The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Azár glanced back at him. “That does not sound happy. So why is it the best memory you have of him?”

  Darien hung his head, ashamed to admit his feelings. He didn’t like thinking about them, much less feeling them. “Because it was the last time I ever saw him.”

  She lifted his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss against his skin. Then she fell quiet. The horse carried them southward with a steady gait. Eventually, they came to a place he recognized.

  It was the shrine.

  The lone building rose out of the grassland ahead, forlorn and isolated. Darien turned the horse away from it. His memories of this place were far from comforting. The shrine led to the Catacombs. Which had led him to breaking his Oath. To his mistreatment of Naia. To the sacrifice of his soul. It led to everything that had gone wrong. He wanted nothing more to do with it.

  The shrine, like his past, slipped behind him and disappeared in the distance.

  It wasn’t long until they came upon the encampment. They were greeted by a party of scouts, who rode out toward them on captured mounts, most looking unstable in the saddle. Darien gazed sadly at the approaching men. These were a people descended from the greatest horse culture the world had ever known. Yet they were so far removed from their origins that their blood had lost all trace of its memory.

  Sayeed galloped toward them on a horse as red as Darien’s, scattering soldiers out of his way. He drew his mount up and leaped to the ground, falling to his knees. He stared down at the trampled grass and, drawing his sword, offered it up.

  “Lord, I have failed you twice. Please take my life.”

  Darien dismounted, handing the stallion’s reins to Azár. He walked forward until he was standing over Sayeed. He wasn’t sure what to do. This was a matter of sharaq, he felt certain. And he had no idea what the proper response should be that would preserve both Sayeed’s life and honor. He remembered the promise he had made back at Kajiri flats, that if the Zakai ever failed him again, they would forfeit their lives. Gazing down at Sayeed, Darien now regretted those words. He would lose every drop of sharaq he possessed if he didn’t follow through with that threat.

  He had no choice. A wrong had been committed, and it would have to be redressed. Or his command—and Sayeed’s life—would end here today.

  Accepting the sword, he set the edge of the blade across the officer’s neck. Sayeed remained motionless, frozen in his bow. He suffered the blade’s touch without so much as a flinch. Darien’s mind scrambled through options, finding none that were certain and safe. He decided to settle for the uncertain. And the unsafe. He widened his stance, adjusting his grip on the hilt.

  “Sayeed son of Alborz, you have now failed me twice,” he pronounced. “But I failed you first.”

  He retracted the sword and cast it to the ground. Gasps of dismay issued from the soldiers gathered around.

  “I put myself in harm’s way, leaving you and your men without recourse.” He drew his own blade. “I dishonored you and all the Zakai. My life is yours. Take it.”

  He fell to his knees, offering the weapon out before him. Sayeed raised his head to gape at Darien's sword with horrified eyes. All around, soldiers looked on with faces frozen by shock.

  Azár leapt from the horse with a strangled cry.

  Time froze. Not a soul moved.

  Sayeed lurched to his feet.

  Darien felt his sword leave his hands. There was a moment’s pause. Then the sharp edge of the blade kissed the skin of his neck. He closed his eyes and hoped. There was no other way. Not if he wanted to preserve Sayeed’s life and honor. He hoped that by putting him in an impossible position, the soldiers couldn’t blame Sayeed if he failed to strike.

  Darien felt the blade’s edge trembling against his neck, sending shivers down his nerves. Sayeed was Zakai—a paragon of discipline. He’d been molded from birth to remain steadfast, even in the direst of circumstances. That Sayeed couldn’t maintain a steady grip on his hilt warned Darien of his danger.

  In a voice fraught with dread, the officer proclaimed, “Warden Darien Lauchlin, you have failed me and all the Zakai. For that, your life is forfeit.”

  The pressure of the blade eased. Then it settled back down again as Sayeed adjusted his aim. Darien felt a terrible chill wash over him. He realized he’d made a fatal mistake. He had underestimated the rigidity of the Zakai’s honor code.

  He would have to kill Sayeed.

  Darien’s vision exploded as a body plowed into him, hurling him to the ground. Another soldier collapsed on top of him, knocking the wind from his lungs. Pinned to the dirt, Darien struggled as another man added his weight. Soldier after soldier fell on top of him, shielding him from Sayeed’s strike with their own bodies and lives. He lay prone on the ground, gasping for air, his ribs crushing his lungs.

  The weight pinning him shifted, then released.

  He was jerked to his feet and held there by Sayeed. Dazed, Darien looked around to see every soldier kneeling in a great circle. Only Sayeed remained standing, his face a mask of outrage.

  He let go of Darien, shoving him backward. Then he threw the sword on the ground and stormed away.

  “You are stupid!” Azár raged, pacing away from him.

  Darien scooped up a jug then sat down on the floor, pouring himself a cup of water. His gaze tracked his wife’s motion as she stalked away from him across the length of the tent.

  “Stupid!”

  Azár paced back toward him. She stopped, looming, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “What were you thinking?!”

  She whirled and paced away.

  “Stupid!”

  She made a growling sound deep in her throat. Then she jerked back the tent’s partition and tore through it. Darien listened to the sound of her footsteps stalking off, followed by one last “Stupid!”

  He let out a sigh and leaned back against a tent post, closing his eyes in weariness. Azár was right—he had acted stupidly. He should have never confronted the townsfolk without a guard. He’d let his command of the Onslaught go to his head. And, because he had, he’d almost lost his head. He brought his hands up to rub his face, cursing his own arrogance.

  “Brother.”

  He looked up to find Sayeed holding back the cloth partition. His commander’s face had lost some of its anger, though not all of it. Darien sighed, feeling defeated. Figuring that he was due another scolding, he beckoned the man in. Sayeed claimed one of the cushions against the wall, sitting back and crossing his legs. Scowling, he dug the cushion out from under him and tossed it in front of Darien, then scrambled forward to sit on it.

  Sayeed lifted a finger and opened his mouth to say something. But then he snapped his jaw shut, closing his eyes as if reconsidering his words. Then, with renewed conviction, he leaned forward and shook his finger in Darien’s face.

  “I would have killed you to preserve your honor!” His voice was strained with rage. “Do you understand? That is the position you put me in!”

  Darien gazed at the man he had named First Among Many. He took a sip of water. “No. That’s the position you put yourself in. I’m not going to murder you just because you’ve got a sick sense of honor. So don’t ever ask me that again—or neither one of us is going to come out of it with any amount of sharaq left.” He tossed the water out of his cup onto the rug, grumbling, “I need something stronger.”

  He rose and went to select one of the jugs that lined the walls of the tent: all gifts from the various clan chiefs. Unstoppering one, he took a drink that burned his throat and made his eyes water.

  “This’ll do.”

  He filled his cup and offered another to Sayeed, returning to his seat. He took another drink, making a face as the liquor went down. “What is this?” he gasped. It was horrifically strong—exactly what he needed.

  Sayeed smelled the liquor without tasting it. “It is rika. It is served during times of celebration. Or times of woe.”

  Darien grunted, taking his cup back and raising it to his
lips.

  “Stop. Rika must be served a certain way.” Before Darien could object, the man snatched the drink from his hand. “This is too much,” he snapped. Sayeed returned most of the liquid back to the jug. “First, you must pour your cup into my cup,” he said, performing the act. “This shares your troubles with me. Then I pour my rika back into your cup. This gives your troubles back to you, but also my understanding. Now we drink together. You must drink it all at once.”

  He raised his cup, gesturing for Darien to follow suit. Darien stared at the beverage warily. There was a lot more rika left in the cup than just a sip. But he followed Sayeed’s prompt and drank it down, grimacing at the fire igniting in his gut.

  “Now you must speak of your troubles,” Sayeed said, refilling their cups.

  Darien felt the magic field waver as a fiery warmth spread throughout his body. He drank the second cup that was offered, then quickly received a third.

  “That is all until you speak,” Sayeed told him.

  Darien stared into his cup, searching for words. He was not even sure if he could put a label on his feelings. They were too muddled, too rampant. It was like mixing different textures of sand in one vessel: impossible to separate and identify. And, he had to admit, he was nervous about what the man might think of him.

  He took a breath, admitting finally, “I’ve slain a lot of people in the past week. People who were my kin. People I’d sworn to protect.”

  Sayeed shrugged. “You are allowed feelings. You are allowed guilt.”

  “That’s good, because I’ve a hell of a lot of it.”

  “Are you losing resolve?” Sayeed mixed his cup of rika with Darien’s. His voice was conversational, but Darien knew better. He could sense the man’s hesitance.

  “No.” He couldn’t afford to lose resolve. Too much depended on him.

  Sayeed said, “Your orders and actions have been without mercy. You have nothing to prove, Brother. You can afford to show compassion to those you have defeated.”

  Darien shook his head. “No. I don’t want to kill any more people than I have to—killing isn’t my goal. To take the North, we’ll need to drive them southward. We can do that either by the sword or by fear. I choose fear. That’s why I have to be ruthless. ‘Compassion is like a dull blade: it might seem kinder in the moment. But in the end, it often deals more cruelty,’” he said, quoting a maxim of the Arms Guild.

  He swallowed his rika, then reached up to rub his eyes. He felt enormously weary. It went much further than just the effects of the liquor. He was weary all the way to his bones.

  “Be warned, Brother,” Sayeed said, leaning forward. “There is no mercy for the merciless.”

  “Is that another one of your proverbs?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is prophecy.” Sayeed climbed to his feet. “You’d better find your bed, Brother.”

  9

  Alexa

  Kyel lay Alexa down on a bed of oak leaves and covered her with his black cloak. He sat there for a while, making sure she was going to be all right. Then he stood up, dusted off his pants, and set off into the forest to find Cadmus.

  He wandered through the dense bracken with a heavy heart. The cleric hadn’t returned after the attack, which wasn’t a hopeful sign. So it wasn’t a surprise when he found Cadmus lying pantsless and bloodless in a ditch. Kyel stopped yet a ways back from the cleric’s body, knowing there was no sense in going any further. Out of respect for the man who had helped raise his son and had followed him half the length of the continent, Kyel paused and bowed his head. He stood for a moment listening to wind whispering through the pines, his thoughts turned inward, his eyes averted.

  Then he did what Cadmus would have wanted. Gripping Thar’gon’s hilt, he fed energy into the corpse until the flesh ignited. He fished a rag out of his pocket and held it to his face as the smoke and stench hit him. The smell was repugnant. It brought back the vivid horror of the time he’d spent locked in a cage with Myria Anassis’ charred remains. He closed his eyes, breathing through the rag’s dirty fabric, until the sound of the fire died in his ears.

  When he opened his eyes, Cadmus was gone. There was nothing left of him but scorched earth and gray ashes. Kyel hooked Thar’gon to his belt and turned away, walking slowly and sadly back through the thicket.

  He tethered Alexa’s horse to his own and climbed into the saddle, cradling her against his chest as he jabbed his heels into the gelding’s flanks. She somehow remained asleep through it all. He directed his horse toward the south, deeper into the Vale of Amberlie, sticking to the lowlands and the darker thickets of trees. Always, he kept his eyes open for the reappearance of the dead.

  The forest darkened as the sun sank behind the Craghorns. The shadows thickened, the birds silenced. The insects began their nightly chants. He pulled back on his horse’s reins and climbed down from the saddle, carrying Alexa to a spot of ground sheltered by a rocky outcrop not too far from a small brook. There, he built a fire and tended to the horses. Then he cast his tired body down beside hers and sat worrying a strip of jerky, not really tasting it. His eyes scanned the night, not trusting it. The smallest noises set him on edge.

  The shadows of the trees revolved around him, lengthening. He let the fire burn and then die a slow death.

  It was morning. A new fire now crackled atop the ashes of the old. Beside Kyel, Alexa stirred. She opened her eyes and gazed loosely up at him. Stretching, she asked, “What happened?”

  Kyel didn’t look at her. Instead, he picked up a stick and poked a log back toward the heart of the flames. “We were attacked. By dead people.” His tone conveyed the anger he felt.

  Alexa sat up, drawing her knees against her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She didn’t respond to his statement. To Kyel, her silence was more honest than anything she could have said.

  “You’re not pregnant.”

  She looked away into the forest. Again, her lack of response was answer enough. Kyel nodded. He’d hoped she would have an explanation he could accept. But she was damned by her own silence.

  He threw the stick down. “Cadmus is dead. I almost died too. I would be dead, if not for this.” He brandished Thar’gon as if ready to strike her with it.

  She stared at the weapon in silence. Any normal girl would have cowered in fear. Alexa didn’t.

  Lowering the talisman, Kyel said, “You’ve got one chance to convince me not to take both horses and leave you behind.”

  She turned away from him and fixed her gaze on the fire. He waited. She said nothing. A log popped, flinging sparks onto the ground. Alexa didn’t flinch.

  In a flat voice, she mumbled, “They’re all dead.”

  “Who? Who’s dead?”

  “The people of Creek Hollow. They’re all dead.”

  Kyel stared at her, digesting that information. It was the first thing she’d said that he knew he could believe. Everything about Creek Hollow had seemed wrong. Everything but Alexa.

  “What about you?” he said at last.

  “I was their prisoner.”

  He doubted that. None of her actions had seemed unwilling.

  Alexa’s face crumbled into a grimace of sorrow. Shaking her head, she said, “I’m so sorry Kyel. I like you. I really do. I’m sorry…”

  Kyel shot to his feet, eyes scouring the shadows of the forest. He took a step back away from her, reaching out for the magic field. He dragged it into him through the talisman.

  “What are you sorry about?” he demanded.

  Alexa shook her head and gazed up at him sadly. “It’s a trap. I’m a trap. He wants you. Alive or dead, he doesn’t care which.”

  Kyel took another step back. “Who? Who wants me?”

  She gazed at him flatly. “Zavier Renquist.”

  Kyel’s eyes widened. He whirled away, striding quickly toward his horse. Behind him, he heard Alexa rushing to catch up. She caught him by the collar, tugging him around.

  “He took my baby!” she shrieked, pulling on
him even as he fought her off. “I didn’t want to do it! He took my baby!”

  Kyel tore her hand off his shoulder, flinging it away. He tied her horse to his own then turned back to her. “If Zavier Renquist took your baby, then it’s already dead.”

  He put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself over his horse’s back, kicking it forward.

  “What are you doing?” Alexa screeched. “Don’t leave me here!”

  Kyel ignored her. He kicked his horse to a trot.

  “I know how to use that talisman!”

  Filled with startled rage, Kyel jerked back on the reins. He turned and cast a glare back over his shoulder. “How could you know that?”

  She stood there quivering, arms folded, shaking her head.

  “Answer me!”

  She lowered her gaze, as if in shame.

  “Because I’m a mage,” she whispered.

  10

  Well of Mystery

  Quinlan Reis stared down from the balcony that overlooked Athera’s Crescent, watching the Crescent’s surface swirl and roil in patterns that looked like a boiling cauldron of quicksilver. It was mesmerizing. The dark places that had been there were now gone, the curve of its surface unbroken. A beautiful dance of energy swarmed across it, free and unconstrained.

  The Crescent’s power had been restored. But not without sacrifice.

  Quin raised a hand to his head, massaging his temple. Ever since his near-death in the nodal chamber, his head ached from time to time. Sometimes the pain was terrible, forcing him to lie in bed in the dark, for hours at a time. It was like a migraine, only different. This pain was self-inflicted.