me not to get killed? With that damned thing on my wrist, I’d be a little more worried about my own hide! Do me a favor. If he tries to give you one of those bloody cloaks with the target on the back, just tell him black’s not your color.”

  Kyel found himself grinning. “So long, Traver.”

  When he glanced back, he saw Traver slouching against the keep’s cold wall, slowly shaking his head. Kyel walked out the door, across the floor of the tower, and out into the cold, foggy night.

  He strode down the stairs to where his horse was still saddled and waiting. Just as he drew up at the mage’s side, Darien put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself over the back of his warhorse, sending it at a canter toward the path that led down and out of the pass. Kyel stared after the black gelding, not quite sure what to think.

  Darien hadn’t even looked at him, had just turned and ridden away. He didn’t know if the man still wanted him to come along or not. He felt wretchedly confused. Not knowing what else to do, he stood there by his horse and waited for the priestess.

  It didn’t take her long. The woman glided down the steps with regal grace, stopping beside him and regarding Kyel with a questioning look on her face. Her gaze slid slowly down his arm, and for a moment Kyel couldn’t figure out what she was looking at. Her eyes widened as if she had just arrived at a startling revelation. When she looked up again, all trace of uncertainty had disappeared from her face.

  It took him a moment to realize he’d forgotten to pull his sleeve back down after showing Traver the mark of the chain. Embarrassed, he tugged the fabric back over his hand. He was going to have to be more careful about that in the future. Traver was right. In the wrong places, that mark could get him killed. Even in the right places, it was not something he wanted generally known.

  “Now, where did he run off to?” the woman muttered as she pulled herself onto the back of her mare.

  Kyel pointed in the direction of the path.

  “He certainly wastes no time.”

  The mare trotted forward before Kyel was even halfway on his horse.

  They caught up to the Sentinel about half a league down into the pass. Darien had slowed his horse to a walk and was riding with his head bowed. He didn’t show any sign that he even noticed their presence until the woman’s horse had drawn abreast of his own. Even then, he only glanced her way.

  Kyel tried to read his expression but found it impossible. There was no emotion written on Darien’s face.

  They rode in silence along the narrow path out of the mountains, winding along the steep slopes ever downward toward the Cerulean Plains. It was the same path Kyel had taken coming up, but he hardly remembered it. He hadn’t been able to see much of anything and hadn’t been in the mood to notice much anyway.

  But tonight was a very different journey. The wind was still, the lights of the clouds brighter. The sharp peaks of the Shadowspears thrust upward all around him, ranging away into the foggy distance. It was, he had to admit, the most beautiful night he had seen so far in the pass.

  The sound of Darien’s voice actually startled him. “Where is the nearest entrance to the Catacombs?”

  Kyel glanced toward the priestess, watching the frown that developed on her face beneath the obscurity of her veil. As if hesitant to answer, she took her time about forming a reply. “Death’s Passage is no longer safe. Its secrets have been compromised. We must ride to Glen Farquist from here.”

  “Glen Farquist is a month’s hard riding. I can’t afford that kind of time.”

  The priestess only shrugged, her motion disturbing the neat drape of her veil. “You must make the time. The Catacombs are not an option. They have become infested with dark creatures and fell shades. Also, the Eight are abroad and making use of them. Your own mother was murdered within.”

  Darien glowered. “The Enemy is preparing to mount the largest offensive we’ve seen in a thousand years. At Winter Solstice, two great hosts will sweep down through the North to merge at Orien’s Finger. That’s eighteen days from now.”

  The woman appeared startled. “How do you know this?”

  “Arden Hannah told me.”

  The way he said it made it seem like the most natural thing in the world. But his statement made the priestess gasp, yanking back on the reins and drawing her horse up. The look in her eyes was one of fear mixed with outright revulsion.

  “You have actually spoken to one of the Eight?”

  Darien nodded. “Right before she tried to kill me.”

  “You’re quite a mystery, Darien Lauchlin. How exactly did you plan on returning to Aerysius to wreak vengeance upon your brother and still manage to make it to Orien’s Finger by Solstice?”

  Darien shrugged. “It’s a week to Aerysius from here. And another week to Orien’s Finger.”

  “And what do you intend to do once you arrive, Bound as you are?”

  “I hadn’t the faintest idea till tonight.” A strange smile formed on his lips, the first Kyel had seen since his argument with Proctor in the tower. “But we must make use of the Catacombs. It’s our only chance of buying enough time.”

  The woman shook her head, this time more adamantly. “No. I forbid it.”

  “Then our journey ends here.” To Kyel’s astonishment, Darien brought his horse around and turned it back the way they’d come. The woman stared after him with an exasperated look.

  “You would give up your own mother’s rare and precious gift merely to have
a chance at slaying your brother?”

  “That’s right. When the battle is joined in truth, I can’t afford to have Aidan at my back.”

  Kyel frowned. Perhaps the man was not insane, after all. What he said did seem to make sense. A desperate kind of sense.

  The priestess relented with a sigh. “You would have made a formidable priest of Death.”

  “What I really need to be is a formidable mage.”

  “Have no doubt. You are.” The woman didn’t appear pleased by that. “The nearest entrance to the Catacombs is at a shrine off the Great Northern Road, southwest of Wolden. We can make it there by tomorrow if we ride straight through the night.”

  The horses plodded along, picking their way down the narrow trail. Kyel found it hard to stay afraid when such extraordinary changes were taking place all around him. It happened so slowly that at first he didn’t notice the transition. But gradually, the clouds were loosening their hold on the sky, and the dawn was becoming brighter.

  Plants started to appear on the sides of the mountain slopes: sparsely at first, then growing thicker as they went, until the hills around them began taking on a hue of astonishing green.

  And then a wondrous thing happened. The clouds parted overhead, and a ray of luminous sunlight fell across his face, far brighter than he ever remembered. Kyel brought his hand up to shield his eyes, blinking as he stared up into a blue morning sky.

  The sun had never felt so warm or so welcome. Below, the verdant foothills of the Shadowspears spilled down into a grassland so rich and green and consummately bright that Kyel found himself wanting to cry with joy. It had been almost two months since he had seen blue sky, or even so much as a single green leaf. The breeze stirring toward them from the grassland was warm with the sweet, rich smell of autumn.

  “The Cerulean Plains,” Darien stated. He lifted his arm, pointing toward a branch of the mountains that marched southward to their right.

  “Orien’s Finger lies in that direction. There’s a Circle of Convergence at its peak, where Grand Master Orien made his stand against the Enemy four hundred years ago. The plains are covered by an enormous vortex that begins just north of the town of Wolden, which means we’ll be passing through the outer margin of it.”