The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  “What is the situation with this third army?” he asked in a deadened voice.

  “Our scouts have reported thirty thousand on the march, coming by way of the Gap of Amberlie.”

  Darien nodded. His brother’s work, again. “There’s a darkmage with them,” he informed Wellingford. “At least one. You’ll need to meet them outside the eye or be faced with a magical assault.”

  “Where will you be?” his young general asked, looking at him anxiously.

  Darien raised his hand, pointing toward the slopes of the Craghorns, his eyes seeking out the summit of the highest peak. The one surrounded by a faint green nimbus that was barely visible through a veil of white haze.

  “I’ll be up there. If I can seal the Well of Tears in time, it ought to neutralize their darkmage.”

  Wellingford looked at him in mute incomprehension, but Darien didn’t explain. Instead, he said, “We’ll meet tonight in the command tent to discuss strategy. Come with your officers at the turn of Third Watch. I want the officers from Emmery there as well.”

  “Aye, Prime Warden.” Wellingford sounded doubtful. As well he should.

  Darien turned his stare back to the devastated earth, imprinting its scorched features on his mind. He asked, “Have you ever seen the Black Lands, Wellingford?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Well, now you can say you have.”

  He found Kyel and Swain together, sitting by a fire in front of a blue tent. Neither man saw him approaching. Swain looked occupied with honing his blade, while Kyel seemed to be contenting himself with picking lint off his black cloak. The cloak suited him, Darien decided. It made him appear taller, stronger. More confident. Or perhaps it wasn’t the cloak at all.

  The boy he had met at Greystone Keep had grown. He wasn’t a boy anymore, Darien realized sadly. His innocence had been the price of those chains. It was a shame. Kyel’s innocence was something Darien had always admired and even envied.

  Swain glanced up and scowled. The noise of the whetstone became a shrill scrape, grinding down the length of his blade. The sound made Darien’s neck prickle. He understood the threat.

  “I’d like to speak with Kyel. Alone,” he added, glaring at Swain.

  The man shrugged, slamming his blade home in its scabbard as he rose to leave. He kicked out at the thanacryst as he stalked past, but the beast didn’t seem to mind. Its attention was riveted on Kyel, its ears laid back and hackles raised.

  “Theanoch!” Darien snapped at it. The thanacryst whined, slobbering furiously.

  Kyel frowned up at him. His hands fell away from his cloak, the markings on his wrists gleaming metallically in the sunlight. Darien stared down at them, his interest captivated. He had found another thing about Kyel to envy.

  “You’re awake.” Kyel sounded surprised, but not necessarily pleased.

  Darien gestured toward the tent behind him, hoping that the pain he felt didn’t show on his face. The young man had every right to hate him, just the same as everyone else. But it hurt, all the same.

  “It’s time for your last lesson,” Darien said, avoiding his eyes as he moved past him into the tent.

  Inside, he waited for Kyel. He wished things could have been different. In a different world, Kyel might have been his friend. In a different world, he could have married Naia, even raised a family. In a different world, his hands would not be stained in a river of blood, wiped dry on a bed of ashes. His conscience would be clean. He could be the man he’d always wanted to be, was meant to be. Not this.

  But there was no other world, no easy escape. Darien staggered as he lowered himself to the ground, reaching out his hand to steady himself. Kyel stared down at him in concern. The thanacryst in the doorway sounded as if it were purring.

  “You’re not well,” Kyel observed.

  Darien ignored him, gesturing at the ground. “Have a seat.”

  “Darien, you need to listen to me—”

  “Sit down.”

  Kyel obeyed, but his expression was anything but compliant. When he was settled, Darien considered him a moment before saying, “You put on the Soulstone against my command.”

  Kyel shrugged. “You knew all along I was going to do it.”

  It was true. Nevertheless, he couldn’t let the slip in obedience go unmentioned. Kyel was no longer his acolyte, technically, but he was still far from being ready to assume the mantle of a full Master. There was little Darien could do for him now. The remainder would be up to Kyel himself. He could choose to make himself as great as he wanted or settle for much less. It all depended on how much effort he was willing to invest.

  “I figured Romana would leave you little choice,” Darien admitted.

  Kyel scowled and shook his head. “I’m so tired of your games. That’s all I’ve had, ever since I agreed to become your acolyte. I don’t know the first thing about using my gift. All you’ve ever done is set hurdles in my path, then sit back and watch me go over them. The vortex, the Temple of Wisdom, Romana … all just more of your games. I’m tired of them. I don’t wish to play anymore.”

  Darien sighed. “Whether you agree with my methods or not, you’ve learned from them.”

  “What? What have I learned?”

  “For one thing, you would have never stood up to me like this a month ago. And I wager you gave Romana quite a headache.”

  Kyel glared at him. Slowly, his anger seemed to fade, and he dropped his stare to the ground.

  “I was in awe of you,” he said. “When we first met, back at Greystone Keep. You were everything I wanted to be. You seemed to know so much, you were so confident, so committed to what you believed in. But now … I don’t know if it’s losing your Oath, or the Bloodquest, or if your gift’s just eating you up inside. Perhaps it’s everything. But you’re not the same anymore. I think you’re sick, Darien. The truth is, you scare me.”

  Darien nodded, reflecting on Kyel’s words. More gently, he said, “Then learn from my example. Always hold to what you believe in, fix your sight on what’s most important, and you’ll do fine. Everything else doesn’t matter at all.” With a quiet smile, he added, “I wish I could have done so many things differently. Now, it’s too late.”

  “But it’s not too late,” Kyel insisted. “Forget about Aidan. Leave the Well of Tears open, like Swain said. Just go someplace quiet and marry Naia. Settle down in a village and make a life for yourself. Give yourself a chance to heal.”

  The idea was tempting. But he shook his head. “No. We’re leaving for Aerysius on the morrow.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “It won’t be my first.” He left the implied corollary unsaid. “Now. I came to tell you one last thing. You can do almost anything you want with your gift, within reason. There is a natural order that governs everything. Even magic obeys it. If you know how something works, then you know how to manipulate it. But you must be utterly committed to the task. Never mire yourself in doubt.

  “And you need to broaden your knowledge. When this is over, set yourself to the task of study. Learn everything you can about everything there is. Only then will you truly earn those chains.”

  38

  An Unexpected Offer

  The evening was clear and furtively still as Darien directed his horse across the threshold of the vortex. Nose to the ground, the thanacryst loped along at his side, its enormous paws making deep tracks in the snow.

  Darien felt reassured by its vile presence. The beast was small comfort, but its strange devotion was the only protection he retained. Under the torrent of the vortex, the solace of the magic field was once again denied him. Into the night he rode alone, unarmed, and utterly powerless. It was a despicable feeling, but necessary. All weapons were proscribed by the ancient conventions of parley.

  In his right hand, Darien clutched a white banner improvised from a torn bedsheet. The strip of cloth was much longer than it was broad, and he carried it draped over his hand, its frayed edges trailing almost to the
ground. The banner was large enough to be seen from a distance. Darien could only hope that any sentries ahead would see it before loosing their shafts.

  His life now depended exclusively on the honor of a demon.

  He rode in thoughtful silence, reflecting on his decision to obey the crumpled summons in his pocket. He'd convinced himself the parley was a necessary risk. He needed to look Zavier Renquist in the face and take the measure of his enemy. But now that he was fully committed, Darien realized he had been prompted by an underlying motivation much more reckless in nature: he was fascinated by the man.

  In legend, Zavier Renquist had been the greatest Prime Warden the Lyceum had ever produced, vastly potent and passionately committed to duty. Renquist’s treason had been as unexpected as it was devastating. Meeting the man face to face, Darien thought perhaps he could gain some insight into what had driven the most esteemed Prime Warden in all of history to become the most reviled.

  And it burned, the desire to know what the man wanted of him.

  Ahead, there was movement in the snow. Darien slowed his horse, raising the banner to be certain it was duly marked. Squinting, he made out the forms of four riders approaching, their armor as dark as the mounts they sat astride. As they drew nearer, he saw that the men wore full battle plate, tassels swaying from the tips of their spears. If he were in any other place, and these were any other soldiers, he would have taken their strange presence for an honor guard.

  He could hear the jingle of their tack as they approached. Darien waited, the white cloth held in his outstretched hand. The thanacryst stood by his side in the snow, head cocked and ears erect. Its grisly tail began to wag, hesitant at first, then eagerly.

  “Theanoch,” Darien hissed at it. The creature obeyed instantly, whining as great globs of slobber dripped from its mouth.

  One of the soldiers reined his mount around, backing the horse up and drawing abreast of him. Darien peered into the grate of the helm, trying to make out the dim features of the face beneath. He raised the banner in his hand, offering it out across the distance between them. The Enemy soldier lifted a chain-gloved hand and accepted the fragile badge of truce.

  “Demas tur narghul, nan ledro.” Darien said. I have come, as agreed.

  The soldier tipped his dark helm approvingly. “Nan ledro. Come. Follow.”

  The man jerked the reins out of Darien’s hand, riding forward with them held high enough to clear the Tarkendar’s head. The others closed in around him, encircling him tightly as the first soldier led his gelding forward through the snow.

  He sat straight in the saddle, wondering about the significance implied by the tight formation the soldiers were assuming. He had come willingly enough. They had no reason to fear he would try to bolt. It was almost as though the men were arranged defensively, forming a living shield around him.

  Darien wondered what they felt he needed protection from. Perhaps the discipline of the Enemy was faltering, if Renquist feared betrayal from within his own ranks. Of course, Darien had to consider, he was personally responsible for the slaughter of a hundred thousand of their fellows. That could breed resentment despite any amount of discipline, in any army. Renquist was probably just being prudent.

  Darien found himself missing the comfort of the magic field with a desperate sense of urgency. And he missed his sword, the familiar weight of the baldric on his shoulder. Even with his guard, Darien felt more vulnerable than since he’d entered the vortex. He couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering over the snow, alert for sign of treachery. The soldiers that surrounded him rode in silence, but he noted that all four men were examining the surrounding terrain just as avidly as he was.

  Behind him, the thanacryst whined. Darien had forgotten it was there, faithfully jogging along on the heels of his mount. Every so often it paused, scenting the air, and uttered an eager growl.

  They crossed a long, crescent-shaped fold in the land where a frozen stream ran its course. They followed the streambed until a dark object came into view. It was a pavilion, Darien realized, erected in a solitary location at the summit of a snow-draped knoll. Darien took heart in the sight. He’d feared he was being led into the thick of the Enemy encampment. But he also felt a wary sense of apprehension. It seemed Renquist was taking no chances.

  They led his horse up the hill to the front of the pavilion, where the soldiers that ringed him halted together as one. Darien dismounted as two figures emerged from the tent. They were the first men of the Enemy he had ever seen unhelmed, with the sole exception of the dead. Both wore long robes of the same indigo blue, an insignia embroidered on the breast. Darien frowned, trying to make out the features of the emblem, but his view was blocked by a soldier who stepped in front of him.

  “This way.” The man gestured with his hand.

  As Darien moved toward the entrance of the tent, he managed a glance at the two robed men guarding the doorway. The insignia on their chests glared at him, igniting a spark of outrage as he recognized it.

  It was the Silver Star, or something so similar that it made little difference. Darien felt a cold rage in his chest. The two men were mages. That they would dare emblazon themselves with the star of fallen Aerysius took him beyond ire, well past contempt.

  One of the two, a dark-haired man with a cruel scar on his face, glared at him fiercely. Darien almost missed the significance of the white cloak draped over his robe, the cloak of a Prime Warden. Darien stopped, staring at the man in patent astonishment. There was only one person it could possibly be: Cyrus Krane, ancient Prime Warden of Aerysius, now one of Renquist’s fell companions.

  His guards stopped short of the tent’s entrance. The two mages stepped forward, Krane’s eyes coldly examining him, scouring up his body from his boots, lingering on Darien’s eyes. He didn’t appear to like what he saw.

  In contrast, the red-haired man was wearing an almost amiable expression on his face. For some reason, he reminded Darien of Corban Henley, and it was more than just the color of his beard. The man had Henley’s way about him, a cool and deliberate air. He nodded slightly, a look of intrigue in his eyes.

  “Byron Connel,” he gave his name without preamble. “This is Cyrus Krane. Come inside. We’ve been expecting you.”

  He turned, sweeping back a flap of fabric and holding it open for Darien as he ducked to enter. Krane fell in behind them, the hem of his cloak rustling over the snow-covered ground. The warm air that hit his face made Darien feel almost relieved.

  Within, the interior was dark, lit only by softly glowing lanterns set about on a floor covered with lavish rugs. Otherwise, the tent was empty. There was no furniture and, more disturbing, no one waiting within.

  Darien paused, his frown deepening as he felt a sudden stab of panic. He had expected to find Renquist inside the tent. Casting a sidelong glare at Connel, he turned to find that Krane had halted, bodily blocking the only exit.

  “Is this how you honor a badge of truce?” Darien demanded, taking a step back away from the two demons. He should have been more afraid. But the anger he felt overshadowed even his fear.

  “Be at ease,” issued a low voice from behind him.

  Darien spun toward the sound. There had been no one there. But suddenly, inexplicably, there was. Zavier Renquist stood and moved toward him, emerging from the shadows of a corner.

  Darien stared, too frozen to draw breath. He felt Renquist’s stare moving over him. He found himself unable to do anything but stand and be measured, feeling that his every nuance was being probed and exposed.

  Renquist paced slowly forward, hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and exceptionally broad of shoulder, his figure imposing. He wore his long, brown hair pulled back from his face, gathered in a braid at the crown of his head. The white cloak of a Prime Warden hung down his back. He had the look of a raptor, one poised in the air with claws and wings extended.

  Shoulders relaxing, he said at last, “You’re not remotely what I was expecting. Come. Have a seat.” He ext
ended his hand, indicating the rugs thrown over the ground as he lowered himself down upon them, cross-legged.

  Darien struggled to collect himself as he sat across from him. Renquist had caught him off-guard. He had obeyed the summons thinking it an opportunity to evaluate the nature of this legendary man, but instead had become himself the object of scrutiny. Darien tried to swallow the rigid lump that was rising in his throat, threatening to claw its way out. Now that it was too late, he realized he had made a serious error in judgment.

  He should never have come.

  Trying his best to maintain his composure, Darien leaned forward and stared unblinking into the ancient demon’s eyes. What he saw there was harrowing. Renquist’s eyes were sinister pools of shadow that perfectly mirrored his own.

  “What were you expecting?” he asked.

  “A twisted and pathetic wretch like your brother. But you’re nothing like him, I see.”

  Darien hesitated before stating, “No. We are nothing alike.”

  Renquist’s eyes bored into him, probing. It was as though he were considering Darien with sinister intent and was only too pleased at what he was finding. He leaned back, knitting his fingers together, his elbows resting on his knees.

  “The truth is, I find myself rather fascinated by you,” Renquist admitted. “You are the first mage in all of history to ever successfully employ a grand resonance. And it seems you have bested one of my own. I take it that is Arden’s thanacryst?”

  Darien followed his stare, finding the beast curled up behind him in a corner of the tent. He gave a slight nod, wondering what Renquist had to be implying from his possession of the creature.

  To his astonishment, the ancient Prime Warden’s smile broadened. “I thought I recognized it. An unusual pet, for one such as yourself.”

  Darien shrugged. “It seems to like me well enough.”