Kyel wanted to kick himself for not seeing sooner what had been staring him in the face all this time. The numbers suddenly totaled themselves in his mind. The Circle. The Soulstone. The Bloodquest. Naia. The cliff’s edge. And, on top of it all, Darien had deliberately left him behind.
He’d wondered at the time if the mage hadn’t simply devised those errands as a means of getting him out of the way. He’d figured Darien was planning something particularly dangerous. But now Kyel feared it was something much more sinister than he’d previously imagined.
Kyel whispered, “He said two Enemy armies are going to be merging there.”
“So he intends to use Orien’s Circle to turn them back.” The priest’s voice was chill, like a breath of air from a grave. “Your master is an eighth-tier Sentinel, and Orien’s is a Lesser Circle. It was never designed to focus the vast amount of power he is capable of drawing.”
Kyel groaned.
“Go,” the high priest ordered. “If you ever see your master again, tell him that he’s a contemptible fool. And tell him I want my daughter back.”
Kyel fled the high priest’s study in a rush. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself being escorted out of the temple by two white-robed priests. As soon as he was outside, the reins of his horse were thrust into his hand and the temple door slammed shut behind him.
Kyel stood on the temple steps, slowly blinking in confusion. The chestnut gelding whinnied, shoving its muzzle into his chest. Kyel stroked its neck absently, looking back over his shoulder at the verdigris dome of the sanctuary. Everything was already starting to go wrong. And he hadn’t even begun yet. He mounted his horse and kicked it forward, away from the temple out across the flat floor of the Valley of the Gods.
As he rode, Kyel marveled at the soft pastel hues of the desert around him. If Darien had wanted him to become better-traveled, then he was certainly getting his wish. The cliffs ahead were growing steadily larger, rising from the red soil of the valley floor. He thought he could make out something set in the sheer wall of rock ahead, like shadowy lines traced into the face of the cliff.
As the gelding approached the valley wall, Kyel felt compelled to draw back on the reins. The image ahead resolved into an enormous temple carved into the face of the cliff itself. Great stone pillars rose from a terrace, supporting an overhang that projected outward from the cliff.
The whole structure was bordered by two enormous images of bearded men engraved in bas-relief, their laureled heads encircled by halos of sunbeams. Kyel had seen such representations before.
He knew he had reached the High Temple of Wisdom.
The passage was narrow and dark, the ceiling so low that Kyel had to duck his head as he followed his hooded guide through a vast expanse of solid rock. The path ahead angled sharply downward. Kyel trailed his hands over the rough stone walls to either side.
The cleric was not the same man he’d met at the temple’s entrance. He had waited by the door until a guide was summoned to lead him through the dark warren of tunnels within the cliff. From there, Kyel had been handed off from one guide to another, each leading him a little deeper into the labyrinth.
Kyel had thought the Temple of Wisdom looked massive from the outside, especially when he’d stood dwarfed beneath the carved rock pillars. But his journey through the dark passages had begun over an hour ago, and they had yet to reach their destination. The entire plateau must be hollow, to contain the enormity that was Om’s temple.
The sloping passage seemed to go on forever, straight ahead and always down. The brown-robed cleric held a flaming torch that provided a globe of wavering light immediately surrounding them, but the passage both ahead and behind fell quickly into darkness. Kyel was starting to feel a slight sense of panic, as if the walls and ceiling were pressing in on him. He knew it was all in his mind, but he could not escape the feeling he was being buried alive.
It would have been some comfort if his guides had made any attempt at conversation. But he’d been passed along from one cleric to another without one word ever spoken.
The passage opened into a broad cavern dripping with natural embellishments. Their path wound through a maze of tawny spikes that hung from the ceiling and shot upward out of the floor. Kyel stood amazed, staring around at the jagged cave decorations. Their path led them through columns that erupted from the floor and past stony waterfalls frozen in time.
His guide led him through a dark opening in the wall ahead. Kyel stepped into yet another narrow passage even colder than the last. He wondered how far underground they had come, and how much farther they had yet to go.
They came to a place where the passage was cleaved by a broad corridor, then turned onto a main thoroughfare. Kyel found himself surrounded by scores of brown-robed clerics who passed by in silent swarms, as often as not laden with armloads of scrolls and manuscripts.
What was even stranger was the sound of this bustling underground boulevard. Other than the soft sounds of footsteps and the rustle of robes, the corridor was completely silent.
At the next intersection, Kyel was passed off to yet another guide, this one a young man with the cowl of his robe pulled up over his head. With only a gesture of his hand, the man directed Kyel down a narrow hallway that ended at a door.
That door was the first piece of wood Kyel had seen since entering the temple. His guide rapped once with his knuckles before opening it, then stood back to admit him into the room.
Kyel stopped as soon as his feet crossed the door’s threshold.
Seated on an uncomfortable wooden stool was a man dressed in the clothes of a commoner. He looked to be roughly middle-aged and plump, with thinning brown hair parted over a high widow’s peak. He wore a kindly expression in his red and watery eyes. There was even the hint of a smile on his lips as he nodded a cursory greeting.
But it was the man next to him who drew Kyel’s attention. This man was very old, his white hair streaked with gray. A wiry beard groped down his chest, ending in a point. He sat with fingers steepled on the table in front of him.
Kyel squared his shoulders, thinking of how Darien would have conducted himself in a similar situation. Emulate me, the mage had said. But that was easier said than done. Kyel had nothing of Darien’s innate self-assurance, though the black fabric of his cloak lent him a small amount of confidence.
“Your Eminence,” Kyel said, bowing his head. He had no doubt in his mind that the old man was the High Priest of Wisdom. He felt a warm flush of satisfaction when the priest acknowledged him with the slightest nod.
Buoyed by this success, he took a step forward into the room. “My name is Kyel Archer. I’m an acolyte of the new Prime Warden, Darien Lauchlin.”
The high priest raised his eyebrows and glanced at the man beside him, who returned his look with a frown. The two of them stared silently at one another for a long moment. Finally, the plainly clothed man leaned forward on his stool.
“Greetings, Acolyte Kyel. You must forgive him but, as all of Om’s clerics, His Eminence has sworn a vow of silence.”
That explained a lot, Kyel thought, while at the same time thinking how awkward such a vow would be, especially to men whose lives’ work was the recording of information.
“My name is Cadmus,” the man said. “I serve as the Voice of His Eminence. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Kyel sat, shifting nervously. The two men looked as though they were mired in some sort of silent conversation, fixing their eyes on each other intently. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Cadmus turned back to him.
“His Eminence wishes to see your left wrist.”
The unexpected request made Kyel wince. The chain was a private matter, not something he felt comfortable exposing to strangers. He felt deeply offended by the request.
But he found himself complying anyway. It was a small price to pay if he wanted access to their vaults. Lifting his left arm, Kyel pushed back his shirtsleeve. Exposed, the metallic marking on his wrist glimmered
in the candlelight. Both men stared at the mark, stared at him, then turned back to each other, their eyes silently conferring as Kyel lowered his arm.
“His Eminence wishes to know how you came by such a marking.”
Kyel didn’t know what to say, or rather how much to say. Fumbling for words, he told them, “Darien—I mean the Prime Warden—he had me speak a vow…”
“Do you remember this vow?” pressed Cadmus, leaning forward.
“Aye.” Kyel swallowed. “I do.”
“Would you mind repeating it?”
Kyel took a deep breath, feeling a stir of tension as he recalled the words of the Acolyte’s Oath. It wasn’t difficult. They had been impressed deeply into his mind the day Darien had held his wrist and made him repeat them.
Even before he was finished, the clerics turned away, gazing at each other with shocked expressions. Kyel watched the silent conversation passing between the two as a play of emotions progressed over each man’s face.
At last, Cadmus turned back to him. “His Eminence is confused,” he said. “Darien Lauchlin died during the destruction that befell Aerysius. This fact is known and has been confirmed. His name has been added to the List.”
Kyel wasn’t sure what list the man was referring to. He assumed Cadmus meant some list of casualties, though the emphasis on the word made him wonder. But they didn’t know everything, these clerics of Om. For the Temple of Wisdom, they’d certainly gotten some bad information.
“No.” Kyel shook his head. “He’s alive. I mean…”
Plainly, they didn’t believe him. He closed his mouth, striving to think how he might convince them. He needed these clerics to believe that Darien was alive, was in fact Prime Warden, or he had no leverage to gain access to their information.
“You could ask the high priest at the Temple of Isap,” Kyel suggested at last. It wasn’t much, but it was the only proof he had to offer. “Darien was just there this morning.”
The old man frowned at his words.
Cadmus said, “His Eminence wishes to know why your master was at the temple.”
Kyel opened his mouth to tell them about Darien’s mother but then decided against it. That line of conversation would inevitably lead to the Soulstone. Only, there was just one other explanation he could offer.
Forced to choose between the two accounts, Kyel chose the one he thought was the least damaging. It would scarcely be a secret much longer if Darien followed through with his plan.
“He swore a Bloodquest,” Kyel admitted grudgingly.
The high priest’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing with color. He gestured angrily as he glared at Cadmus. Kyel wondered if he’d made a mistake. Whatever silent conversation was passing between the two men, it was hostile. They seemed to be arguing heatedly with their eyes. At last, Cadmus sat stiff on his stool, turning back to Kyel.
“His Eminence asks that you retire with him to his chambers, where he can speak with you at greater length.”
“No.”
Kyel was startled by the fierceness of his response. He hadn’t meant it to come out that way. But he didn’t have the time nor desire to be drawn into a lengthy explanation. He had too much work to do.
The Temple of Wisdom traded in knowledge, and that’s what they were doing: pumping him for information. He’d already played into their manipulations and told them more than he ever should have. Knowledge is power, Darien had said. If that was true, then he had the upper hand. Kyel had been apprenticed to a merchant, and he damned well knew how to barter.
“That’s not why I’m here,” he said firmly. “I need access to your vaults. And I require someone to help me with my research.”
After only the briefest pause, Cadmus asked, “His Eminence wishes to know what information it is you seek.”
Kyel nodded. It was a fair trade, and necessary. If he wanted someone to help him with the research, then that someone would have to know the topic of his search eventually. He took a deep breath.
“I need to find a way to seal the Well of Tears.”
Both men’s eyes widened simultaneously, and they turned to stare harshly at each other. After long seconds, the high priest finally nodded.
“Your Prime Warden charts a highly dangerous course,” Cadmus said, turning back to Kyel. “His Eminence agrees to allow you access to the vaults and will provide you with the assistance of a cleric to help you with your research during the hours of daylight. But in return, he requests that you join him in the evenings to share with him your story.”
It was a fair trade, at least one that Kyel thought he could live with, if he watched himself and doled the facts out sparingly.
“That I can do,” he said.
The high priest nodded.
“Very well.” Cadmus stood up and offered Kyel his hand.
Kyel rose to his feet and took the plump man’s hand in his own, feeling quite proud of himself as he sealed the agreement.
22
Fortress in the Eye of the Storm
Lightning traced the sky over Greystone Keep as a gust of wind ripped at the black pennant that clung tenuously to its staff at the top of the tower. The frayed banner crackled as a single fiery arrow arched above the stone walls of the fortress. Two more shafts whistled by overhead, followed by a volley. The pennant fluttered, wafting once more before it finally swayed to a rest.
Devlin Craig stared at the banner with a sense of foreboding confirmed by the hiss of the signal arrows arcing up from the bottom of the pass. He’d been expecting this for some time. But now that the threat was upon them, he couldn’t help but feel that all the preparations they’d made in the past five days were merely an exercise in futility.
The reports coming in from Maidenclaw grew more dismal by the day, even by the hour. The most recent calculations placed the Enemy strength at somewhere around forty thousand, an estimate that was still growing.
His own men numbered less than one thousand.
Craig turned away from the battlements and strode toward the ladder, climbing down into the relative warmth of Proctor’s chamber. Stamping his feet on the floor, Craig tried to work some feeling back into his legs. Autumn had faded sometime in the last week, and winter in the pass was always a harrowing affair. By the chill feel of the wind, Craig feared the first winter storm was already on its way.
At least there was some comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have to spend another winter in the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.
For once, Proctor was not at his map. Instead, Craig found him staring out through the narrow opening of an arrow slit. The force commander had one hand raised, pressed against the wall by his face. The other hand fingered the hilt of the narrow dagger he always wore tucked into the belt at his waist. It was seldom visible, usually covered by the folds of his cloak.
Craig always found the sight of that dagger unsettling. It was called a misery knife, a traditional weapon worn by soldiers of the Enemy to give a final stroke of mercy to those fatally injured in battle. Proctor had received the dagger as a gift some years ago and had worn it at his side ever since. He even slept with it.
Craig walked stiffly across the circular chamber to stand behind his superior officer.
“It’s happening,” he said, and waited for the man to respond. But Proctor was silent, not showing any sign that he’d even heard.
Craig felt a stabbing slap of fury. After all the ruthless plots Garret Proctor had hatched, the man seemed suddenly indifferent, now that the end was at hand.
“If you hadn’t driven Lauchlin away, we might’ve stood a chance,” Craig accused. Then he stiffened, seeing the force commander’s hand slide slowly down the ebony hilt of his knife, knuckles whitening as he gripped it.
“Is that what you think?”
Craig sensed that he was treading on very dangerous ground, but he continued all the same.
“Am I wrong?”
Proctor turned to fix him with an icy glare. He uttered in frigid, barren tones, “I did what had to b
e done. Before, we stood no chance. Not against a host this size.”
Craig was still doubtful. “And you think we’re better off now?”
Proctor raised an eyebrow as if challenging Craig to press him further. He appeared to be waiting, perhaps even patiently. But Craig knew better. He had an entirely different end in mind for himself than the blade of that wicked knife.
“I’m not accustomed to being questioned by the men under my command,” Proctor snapped with narrowed eyes. “For over fifteen years, I’ve held the Front with little more than my nerve, my wits, and my audacity. I’ve never asked for accolades or even gratitude from the nations I protect, and I’ve never had either. The one thing I’ve ever demanded is the respect of my own men.”
Craig lowered his eyes. Garret Proctor was arguably one of the best military strategists in all of history. Once, not even that long ago, Craig had felt an immeasurable swell of pride to have the privilege of soldiering under such a commander. He could remember nights when he would sit back at the table in awe, watching Proctor’s eyes wandering over his map, struggling just to visualize the layered calculations and subtle inferences melding together within the man’s head.
But his respect for Garret Proctor had been dealt a sobering blow. In his mind, the image of the man who had once been his hero was now irrevocably tarnished.
Into the interval left by Craig’s silence, Proctor uttered, “Select a small contingent of volunteers to fire the keep and buy our escape with their lives. Then get every man you can on a horse.”
Craig stared at him, stunned, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “You’ll let them take the keep?”
“We fall back,” Proctor confirmed, the threat in his eyes cautioning the captain not to question him again.
Craig took the warning to heart and turned away without another word. He left the command chamber, letting his boots carry him down the winding steps of the tower. He trudged into the open hall of the keep and crossed the floor in long strides.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 28