Darien stared down at the medallion in his hand. A play of emotions ranged over his face, as if a truly inspirational notion had just occurred to him. He raised the Soulstone to clutch it tightly against his chest. A wistful smile appeared on his lips, growing until it spread to touch his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” he breathed. There was no mistaking the ominous excitement in his voice.
The high priest didn’t seem to miss it either. The old man’s face hardened into a frown, and he stabbed an anxious glance sideways at the priestess. Naia regarded Darien with a look of startled indignation. Kyel felt his own stomach wrench. He found it easy to follow the mage’s train of thought. Darien wanted to use that medallion on his brother, and the desire for it was strong enough to make his eyes shimmer with the thrill of anticipation. The look on his face was frightening.
In a carefully controlled voice, Luther Penthos said, “You have my condolences on the passing of your mother. I knew Emelda Lauchlin well, just as I also knew your esteemed father. And I can assure you, Prime Warden, that neither one of your parents would condone what is so obviously passing through your mind.”
Darien blinked, torn away from his dark thoughts by the old man’s blunt words. He shot the high priest a look of resentment, tightening his grip on the medallion until the hand that contained it was trembling.
“Before you presume to judge me, why don’t you go stare for a while at the shades of my brethren in your Catacombs. While you’re at it, go look upon the ruins of Aerysius and the unholy light of hell that corrupts the skies above it. Then, if you still can, come back and tell me the man responsible for those atrocities doesn’t deserve to die a traitor’s death in pain.”
“He is your brother,” Naia protested before the high priest could wave her into silence.
“The gods abhor fratricide, regardless of intent or reason,” Luther Penthos said. “Such an act would condemn your soul to the Netherworld for all eternity.”
Darien shrugged indifferently as he stuffed the medallion into a pocket of his cloak. “Then at least I’ll be at peace.”
Kyel heard Naia make a strangled sound as Darien strode away. Turning to the high priest, she explained rapidly, “He wants to offer himself before the Goddess of the Eternal Requiem. I tried to convince him otherwise, but he’s obsessed with the notion.”
Luther Penthos stared at Darien’s back until the mage disappeared through the doorway.
“If you cannot dissuade him, then I’ll try. But there is nothing we can do to stop him. It is forbidden to deny the petition of a supplicant.”
Kyel moved forward, inserting himself between them as he turned to Naia.
“What are you saying? What exactly is he trying to do?”
The priestess looked up at him. “Darien intends to disavow his Oath of Harmony and commit himself instead to the Goddess of Death in an ancient rite called a Bloodquest.”
20
Goddess of the Eternal Requiem
The corridor was dark and silent, the echo of his boots the only sound, the azure glow at his feet the only source of light. There was no one in the halls but himself, no one to question him about where he was going and why. He had already made his decision. Now, all he wanted to do was get it over with.
Darien descended the stairs and pushed open the door of the shrine, letting the magelight spill ahead of him into the room. He fed the light with a trickle of power and looked on as it spread out toward the four corners of the room, illuminating the shrine in an otherworldly glow.
Darien turned his gaze to the nearest torch and watched it sputter into flame. He looked around the room. Fire erupted along the walls, each individual torch blazing to life in quick succession. Then he let go of the magelight, allowing it to recede into the shadows of the floor.
Pacing forward, Darien looked up into the marble face of the goddess. A shiver of apprehension stole down his back, inspired by the statue’s serene but critical eyes. He stopped, his chest at a level with the goddess’ outstretched hand.
Darien stared at the bent fingers as he contemplated the curious significance of the gesture. Then he dropped to his knees, bowing forward and pressing his hands against the cold stone of the floor. He closed his eyes, emptying his mind of all thoughts save one.
Sitting back, he raised his hand over his shoulder, his fingers closing around the hilt of his sword. He drew the blade slowly forth, wielding it before his face as he grasped the hilt in both hands. He lowered the weapon carefully, taking it by the flat of the blade.
“Goddess have mercy on me,” Darien whispered as he stood. He offered the sword into the statue’s outstretched hand. The hilt fit easily within the marble cradle of her palm, fixing itself perfectly in the clasp of her bent fingers. He stepped back, releasing his grip and staring in wonder at the sight of the goddess wielding his own sword, the point leveled at his racing heart.
A thin line of sweat streaked down his brow as he knelt on the floor, abasing himself before the statue. His breath came in gasps, heart pounding in his ears. Unbidden thoughts flooded his mind like a drowning river, churning images and twisted feelings of violence and tragedy, betrayal and grief.
Before the discerning eyes of the statue, Darien bared his innermost soul, ashamed by the bleakness of it.
He knelt there on the chill floor of the shrine, staring up into the face of the goddess as slow degrees of exhaustion stole over him. Sometime in the darkest hours of night, the torches winked out one by one.
When the last flame finally guttered and died, Darien did nothing to restore the loss of light. Instead, he lay back across the hard tiles. When sleep finally took him, his dreams were plagued by the shades that haunted the desolate vaults of the Catacombs, calling out to him across time and eternity. It was impossible to tell whether those pleas were cries for vengeance or urgent appeals to abandon his perilous course.
Drenched in a cold sweat, Darien writhed in his sleep on the stone floor of the shrine, completely oblivious to the changes taking place above him in the darkness.
He awoke to bright, saturating light. Squinting, Darien pushed himself up off the floor, for a moment disoriented as he sat there blinking, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Dim memories of the night crept slowly back to him, and with them came a shiver of foreboding. He looked up at the statue, his eyes tracing the silken flow of the goddess’ robes upward to her face. As he gazed up into her stone visage, a silver glint above her caught his eye.
It was his sword, held aloft by a slender arm that was now extended over the statue’s head. The blade was poised in the air at a threatening angle. Darien froze, feeling a heart-numbing sense of dread. He brought a hand up to rub his eyes, an effort to deny what he saw. But when he looked back up, the blade was still there, wielded firmly in the goddess’ stone grasp.
Darien pushed himself the rest of the way off the floor, rising stiffly to his feet. As he did, a soft rustling sound behind him made him turn. Startled, he saw Naia sitting behind him on a step. He wanted to turn away from her, anxious to avoid her grief-stricken face. But for some reason, he found he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Sitting there in her white gown, hunched over with her arms wrapped around herself, the priestess looked nothing more than a frail child, scared and alone. The look in her eyes was imploring. Part of him wanted to go to her and catch her up in his arms, to offer her what comfort he could.
But she was a priestess of Death, the white veil that stood between them an outward symbol of her vow of chastity.
And then there was Meiran, not yet even two months dead.
Darien bowed his head, ripping his gaze away from her and turning back to the statue of the goddess with fresh resolve. He took a step toward it.
“Don’t.”
The urgency in her voice stopped him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Instead, he stood in the middle of the room as if frozen. He could feel her eyes on his back. Darien stared at the statue, praying fo
r the goddess to give him the strength he needed to finish what he had started.
“Please don’t do this.”
Her words made it seem possible that he had a choice. It would be so easy just to turn and leave the shrine, to abandon his sword and simply walk away. The temptation was sweet. With one decisive act, he could preserve his integrity, his dignity, even the tattered remnants of his humanity.
But at what price? And who could he ask to pay it?
“I must,” Darien said. He didn’t know if the response was intended more for her, or rather for himself. There was scant conviction in his tone.
He heard the stir of her gown against the tile, the whisper of her slippered feet as they crossed the floor toward him. Her hand touched his cheek, directing his face toward hers with gentle pressure. He stared through her veil into her deep brown eyes, desiring nothing more than to drown himself in them and forget everything else in the world.
“No one’s making you do this,” she insisted. “No one has the right to expect this of you.”
It took every shred of courage he had to turn away. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Have you even paused to consider the repercussions that might arise from this? Or the ethical considerations?”
“Of course I have.” Darien backed away from her toward the statue. “This is war, Naia. I’ll leave the question of ethics to the clerics of Om. Let them stew over it for the next hundred years. I don’t have the time.”
But she was relentless, moving forward until she had him cornered against the statue’s base. “And what of you, Darien? Are you prepared to accept the personal costs?”
“What do you mean?” He frowned at her.
“Simply put, you don’t seem like the sort of man capable of genocide. Yet, if you use your strength to turn back these armies, you will have the blood of thousands on your hands. And not all those deaths will be Enemy casualties, unless you intend to strike down each soldier individually, one by one. Are you certain you could live with that guilt?”
He bowed his head, knowing she was right. But he also knew it made no difference. This was the plate the gods had served him. Without meeting her eyes, he said, “I’m not certain of anything, at the moment. In truth, I’ve done my best to avoid thinking about the sort of questions you’re asking.”
“Then perhaps that means something, Darien. Perhaps you should give yourself more time to come to terms with this decision before rushing into a commitment that could destroy you.”
“No.” What she was asking was impossible. If he paused even a day, there was a chance he would lose his resolve. “I don’t have time. If Arden Hannah’s right, then both armies are already on the move. Everything else she told me has so far proven true. As we speak, men under Proctor’s command are likely engaging the Enemy. Greystone Keep might have already fallen. I have but a fortnight to travel all the way to Orien’s Finger, or Rothscard will be next. And then Auberdale.
“Don’t you understand? I don’t have the right to stand here debating ethics with you while the North falls around me. Once I thought I had that luxury, but I don’t anymore. There are no simple answers to your questions. I could still be standing here struggling with them as the South falls, as well.”
As he spoke, a change crept over Naia’s face. The feverish intensity dissolved, replaced by an expression of uncertainty. And there was something else there as well, reflected back at him from the depths of her eyes. He wanted to deny it, but there was no mistaking the tender compassion in her gaze.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“What? Naia, you’re a priestess. Your place is here, not on a field of battle. I don’t understand what purpose you think you could even serve.”
She shrugged as a sad smile formed on her lips. “Someone is going to need to keep you human.”
Darien just stared at her. What did she think, that he was going to turn himself into the next Zavier Renquist? His mind reeled, suddenly plagued by doubt. That was exactly what he had been afraid of, all the times he’d argued so passionately about his Oath. But that had been before Royce’s betrayal, before the fire. Before Arden Hannah had touched him, caressing his face the same way Naia just had. But Arden’s touch had been poison, a slow-acting venom that was rotting his soul.
Naia said, “Take me with you. That is my one condition for helping you, if you insist on going through with this.”
Darien sighed, shaking his head. “You’ll do nothing but slow me down.”
“And Kyel won’t? I’m a far better rider than your acolyte.”
“Kyel is not coming with me.”
“You’re turning him loose?” she gasped. “By the gods, Darien, the boy’s not nearly ready!”
“I need him to do a few tasks for me. And he’ll be much safer in Rothscard.”
At that, Naia choked out an incredulous laugh. “You’re sending that boy to the Queen of Emmery? Oh, I pity poor Kyel.”
Darien couldn’t help but smile. It had been one of the better notions he’d conceived late in the night. He had no doubt Kyel would find himself in over his head, but that was exactly the position he wanted him in. “It will be a good learning experience for him. A true lesson in diplomacy.”
“You’re a harsh master, Darien Lauchlin.” Naia smiled.
“I try.”
Her smile was so infectious he found himself grinning back. “So what do you think His Eminence will say about me stealing you away from him?”
Naia’s gaze took on a positively devious glint. “I’m quite certain he won’t stop me. Especially if I neglect to tell him I’m leaving.”
“I hope Kyel isn’t taking lessons in obedience from you.” He let his smile fade, his thoughts returning to the issue at hand. Behind him, the goddess still stood with his sword held aloft in a warding stance. “So how do we do this?”
The priestess sighed, looking upward to the statue. “I need to make a few arrangements. Why don’t you go clean up a bit, or the goddess still might find it in her heart to reject you.”
Her words brought a vivid image to mind of the night of his Raising.
“What?” Naia sounded concerned.
Darien blinked, retreating from his thoughts. “Oh, it’s nothing. This just reminds me a bit too much of the last rite I participated in. I only hope this one has a better outcome.”
She stared at him with a look of incomprehension. “I hope so too.”
Frowning up at his sword firmly wielded in the goddess’ hand, he asked, “If the gods abhor even the notion of fratricide, then why was my petition accepted?”
“It would seem, in this case, that an exception has been made.”
Then she left him, departing in a shimmering sway of silk. Darien watched her go, following her movements with his eyes. When she was gone, he turned and glanced back up at his sword, seeking there for solace. But it was the wrong thing to do. The blade reminded him too much of Meiran.
As did Naia.
He found Kyel still asleep, wool blankets piled over him, his head resting on a mound of goose-down pillows. Darien sat on the edge of the bed, reaching his hand into the pocket of his cloak. He withdrew the silver medallion, running his fingers over the facets of the pulsating gem.
Kyel stirred, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He squinted upward, eyes fixing on the Soulstone in Darien’s hand. His brow creased as he pushed himself upright.
“This is for you,” Darien told him, offering the medallion to Kyel. The young man reached for it hesitantly, lifting it by the silver band of the collar. He held it, swaying, before his face.
“I want you to keep this on you at all times and never let it out of your sight. But don’t put it around your neck just yet. You’ll have to wait till I say the time is right. Do you understand?”
“Aye. I do.” Kyel let his hand drop to the covers.
Darien studied the young man’s face, trying to read his expression. So many of the plans Darien had made in the quiet darkness of the shr
ine depended on his young acolyte. He decided not to dilute his expectations; Kyel could only refuse him. And if he did, then it would be better to find out now, when he still had a chance to reformulate his strategy.
“I’ll be leaving you for a time,” Darien said as he studied Kyel’s face intently. “While I’m gone, I have two favors to ask of you.”
“You’re sending me away.”
The boy was perceptive. He was also not happy about the notion. Darien decided to admit the truth. Or, rather, a version of it. “In part. I can’t risk us both. If something happens to me, I’ll need you to carry on in my stead.”
“I’m not certain I could do that.” Kyel frowned up at him.
“Then let’s hope you’re not put in that position. But if you are, I trust you’ll make whichever decisions are best.”
Kyel nodded, looking sullen as he turned the medallion over in his fingers. “So where is it you’re sending me?”
Darien stood up, reaching down to pluck the Soulstone out of Kyel’s hands. He wanted the young man’s full attention. Kyel finally looked up at him, silently fuming.
“First, I need you to ride to the Temple of Wisdom, which is just across the valley. Present yourself to the clerics there and tell them you represent the Prime Warden.”
“I thought you didn’t care for that title.”
Darien shrugged. “It does seem to have its uses. In war, we must find whatever weapons we can, and use them however we can manage.”
“So now you’re going to war against the clerics of Om?”
Darien shook his head. “No. You are.”
Kyel’s look of shock was mildly satisfying.
He went on to explain, “I must find a way to seal the Well of Tears. I’ve no idea how to accomplish that. If anyone does know, it will be Om’s clerics. Have them take you down to their vaults but insist they provide you with someone to help you with the research. If you don’t, they’ll just let you muck about down there till you die of old age having never found a single thing. It’s one of their common ploys.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 26