Quinlan glanced down at the buckle, running his hand across the body of the golden stallion. “Omeyan,” he answered. “My family’s clan. This was my brother’s warbelt.”
Meiran admired the belt, noticing the small collection of implements and sacks that hung from the worked leather. “It’s beautiful,” she told him sincerely. Her eyes went to the weapon that hung at his side.
“Your sword. Show me?”
Quinlan shrugged, drawing the curved blade from its scabbard and offering it up to Meiran with both hands. She didn’t accept it. Instead, she examined the blade as he held it up in front of her. Reaching out, she touched the thin scimitar with her hand, letting her fingers trace the carved elegance of the sword’s ivory hilt.
“It’s a masterwork,” she commented. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Nor shall you ever again,” Quinlan Reis smiled. “Zanikar is the only one of its kind.”
Meiran nodded in appreciation. “Where did you come by such a weapon?”
“I forged it.”
Meiran blinked. She crossed her arms over her chest. “You forged it? Quinlan Reis, are you an Arcanist?”
“I was,” Quinlan responded as he slid Zanikar back into its scabbard. “A long time ago. Not anymore.”
“What are you now?” Meiran whispered, almost afraid to hear his response.
“Now?” Quinlan shrugged, looking down at the ground at his feet. “Now I’m just a demon. The only thing I create anymore is pain.”
8
Ignoble Protector
Darien sat on the edge of the bed and gazed blearily around at the stark confines of the guest room they had provided him. The walls were made of baked mud bricks, as black as the scorched earth they had been molded from. There were no wood furnishings anywhere, not even a door. The bed itself was little more than a straw-stuffed sack covered by a thin blanket with a pillow thrown on top. A granite stand set against one of the walls supported a beaten copper washbowl and ewer. There were no rugs or carpets, no tapestries of any kind. A clay oil lamp rested on the floor in a corner. It produced a softly glowing flame, the only source of light in the room. The indigo robes they had given him lay in a wad on the floor where he’d thrown them down.
Darien stood, pushing himself up slowly with a grimace of pain, and wandered over to the washstand. There, he leaned over, gripping the edge of the cold stone surface with his hands, stretching out the aching muscles of his back. His hands and arms were caked with dried layers of blood.
At least there was water in the ewer. Darien poured it into the copper bowl and dipped his hands in, scrubbing them together vigorously. He continued the motion up his scarred wrists, cupping his hand to scoop the water onto the backs of his arms. He worked the crusted blood into a lather, smearing it around more than actually washing it off.
“May I come in?”
Darien started, flinching at the sound of the voice. Since there was no door, the bedchamber was defined only by a curtain made of strands of beads that hung across the room’s entrance. Through that thin drape, he could make out the serene features of Myria Anassis.
Darien glanced down at himself. He stood clothed only in blood and bruises from the waist up. His arms were dripping fouled water onto the dark bricks of the floor. He was in no shape to receive company.
There was a soft tinkle as Myria’s hand parted the drape of beads enough to peer inside. From the corner of the room, the thanacryst growled.
“Theanoch,” Darien commanded it, wiping his hands on the wool of his breeches. The beast went immediately silent, resting its jowls on its paws.
“I hope it’s not a bad time?” Myria asked, pushing toward him through the veil of beads. She had changed clothes, he noticed. She was now wearing a simple but elegant shift woven of raw linen. Her raven hair hung in lustrous waves down her back, all the way to her slender waist.
Myria drew toward him, a look of concern in her eyes. “I wasn’t sure whether you had knowledge of mending.” She reached her hand toward the side of his face.
Darien winced at the feel of her touch. “I know how to heal. I just didn’t know if it was permitted.” He reached up to where her fingers had so lightly brushed his swollen cheek.
Myria scowled. “Of course it’s permitted. That business down there was all for show. The populace wanted blood. You gave them a taste of it. Now, sit down.” Her tone was suddenly all business-like. She gestured briskly toward the bed.
Darien obeyed even though he was very capable of tending to himself. He sat down on the edge of the stuffed mattress, gazing up into her wide, dark eyes. Myria moved toward him and, bending over, cupped his face with her soft hands. She closed her eyes in concentration.
He could feel the probe she sent through him to ascertain the nature of his injuries. The feel of her power was warm and comforting. Darien closed his eyes, steadying himself for what he knew was about to come next. He gasped when the violent surge of energies hit. At first he fought against it, his mind on the edge of panic from the sudden force of raw power she applied. The healing washed over him like a wave breaking on a shoreline. The pain was erased completely, swept clean away, replaced by a soothing flush of contentment.
He couldn’t fight it any longer. Darien fell back against the mattress, his mind drifting away, born on peaceful tides of slumber.
When he awoke, Myria was still there, still keeping watch over him. She sat on the side of the bed, her face tranquil in the wavering lantern light. Darien reached up and rubbed his eyes. Disoriented, he glanced down. His body was still unclothed, but remarkably whole and clean. The only marks left were old white scars, along with the gruesome markings the Oath had left behind on his wrists. Those would never be healed. They would remain with him always, a constant reminder of the betrayal he had committed.
“You slept a long time,” Myria remarked, peering down at him with a smile. “I didn’t realize you were that injured. Those men were brutes. Here. I brought you some food.”
She stood up from the bed and knelt down, lifting a round serving platter up off the floor. On it were arranged three metal bowls and a copper cup. She slid the platter onto the mattress beside him.
Darien glanced up as the smell of hot food immediately captivated his interest. He squirmed into a reclining position on the bed, gazing down at the platter. All of the small bowls were only partially filled, one with rice, another with a thin red broth. The largest bowl contained a small amount of what looked like vegetable stew.
“My thanks,” he muttered. The healing sleep had left him ravenous. He picked up the bowl of rice first, holding it in his left hand as he spooned the grains into his mouth with his fingers.
“I apologize there is no meat,” Myria informed him as he dined, settling back down on her knees. “In Malikar, it is forbidden to eat the flesh of animals.”
Darien didn’t mind. The spices in the broth consumed his senses. He drank it down thirstily, throwing his head back and draining the small bowl. When he lifted the stew to his lips, he opened his eyes and realized that Myria was still gazing at him.
Suddenly self-conscious, Darien lowered the bowl, replacing it on the serving platter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Her eyes still lingered on him, a quiet smile on her lips. He didn’t understand why she was even still there.
Darien shifted uncomfortably. “Is there … something more you need from me?”
Myria’s face brightened at his question. Her eyes sought his. “There is,” she admitted with a shrug. “I think you know why I’m here. You’re a desirable man, Darien. We have some time before dinner.”
He blinked, taken completely aback by her candor. Never in his life had he ever heard a woman speak so forwardly. He didn’t know what to say. Discomfited, he dropped his gaze to the bed.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head in confused wonder. “I can’t help you with that.”
Myria reached up, stroking the side of his face with her hand. He
r fingers found a stray lock of hair and brushed it aside. She gazed deeply into his eyes with a wistful expression. “Why not? Do you not find me pleasing?”
Darien couldn’t help the half-smile that slipped to his lips as he mused where women like Myria might have been when he was younger. Her dark brown skin was smooth and flawless, her lips plump and perfectly shaped. She was an attractive, elegant woman. And intelligent, perhaps her most compelling feature.
“You’re pleasing enough,” he admitted in all honesty. “But my heart belongs to another. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be fair to either of you. Or to me, for that matter.”
Myria sat back, retracting her hand. She canted her head slightly to the side, her eyes dark and penetrating. “Have you given any consideration to her heart?”
Darien frowned, not taking her meaning. “What are you saying?”
“Meiran isn’t going to want you any more, Darien.”
Her words were just as brutal as they were honest. They hurt more than the wounds she had healed on him. With a grunt, he shoved himself up off the bed. “You can’t know that.”
Hands on his hips, Darien stalked away across the room toward the wash basin. The thanacryst tracked him with its eyes, a low growl lingering in its throat as it sensed the tension in the air.
Behind him, Myria rose to her feet. To his back, she stated, “Then let me ask you something. Doesn’t Meiran deserve a man she can spend eternity with? Or, at the very least, a lifetime?”
Her words halted Darien in his tracks. He clenched his hands into fists until his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. He closed his eyes as the cruelty of her remark sank home, thrusting like a knifepoint into his chest.
“Get out.”
He didn’t look at her again, but he could feel her leaving. The tinkling sound of the beads told him that she had paused in the doorway. Her voice, sad and calm, filtered back toward him.
“Someone had to point that out to you, Darien. I’m just sorry it had to be me.” The strings of painted beads made fragile music as she withdrew. “I’ll be here if you change your mind. Don’t forget to come down for dinner.”
When she was gone, he set the platter on the floor and threw himself back down on the mattress, staring miserably up at the ceiling. Gradually, the rate of his breathing finally slowed. His pulse was still a loud drumming in his ears. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her cold logic out of his brain.
She was right.
That’s why it hurt so much.
The demon-hound stood up and yawned expansively, thrusting its hindquarters up in the air and stretching out its front legs. Then it turned and jumped up onto the mattress behind him. With a desolate whine, the beast nudged its great head between Darien’s shoulder blades as it curled up against his back.
Darien lay there on his side, staring off into nothing. Eventually, he fell back to sleep.
The sound of clinking beads awoke him. Darien sat up, hand going behind him to steady the growling hound. He was almost relieved when he looked up into Byron Connel’s face. In all the Black Lands, the red-bearded darkmage was the closest thing he had to an ally.
The man stood over him, arms crossed over his chest. “Renquist is looking for you. You were supposed to come down for dinner. I told him you were probably still sitting up here sulking.”
Darien raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that what I’ve been doing?”
Connel smirked. “That’s what it looks like to me. Anyway, collect your things. You’re leaving.”
Darien pushed himself up off the bed. The demon-hound jumped down onto the floor beside him. “Leaving for where?”
“The Khazahar,” Connel informed him.
Darien frowned as he bent over to retrieve his blue robes from off the ground. “Where is Azár?”
“She’s with the Prime Warden. I suggest you join them.”
Darien pulled the indigo robes on over his head. He spread his hands out, shaking the sleeves down over his arms. The garments felt foreign and altogether unfamiliar. Heavy. He still wasn’t sure exactly what emotion wearing them evoked.
He reached for his longsword, drawing the baldric on over his head. Seeing it, Connel took a step toward him, reaching up to admire the hilt.
“That’s one hell of a weapon,” he remarked.
Darien glanced down at the silver morning star that hung from a leather strap at Connel’s waist. “So is that,” he said appreciatively. “May I hold it?”
Byron Connel chortled, his eyes glistening with mirth. “Only over my dead body.”
Darien glanced at him sideways. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
The ancient Battlemage shrugged. “No offense taken.” He reached down to his waist, untying the weapon and offering it haft-first to Darien. “Here. Take it.”
Darien frowned, sensing that something wasn’t right. He reached out, his fingers closing around the weapon’s leather-wrapped haft as Connel released his hold.
The morning star fell through his grip with the weight of ten iron anvils. It impacted with the floor with a loud thump.
Darien glanced up at Connel with startled eyes. The Battlemage chuckled. “Go ahead. Pick it up.”
Darien already knew that he couldn’t. But he bent over and tried, anyway. Just as he suspected, the weapon refused to be shifted by his hand. It held fast to the floor, unyielding even as he exerted all his strength against it.
“Thar’gon is an artifact,” Byron Connel explained. “It can be wielded only by the hand of the Warden of Battlemages.”
Darien righted himself, gazing down at the silver morning star on the floor. “But the Lyceum doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Nevertheless.” Connel scooped the talisman up easily into his big hand. He held it up before him, wielding it like a club. “If I should ever fall, Thar’gon will pass to Nashir. After that,” he shrugged. “Then I suppose it would pass to you. If we can ever get you properly trained, you’ll be the only other Battlemage amongst our number.”
He reached out, clapping Darien on the back. Then he tied the weapon to his belt. “Let’s go. You already missed dinner. It’s never a good idea to keep the Prime Warden waiting.”
Darien followed him through narrow corridors lined with dark bricks that seemed erratically placed. The floor was coarse and uneven. It was hard to walk without tripping. Wall-mounted oil lamps supplied enough dim light to see by.
Connel led him deep into to the dark bowels of the ziggurat. It was cool but not cold within; the mud bricks did an excellent job of regulating the temperature of the air. They passed through a drape of beads into a long room lined with many-colored tapestries and colorful drapes of cloth that hung down the walls from the ceiling.
Darien stopped, gazing around as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the chamber. The entire room was richly aglow with the light of hundreds of lanterns, each of a different shape, size, and workmanship. The wash of color was almost jarring after the dim austerity his senses had become accustomed to.
It was obvious that a banquet had been served. Bowls of every size were arranged on wide platters scattered across the rugs, surrounded by brightly embroidered cushions and tall pitchers of drink. Very little was left, Darien realized. Servants moved silently on the fringes of the room, clearing away the remnants of the feast. Of their own party, only Myria, Renquist and Azár remained. The others had already departed.
Upon seeing his arrival, Myria stood and approached. Darien’s stomach tightened as she drew near. She leaned forward, her lips softly brushing first his right cheek then his left.
“Go in peace,” she whispered softly in his ear. Her hand caressed his. Then she turned and left.
When she was gone, Darien continued to stare into the space she had just occupied, vexed by conflicting emotions. He had nothing against Myria; the more he thought about it, the more he realized she was absolutely correct. But neither was he attracted to her. Her cruel words had quenched any spark of desire he otherwise might have felt.
Darien frowned, puzzled by his master’s greeting. “Dark’s grace?” he said, his mind groping through his knowledge of the language for the correct interpretation.
“Evening’s grace,” Zavier Renquist corrected him. “That would be the literal translation. It simply means, ‘good evening.’”
“Peace,” Byron Connel whispered as he turned to go. He squeezed Darien’s arm in warm reassurance before departing.
Darien gestured with his hand, stationing the demon-dog at the chamber’s entrance. Then he approached the Prime Warden and sat down upon a cushion on the floor across from him. He gazed down at the nearest platter of food, eyes wandering over the wide assortment of dishes that remained. One in particular attracted his attention. It was a plate of grilled meat served with herbs over a bed of grain.
“I thought flesh was forbidden,” he said.
Renquist cast him a stare weighted with ominous significance. “Nothing is forbidden me.”
Darien nodded, silently absorbing the import of the man’s assertion. He gazed straight ahead at the plate of meat.
“Go ahead,” Renquist offered. “Have some. I will arrange for more if you find it to your taste.”
Darien shook his head. “Thank you, no, Prime Warden. I ate earlier.”
Zavier Renquist leaned forward, eyes raking over Darien’s face and down the robes that covered his body. His dark eyes narrowed. At last, he nodded slightly, seeming satisfied.
“Myria tended you well,” he said. “Do you resent me, Darien, for consenting to have you beaten?”
Resent him? No. Darien did not resent him. It had not been Renquist’s intent to do him lasting harm. It had been his own actions that had brought about the necessity. Darien understood that, now, and accepted it. It had taken him a long time spent in contemplation and suffering to achieve that level of acceptance. The demons that haunted the Netherworld dealt harsh but practical lessons. They had little patience with justification or intent.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 57