“So it seems,” uttered Renquist. “Though I must caution you: thanacrysts have a tendency to turn when you least expect it. They make unreliable pets, at best.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Renquist nodded, looking down at his hands. “I brought you here to make a proposition. My army is twice the strength of your own. I still have six mages at my disposal, along with some unusual pets of my own. Orien’s Circle has been reduced to a lump of slag by your abuse of it. I was up there myself this morning. I’ve seen it. You are left with very few options.”
Darien shook his head. “If that were the case, then you wouldn’t have bothered with this parley.”
The demon’s stare was beginning to unsettle him. Darien could feel himself becoming unnerved, cold beads of perspiration collecting on his brow.
Renquist raised a hand. “What I propose is this: I will withdraw my forces back into the Black Lands and agree to refrain from hostility for a period of two years. All I ask is that you agree to my terms.”
Darien asked suspiciously, “What are your terms?”
“You. I want you to surrender yourself to me.”
Darien glared at him contemptuously. He had seen this coming. It made perfect sense. If he was taken out of the equation, then Renquist could afford those two years to sit back, bide his time, and replenish his armies. He would not want to risk another Black Solstice.
“I’m no fool. My father was murdered in your fires, and Arden already gave me a taste of your flames. I have no desire to repeat the experience.”
But Renquist only smiled. “It is not my intent to kill you. You have impressed me, and that is no easy thing to do.” He paused for a moment, his gaze slipping to the side as if in thought. Then his eyes snapped back to lock on Darien’s with rigid intensity.
“What I propose is this: I want you to accompany me back to Bryn Calazar as my apprentice. I seem to be down a mage, and our number has ever been Eight. You would make a formidable nach’tier.”
Darien blinked, taken completely aback. Nach’tier was an ancient term for darkmage. Renquist was offering him Arden’s place at his side. He would make a demon of him, a minion of Chaos such as himself. Darien was utterly unprepared for the suggestion. The very notion made his skin crawl. Yet, at the same time, it was almost flattering.
Behind him, the thanacryst purred.
“No.”
It was only a moment’s hesitation, but Renquist hadn’t missed it. Black eyes gleaming, he seemed to be savoring the gloating smile on his lips. “Why not? You are almost there already. I can sense it in you. It would take only the lightest brush of a finger to push you over the edge.”
His words were like a whispered omen of damnation. Darien felt them slithering over his skin like the cold coils of a serpent. He couldn’t deny the truth of those words, which made it all the more critical that he deny them urgently.
But there was no conviction in his tone as Darien mumbled softly, “I’m nothing like you.”
He felt dazed, the cold sweat on his brow now running in icy rivulets down his face. The dim lighting of the tent seemed suddenly darker, the air cold and atrociously stale. The sound of his own shivering breath hissed like a gale in his ears.
The smile on Renquist’s face was almost fatherly. “We have so much in common, you and I. A thousand years ago, I sold my soul for a price that, to this day, I’ve never regretted paying. Tell me, Darien. What is your price?”
Darien squeezed his eyes shut as he fought to gather his scattered thoughts, whispering, “You could never afford it.”
“Can’t I?” Renquist challenged ominously. “Then let me sweeten my offer. In addition to the withdrawal of my forces, my Master has agreed to relinquish the spirit of Meiran Withersby, reuniting her soul and body, and returning her to life. It is within His power. What do you say? Commit your soul to Xerys. With one simple word, you would save thousands of soldiers under your command and give them a chance to live to fight another day. And you would be saving the mother of your only child from an eternity of despair and pain.”
Renquist’s words hit with the force of a deathblow.
It was impossible. Meiran would have found some way to get word to him. But he had been at the Front two long years, where news was scarce. Only two birds had arrived from Aerysius the entire time he had been there, both from his mother’s private coops.
Darien whispered, “I have no child.”
“That’s not what your brother told me.”
“Aidan’s lying.” He silently pleaded it was so, even as he knew it was too much to hope for.
“You have a son, Darien,” Renquist insisted. “His name is Gerald, after your father.”
“No … it can’t be.”
Even as he said the words, he realized he was wrong. Aidan was simply not creative enough to come up with something so clever. His brother had a knack for taking the ideas of others and corrupting them to fit his own particular needs. But actually devising something so perfectly cruel? It was as beyond him as the stars.
Aidan would have known that he would never accept Renquist’s offer for any advantage to himself. But this was about Meiran. For months, he had dreamed of her, sometimes falling, sometimes screaming, sometimes writhing in tortured agony. At other times, she was simply smiling at him, the green light of hell shining in her eyes. She had meant everything to him. She had been the singular passion of his life.
And, together, they had made a son.
Aidan had chosen the one leverage he knew Darien could never endure. He had passed along the information knowing it was exactly the fatal brush Renquist would need to send him hurling over the edge.
But Darien had already taken that step himself. At the cliff’s edge in Aerysius, he had looked his brother in the eye and denied him then.
Somehow, Darien found the strength to stand. Staggering, he backed away, shaking his head. As he moved to duck under the low opening of the tent, he heard Renquist’s voice behind him:
“I’ll leave the offer open. Should you decide to change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”
39
The Edge
Kyel was tired of waiting. And he was growing increasingly apprehensive as the long minutes dragged by. Everyone was, especially Swain. The blademaster had a look on his face like curdled death, his oily hair stringing forward into his eyes. The interior of the command tent seemed almost charged with the compressed tension in the air. Even Wellingford was pacing, every so often slapping a pair of white gloves against his thigh with a resounding crack.
“We’re here to discuss strategy,” Blandford said finally. “Let’s get on with it.”
Wellingford shook his head. “We can’t hold this meeting without the Prime Warden. We need his input. He told me there is a darkmage with the approaching army, and only he knows how to counter them.”
Swain grimaced at Wellingford’s use of Darien’s self-proclaimed title. But that was nothing compared to the fury that sprang to his eyes at the mention of the word ‘darkmage.’
Fixing his glare on Kyel, Swain demanded, “You told him about Renquist’s summons?”
At the mention of that name, the tent fell abruptly silent. Kyel glanced around to find every man there standing with faces paled in astonishment. Wellingford stood shaking his head, lips moving soundlessly. Even Blandford’s usual composure was shattered. Emmery’s general slouched with mouth slack and eyes glazed as if poleaxed.
“No!” Kyel gasped. “I tossed it away!”
“Where by all the graceless gods did you toss it?”
Kyel’s mind spun furiously. He didn’t know what he’d done with the note. He remembered crumbling it up in his hand, but after that…
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t remember.”
Swain’s oath was lost in the clamor that exploded in the tent. Everyone was shouting, bandying words like “Renquist” and “darkmage” in panicked voices. Things were deteriorating rapidly,
Kyel realized, taking in the faces of the officers around him. Someone was going to have to get the men back under control.
He was about to raise his hands to get their attention when the commotion suddenly silenced. Every man in the room stood rigid, attention rapt on something behind him. Kyel turned to look over his shoulder and froze, taking in the form of a man who had appeared behind them in the tent’s entrance.
It was Darien. But not the Darien he knew.
The mage’s face was ghostly white, eyes squinting and bloodshot. He stood as if wracked, arms clutched across his chest, shivering. His black hair was spilled over his face, but nothing could hide the look of tortured devastation written there. His eyes were dull and blank, absent even a trace of the presence that was his signature. He looked well past grief, well beyond torment. To Kyel, he looked like a man utterly destroyed.
Swain surged toward him first, grabbing Darien by the arm and swinging him around, maneuvering him out of the tent. Kyel followed, only dimly noticing Wellingford stepping in behind to block the exit. Outside, he followed as Swain dragged Darien into a space between tents. There, the captain seized him violently by the shoulders.
Kyel ran toward them, fearing that Swain was going to start tearing into him by the look on his face. But as Kyel stopped behind him, he realized Swain’s strong grip was the only thing keeping Darien standing. His knees were slack, his body wilting like a droughted stem.
Swain gripped Darien’s face, demanding, “What did he do to you?”
Darien didn’t respond. He just stood staring dimly into Swain’s eyes, sweat trickling down his brow. Kyel looked on as the captain increased the pressure of his fingers, squeezing them mercilessly into Darien’s skin.
“By the whoring mother of the gods—what did he want?”
With a growl that sounded like an injured wolf, Darien broke away from him, twisting his face out of the blademaster’s grasp. He bent over, hands on his knees, glaring up at Swain through the sweat-plastered strands of his hair. His eyes were red pools of scalding hatred.
“He wants me.”
It took Kyel a moment to understand Darien’s whispered words. His voice was so low and broken it was almost unintelligible.
Swain demanded, “What terms did he offer?”
The Sentinel ignored him.
“His terms, Darien!”
Without looking at him, the mage drew himself up and uttered flatly, “He offered to withdraw.”
“What else?”
Darien looked at him, eyes imploring. To Kyel’s horror, he saw the mage’s eyes were filled with tears that spilled freely down his cheeks. The sight struck Kyel with alarm. In the entire time he had known him, through every trial and every sorrow, he had never once seen Darien break down.
“He told me I have a son … and he told me he could bring Meiran back.”
Swain spun away from him with an oath.
Renquist had found the one thing certain to tear Darien apart, the one temptation his nature would never allow him to refuse. Yet, somehow, he had. Somehow, Darien had scraped up just enough strength to refuse him and walk away from that meeting.
But, Kyel realized with dismay, Renquist may have achieved his goal, nonetheless. Darien would never be able to bear the guilt that decision had cost him. One look at his anguished face made it clear the mage believed he’d damned Meiran all over again, just as surely as if he’d thrown her into the pit himself.
And the part about his son … Kyel groaned. What was worse, Darien thinking he had a son somewhere that he could have chosen to bring a mother home to? Or the closure of knowing the boy was dead?
If it were his own child, Kyel decided, he would rather know the truth.
“You don’t have a son, Darien,” he said softly.
“What?” The Sentinel stared at him in bleary confusion.
Kyel shook his head, fighting back tears of his own. “The boy’s dead. I’m sorry.”
“How do you know?”
“They had a book about your family in the Temple of Wisdom. I read it.”
Face constricted in grief, Darien collapsed to his knees. Kyel looked away, glancing to Swain for help.
The captain shook his head. He said in a voice impassively calm, “This is sick, Darien. I’m going to end it right here. Kneel.”
He drew his sword with a shivering scrape of steel and brought it back over his shoulder. The oiled blade gleamed in the moonlight as he adjusted his grip.
Darien just stared at that glistening length of steel as though it was the one thing he desired most in the entire world. His face relaxed, and for a moment he looked calm, almost relieved. But then, firmly, he shook his head.
“No. That sword you’re holding would be a mercy. But I have to finish what I started. There’s no one else left to do it.”
Swain’s blade held fast. He regarded Darien with a level stare that Kyel found impossible to read. There was no trace left in his eyes of the hostile contempt that had been there whenever he had so much as glanced at his former student. Nor was there the barest hint of compassion, or even clemency. But the blade faltered. Swain took a step back and dropped his sword to his side, nodding his head.
“All right,” he allowed, sheathing his blade. “We leave for Aerysius at first light. Come on, Kyel.”
Kyel followed him as Swain turned and strode away. He couldn’t help chancing a glance behind, which revealed Darien kneeling with his head thrown back as if gazing up at the sky. Fine ripples of blue energy coruscated over his body, bleeding off into the night. It was a sad and eerie sight, one Kyel didn’t think he would ever forget. He turned away, leaving Darien alone to silently shed his grief.
He wandered back to the command tent, where he found Swain shooing the collected officers out the back, sending them off without a word of explanation. Wellingford was the last to leave, following the others with a look of intense concern.
“He’s gone,” Swain said when they were alone. He tossed himself down in one of the scattered chairs, bringing a hand up to his brow. “Renquist pushed him too far.”
“I don’t think he’ll make it to Aerysius,” Kyel said softly, thinking of the strange blue light he had seen welling from the mage’s body like lifeblood from his soul.
“I should have ended it back there. This is just cruelty, now. And what if he changes his mind?” Swain sighed, shaking his head. “Can you think of anything that can hold him together, just long enough to get him up the mountain?”
Kyel didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Naia.”
Swain grimaced. “Go ask her.”
He found Naia alone a short distance from the camp, knelt in prayer before a small statue of her goddess. Two small votive candles flickered in the blackened soil just in front of the cloth the priestess had spread over the ground. Sensing his presence, Naia straightened, turning. She didn’t appear surprised.
Kyel felt profoundly sorry for her. He walked toward her, hands clasped together in front of him, and knelt at her side.
“We’re leaving for Aerysius on the morrow,” he said.
The priestess looked down, her eyes trailing back toward the statue. It was hard to tell through her veil, but Kyel thought perhaps she’d been crying.
“I want you to come with us,” he said. “Darien needs you.”
“Did he send you?”
“No.” Kyel shook his head. Something must have happened between them. Darien had probably treated her wrongly, the same way he seemed to be treating everyone. Kyel didn’t want to hurt her worse than she already had been. But there didn’t seem any way around it.
He drew a deep breath and said, “He met with Zavier Renquist tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. But Renquist really got to him, Naia. I don’t think he’ll make it to Aerysius without you.”
Bowing her head, Naia said, “I don’t think I’m the answer, Kyel. I’m not important to him.”
“Is that what he told you?”
The priestess nodded, pressing her lips together tightly. Kyel didn’t know what else to do, so he reached out and took her into his arms, lending her what small comfort he could. Naia accepted his gesture, laying her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Kyel said. “He’s just trying to push you away because he doesn’t want to see you hurt.”
“I wish I could believe that.” Naia pulled back from his embrace.
He didn’t want to, but he had to tell her. “Renquist offered to bring Meiran back. He told Darien she gave him a son. The child’s dead, Naia.”
She gasped, bringing a hand up to her mouth. “How can he stand it?”
Kyel sadly shook his head. “I don’t think he can anymore. That’s why he needs you. Without you, I’m afraid we’ll lose him.”
Naia bowed her head against her chest and sighed weakly. “I’ll come.”
“Thank you,” Kyel whispered, standing up. As he moved away from her, he glanced back to see Naia knelt once again in prayer. The small, wavering lights of her candles had died, drowned out by the melted tallow. The same tallow that, when solid, had once kept the delicate flames alive.
Kyel couldn’t sleep. It was getting on toward morning, anyway, so he rolled out of his blankets and dressed. He occupied his time before sunup by leafing through the text he had brought back with him from Om’s temple, Treatise on the Well. After all he’d gone through to acquire it, Darien had never once asked for it.
Kyel read and reread the passage about sealing the Well. But he found he understood it no better now than he had back in Emmery Palace. The book said something about ‘deactivation of the rune sequence,’ which made no sense to him. He didn’t know what a rune was, how it was activated, or what it would take to deactivate the thing.
And, besides, he found he couldn’t concentrate on that part. His eyes kept jumping down to the bottom of the page, to the last sentence that described the sealing of the gateway.
Kyel finally closed the book with a sigh. It was useless. And it was also time to leave.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 44