The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  There, he fell to his knees. He brought his hands up to his face and allowed the pain to come. He wanted to throw his head back and rail at the vengeful gods.

  He’d already lost one child without having the chance to know it. Now he would lose another. And the mother who bore it.

  The gods were worse than cruel. They were ruthless.

  It was some time before he found the courage and composure to return to camp. Darien walked automatically, striding with his head lowered, eyes locked on the ground in front of him. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t let the men see the defeat on his face.

  He found his tent still intact. Darien batted the flap out of his way. Azár was within, sitting cross-legged in their bedding. She looked up as he entered, her face just as raw and devastated as his own.

  Darien sank down beside her on the blankets and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her body shudder as she cried softly against him. He closed his eyes, reaching through her to feel the small life within. It was there: a miniscule heartbeat, faint and rapid, like the flutter of hummingbird wings. The feel of it brought a knife-sharp stab of pain. He squeezed her tighter.

  “I did not know how to tell you,” Azár moaned against his chest. “I did not know how to tell you that you will have another child who will not—”

  “Stop,” Darien growled, choking on the word. He let her go, pulling back. “This child will live! You will both live! I don’t care how many eternities I spend in hell—I am not leaving this world until both of you are safe. Gods be damned, I’ll find a way!”

  Azár was sobbing. He clutched her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. He wanted to murder the gods, to take everything from them, the way they’d taken everything from him. He wanted vengeance. But the gods were out of reach, beyond his capacity to cause them pain. So he turned his attention to his wife, instead.

  All he could do was hold her. And cry with her. So that’s what he did.

  27

  Sense of Purpose

  “Papa, what’s a Sentinel?”

  Kyel scooped little Gil off the floor and planted him down in his lap. Smiling sadly, he said, “It’s someone who stands watch. Someone who protects.”

  It was hard, putting the essence of who he was into words such a young child could understand. Especially a child who was losing his father. Kyel figured he had to be exceptionally careful about what was spoken and what was left unsaid. Years later, when his son thought back on him, the words said today would likely be remembered best.

  “Do Sentinels have magic?”

  Kyel nodded, fighting back tears. Gil was asking all the wrong questions, the kind he didn’t want to answer. Or maybe they were the right questions. Regardless, they hurt.

  “Yes, Gil. Sentinels have magic.”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Do magic, Papa! Do magic!” He bounced up and down in Kyel’s lap, his eagerness too great to be contained in his little body.

  But it was not the time for magic.

  Kyel ran his hand through his son’s hair. “No, Gil. Not today. Papa’s tired.”

  “Pleeeeease?”

  “No.” Kyel shook his head. He gazed into his son’s face. At his warm blue eyes. At his soft skin. His full lips. Soft ringlets of hair. Gil was perfect in every way. Kyel took in each feature, one by one, trying to imprint them on his mind. Each was equally important, the most important thing in the world.

  “What do you protect, Papa?”

  Kyel’s hand was trembling, so he clenched it into a fist. It took him a moment to answer. He knew he had to tell Gil just enough of the truth without being too candid.

  “I protect you,” he said finally. “And your mum. And anyone else who needs protecting.”

  Gil’s lips twisted, his little eyes scrunching in thought. He sat there for a moment looking very skeptical. Or very concerned.

  “Who protects you, Papa?”

  Kyel opened his mouth. Then closed it again, not having the faintest notion how to respond. He thought hard about it. He couldn’t tell Gil the truth: that no one protected him. That he was going to die in a matter of days. That Gil would never see his father again. That these scant moments would be the very last they had. Kyel swallowed back the tears that tried to come and fought the sorrow off his face. He couldn’t break down. His strength was the last and best gift he could ever give his son.

  “Who protects you, papa?” Gil asked again.

  From some deep place of courage he didn’t know he had, Kyel managed to dredge up a wavering smile. “That’s what magic’s for.”

  “Will there always be magic?”

  Another unfortunate question.

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope so too.”

  With a smile, Gil threw his arms around Kyel’s neck, wrapping him in a squirming bear hug. Kyel grimaced against the grief that clawed at his chest. He gathered his son in his arms and hugged him tight, cherishing the feel of him.

  Into Gil’s soft curls, Kyel said softly, “You need to know how much I love you. And how proud I am of you.”

  The little body wriggled in his arms. In a voice muffled by Kyel’s thick shirt, Gil said, “I love you too, Papa. You’re the best Sentinel in the world.”

  Kyel pulled the door softly shut, cutting off the steady sounds of Gil’s snoring. He squeezed his eyes closed against a stab of sorrow. It wasn’t fair. A little boy shouldn’t have to grow up without a father. He reached up, rubbing his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then he strode away.

  He made his way through the warren of passages that formed the living quarters of Om’s Temple. He rounded the last corner that led to the main entrance and there drew up. He hadn’t expected Arvel to be waiting for him. But he wasn’t surprised to see him either. Avoiding eye contact, Kyel asked, “You’re going to get him to his mum, right?”

  The god-priest flashed Kyel a dour smile. “Of course. It is the least we can do. Don’t let your thoughts be preoccupied with your son’s welfare. Gil will be taken care of.”

  Kyel nodded, his shoulders sagging.

  “Are you ready?” The smile on Arvel’s face was fixed as if etched there. “The Temple of Death is expecting you.”

  Kyel paused. “I would like to ask a question.”

  Arvel’s waxen smile slipped just a fraction. “You wish to know if the gods are real.”

  Kyel was surprised the man had anticipated his question. Nevertheless he nodded, figuring he was owed the truth. Arvel raised his hand, beckoning Kyel to follow. He led him through a doorway into a spacious chamber dominated by a table surrounded by many chairs. Kyel took a seat, while the cleric settled across from him.

  Clasping his hands together, Arvel informed him, “There is only one goddess.”

  “Which goddess is that?” Kyel sat back in his chair, bringing a leg up.

  Arvel smiled blandly. “She has gone by many names since the beginning of the world.”

  “So why the secrecy?” Kyel pressed.

  “Because.” Arvel shifted in his seat, his face becoming very serious. “The temples are not religious entities, as you’ve been raised to think. They are entirely political. The temples are institutions created to defend humanity against our most ancient of all adversaries.”

  “Mages,” Kyel guessed.

  Arvel nodded. “If not for the temples, mages would dominate the earth, oppressing the vulnerable masses. They’ve done so in the past, and they would do so again. For millennia, the temples have resorted to the one force on earth capable of challenging the power of magic: the power of faith.”

  Kyel frowned. “Then how do you perform your miracles?”

  “Each temple was entrusted with magical artifacts. And from these artifacts, we have achieved the “miracles” that buy us the faith we need. There is only one temple that does not need to rely on artifacts of magic.”

  “And which temple is that?”

  “The temple of the One True Goddess. The Temple of Isap.” The smile on Arvel’s face stagna
ted.

  “What of the Catacombs?” Kyel pressed. “The Atrament … none of that is magically conceived?”

  “All of that is Isap’s domain.”

  It all made perfect sense, Kyel realized. Arvel’s story explained so many inconsistencies he’d always wondered about. But the story did have one gaping hole. Leaning forward in his seat, Kyel pressed, “Then what of Xerys?”

  Arvel slouched, his body seeming to deflate and collapse in on itself. “Xerys does, in fact, exist. But he is not a god.”

  Kyel frowned. “Then what is he?”

  Arvel’s glasses had slipped down his nose. Pushing them back up, he explained, “Xerys was the first mage, the most beloved of all of Isap’s creations. He was born of magic and tasked with protecting all things magical. But Xerys became too enamored by what he guarded. He came to believe that creations born of magic were elevated above those who were born mundane. He decided it was the place of humanity to serve magic, and not the other way around. This belief was contrary to Isap’s vision of her creation.

  “So Xerys earned Isap’s displeasure. He was banished from this world and imprisoned in another plane: what you call hell. Contrary to what you’ve been taught, Xerys is not the source of evil in this world. Evil is a construct, nothing more. But Xerys has no compunctions against using what we call ‘evil’ to his advantage, if doing so advances his own interests.”

  Kyel stared at Arvel, feeling physically shaken. Every tenant of faith he had ever nurtured had just been broken on the wheel of truth.

  The implications were vast. They redefined his very purpose.

  “So … Xerys’ Servants are not demons?”

  Arvel’s wan smile returned. “Oh, they are most certainly demons. They are creatures of spirit who, like Xerys himself, are forbidden from ever entering Isap’s domain. They have chosen to side with Xerys, so have been banished to spend eternity in the company of the master they serve.”

  Kyel nodded. “And what of the Hellpower?”

  Arvel smiled morosely. “The Hellpower is the type of magic that exists in Xerys’ realm. It is the antithesis of the magic field.”

  So many answers … and yet each answer spawned a host of new questions. Kyel wondered how many years it would take to get to the bottom of it all. If there was, indeed, a bottom.

  He sighed wearily. “I don’t understand. What are the Servants trying to accomplish? What are they looking to gain?”

  Arvel shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious. “Xerys wishes to be freed from his confinement. That is the goal his Servants work toward. And that is the reason why we must oppose him. For, if Xerys is ever freed, humanity would be once again pressed into servitude by those with magic, and mages alone would rule the world.”

  Arvel looked down at the tabletop. “Zavier Renquist plans to halt the Reversal of the magic field using the Hellpower, just as he tried to do a thousand years ago. Only, to release enough of it, he would have to open the Gateway wide enough that it would free Xerys from the Netherworld.”

  Kyel stiffened as the priest’s revelation sank into his chest like icy fingers groping for his heart. His first thought was of Gil. He’d told his son he was a protector. And he could think of nothing in the world more important to protect.

  “What must I do?” he asked.

  For the first time, Arvel’s smile grew beyond bland, into something eager. Something sinister. “Stop Renquist. Stop his Servants. Before they gather enough power to release Xerys into this world.”

  28

  Transformations

  A bleakness encased Naia’s thoughts as she stared down at the ever-changing surface of Athera’s Crescent. Her gaze followed the flowing patterns that moved across it, patterns that reminded her of ripples propagating across the surface of a lake.

  The day was bright, and a gentle breeze cooled her skin, but nothing could take her mind from the myriad possible destinies she had witnessed in the Nexus. Nothing could alleviate the sorrow that filled her heart. It didn’t matter which future destiny held in store for her. All seemed equally bleak.

  Naia sighed, pushing her hair back out of the way of her vision. Turning away from the Crescent, she made her way back into the castle. She found Quin in his room, stuffing the last of his possessions into his pack.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  He nodded, flashing her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Naia clasped her hands together as she moved across the room toward him. The new shadow staff he’d carved was leaning against the wall beside the bed. She had forgotten to ask if he’d ever finished it. Reaching out, she laid her hand upon the staff, stroking its wax-polished surface. Instantly, an ominous feeling jolted up her arm, making her flinch. Naia retracted her hand quickly. It was the same feeling she’d gotten the first time she’d touched the staff. The thing felt evil, although Quin kept insisting it wasn’t.

  Moving away from the staff, she asked, “Why are we going to Rothscard?”

  Quin tied his pack closed, giving the cord one good, last tug. “Because you said we need to find Kyel,” he said as he swung the pack over his shoulder.

  Naia’s brow furrowed. “And why do you think Kyel will be in Rothscard?”

  Quin shrugged. “Because it’s the logical place for him to be.” His eyes roved quickly over the room, scanning to make certain there was nothing left behind. He took the staff into his hand. “Being a Sentinel, Kyel would want to be near the Front. But the problem is, we’ve been here too long. So the Front’s not likely where we left it. With the Reversal so close, Darien’s had no choice but to push southward. And any invading army would make Rothscard their target.”

  “Then the war’s already begun. What are we going to do?” Naia whispered, feeling that they’d already failed before even setting off.

  Quin appeared to think about it a moment. “Well, we’ll just have to improvise,” he said, holding the door open for her.

  The demon-dog yawned enormously. The beast gazed across the fire at Darien with a questioning look. Its ears perked, its head whipping toward the darkness. The hound rose to its feet, emitting a low growl, intent on something outside the circle of light. Then it relaxed, apparently satisfied. The thing turned in a slow circle, then finally settled back down, closing its baneful eyes.

  Darien ignored the thanacryst, his attention riveted on the journal in his lap. He held his head in his hand, fingers clasped around a fistful of hair. His eyes scoured the page as if his life depended on the information contained there. Or another life, far more precious. All he knew was that the secrets unlocked by that journal were so important that Edric Torrence had lain down his life to pass them on.

  He didn’t look up at the crunch of approaching footsteps.

  “Report,” Darien ordered, flipping a page.

  “Warden, we have only four crates of salted fish remaining and one cask of wine,” his quartermaster informed him.

  Darien glanced back over the last solution on the page. Absently, he said, “The fish should get us there. Ration the wine.”

  “Yes, Warden.”

  As the officer moved away, Darien tried repeating Edric’s calculations in his head. He quickly found them too much to keep track of. With a grunt of frustration, he reached into the cloth sack at his side and pulled out a pot of ink and a writing stick. The elam wasn’t sharpened, but that took only a moment’s thought to fix. Unrolling a strip of parchment, he started scribbling, altering magnitudes to account for his own abilities.

  The resulting number was extraordinary.

  “It’ll work,” he muttered.

  “What will work?”

  Twisting, Darien looked up into Azár’s face. She’d come up quietly behind him, and even the thanacryst hadn’t alerted him to her presence. The beast appeared to be sleeping, its hind foot twitching just a bit. He set the parchment down and stoppered the ink pot.

  “I think I know how Edric did it,” Darien said, closing the journal and slippi
ng it back into its embroidered cover.

  Azár sat down beside him, her face lit by interest. “How is that?”

  Darien reached up and scratched the whiskers on his jaw, wondering if he had enough understanding of Edric’s methods to replicate the experiment. He decided the risk would be minimal. “It’s complicated. I’m still trying to figure out why he felt flight was so important. I’m not sure what the value is, other than mobility. Still, I’d like to try it.”

  Azár turned away from him and gazed into the fire. The light of the flames danced across her face, tracing her features in acute contours.

  “I do not like this idea,” she said at last. “What if you turn yourself into a bird and cannot change back?”

  That had been his first concern. Which was why he’d worked out both the forward and reverse solutions several times, just to make certain. “That wouldn’t happen,” Darien assured her. “The energy works out the same in both directions.”

  He stood up and wandered around the campfire to the demon-hound. The beast sat up on its haunches, its tail thrumming against the ground. Darien ran a hand through its matted fur, giving the thing a good scratch behind the ears.

  “I could try it. See what happens,” he suggested. “Master Edric obviously thought it was import—”

  Azár cut him off. “This is not a good idea. It sounds dangerous.”

  She had made up her mind, he saw. And when Azár was adamant about something, she wasn’t likely to relent. Which meant he would have to test his theory without her consent.

  Darien gave the demon-hound one last, good scratch. Then he closed his eyes and wrenched as hard as he could on the magic field, forcing it in, filling himself as quickly as he could to the point of saturation.

  “NO!” Azár screamed, realizing too late what was happening. All at once, a writhing mass of blue flames enveloped Darien, erupting into an inferno of blinding brilliance. She leapt to her feet, lunging for him—