The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Kyel’s gaze travelled over the royal grandeur of the chamber, at the gilt wall panels and elaborate sconces. All eclipsed by the majesty of the Queen herself. Romana’s presence saturated the room. She was no longer the young girl he remembered meeting two years before.

  The Queen was staring at him expectantly, no doubt waiting for him to speak. It took Kyel a moment to form words. This was the same woman who, upon their first meeting, had ordered him arrested and had him placed in chains. He’d been completely at her mercy, and at the mercy of her husband, Nigel Swain. Kyel sat looking back and forth between the two of them. He folded his hands on the table, taking a moment to collect himself.

  “Thank you for receiving me,” he said at last. He was surprised by the confidence in his voice. He couldn’t have managed that tone even a few months before.

  “Thank you for coming, Grand Master Archer,” Romana said, inclining her head.

  Her husband stared at Kyel with a narrow, unblinking gaze. Swain had been Romana’s captain of the guard before he had become the Prince Consort. He was also the Guild blademaster who had trained Darien in the sword. He was perhaps the most uncompromising man Kyel had ever met, and the most single-minded.

  Swain said coolly, “I’m not sure how you arrived, considering our city is under siege. But we would appreciate any help you can lend us.”

  After two years of knowing him, Kyel still wasn’t sure whether or not he liked Swain. Looking at Romana, Kyel said, “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I’m not here to defend Rothscard. I’m here to destroy Darien Lauchlin.”

  Swain nodded slightly, while Romana canted her head at Kyel’s words.

  “A worthy goal,” she pronounced with an undertone of skepticism. “However, I fear it is unachievable. And unnecessary. By all reports, the Reversal of the magic field is imminent. I am told the event will send Xerys’ Servants back to whatever hell they came from.”

  Kyel shook his head. “There’s more to it. The temples believe the Servants plan to stabilize the magic field using the Hellpower. Not only would that halt the Reversal, but it would release Xerys fully into this world. We don’t know how they indent to accomplish it. But we do know it’s possible.”

  Romana and Swain exchanged a horrified look weighed by experience and understanding. The Queen turned back to Kyel. “What do you need from us?”

  Kyel said, “I need your army, Your Grace.”

  Romana’s eyebrows shot up, her face frozen halfway between disbelief and amusement. “Again?”

  Kyel realized he had just spoken the same words he had uttered upon their first meeting. Only, then, he had been Darien’s emissary to the throne of Emmery.

  “I need men behind me,” he explained. “I can’t bring Darien down by myself. I’m Bound by my Oath of Harmony. But I can weaken him. And I can contain him long enough for others to move in and finish him.”

  Romana nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. She brushed a wisp of hair out of her face, for a moment looking like the young woman Kyel remembered meeting for the first time. But the moment was fleeting, and the imposing monarch was quick to return.

  Formally, she announced, “Sentinel Archer, you may have whatever resources we can spare to hunt this demon down.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Kyel said with a nod. “I will make do with whatever you can give me.”

  “I’ll assist you personally,” said Swain. “I need to finish what I started back at Orien’s Finger. I should have never let Darien walk away from there alive.”

  Kyel remembered when Swain had stood with his sword raised over Darien, preparing to strike a blow that would have ended his misery. For some reason, the Prince had stayed his hand. Kyel wondered how events would have transpired differently if he had let the blade fall.

  “There’s another matter we need to speak of.” Swain’s face was etched in troubled lines of concern. “Another mage arrived in the city this morning. A woman calling herself Master Alexa Newell. Do you know her?”

  Kyel stared at him in shock.

  “Yes, I do,” he gasped. “She’s here?”

  When Alexa hadn’t returned, he’d just assumed she’d been slain by Darien’s necrators. And while he was grateful that she had saved his life, Kyel hadn’t mourned her. Her appearance in Rothscard was all too coincidental and disturbing. Why hadn’t she returned to him in Glen Farquist? And how had she arrived in the city ahead of him? Far too many questions still surrounded Alexa for Kyel’s liking.

  “She’s here,” Swain confirmed. “I had her arrested and taken to the Citadel. I don’t like what I can’t explain, and I like it even less when my city is under siege.”

  “I understand.” Kyel said. “I would like to speak with her.”

  “I’ll take you to her.”

  Kyel rose from his seat. Queen Romana stood and took him by the hand. She said with a smile, “You have grown so much since the first time we met. More than I would have ever imagined possible. You have become every inch a Sentinel, Kyel Archer.”

  Kyel felt certain it was by far the greatest compliment he’d ever received, and he knew he should feel proud. Two months ago, he would have. But too many events had transpired since. Instead of feeling bolstered by Romana’s words, they only served to make him feel saddened.

  Because the Queen was wrong. What she sensed in him was not confidence. It was simply resignation.

  30

  Legacies

  The encampment of the Malikari legions sprawled across the plains, beginning at the banks of the River Nerium and extending in every direction to the distant horizons. Thousands upon thousands of tents pitched in orderly rows radiated outward like the spokes of a wheel from the center of camp. In the far distance, the walls of Rothscard gleamed a bloody red, reflecting the saturated colors of the sunset. Black smoke billowed from the city, roiling overhead like heavy storm clouds.

  Darien ordered his Tanisars to pitch their tents on the western margin of the encampment, then continued on to the command tent with Azár and a small retinue of Zakai. At the sight of their small group, men and women ran forward to line their passage, shouting and cheering and shaking weapons in the air. What surprised Darien most were the long rows of tethered horses that had been assimilated into the encampment. Apparently, the horse lords of the plains had honored their commitment.

  They found the command tent abuzz with uniformed officers trickling in and out of the pavilion’s entrance. A spectacularly garbed man with a tall plume on his hat intercepted them, then ducked aside to confer quietly with Sayeed in the language of the clans. After a short moment, Sayeed nodded and returned to Darien, his expression concerned.

  “Your presence is requested within. You are to enter alone.”

  Darien frowned, wondering which warlord would be arrogant enough to greet his arrival with demands. Nevertheless, he raised his hand, cautioning Sayeed and Azár to remain outside. Whoever it was that awaited within, he wanted to confront them alone. His pregnant wife need not look on.

  Darien followed the officer into the pavilion. Lining the walls were men and women who immediately clamored to their feet and, bowing, streamed out of the tent. A group of officers leaning over the map table turned and, upon marking his arrival, shifted their gazes to the floor. They filed past him, avoiding his eyes on their way out. Even Darien’s plumed escort didn’t remain long. The man bowed deeply then took his leave, untying the tent flaps from the support posts and letting the fabric fall. Soon, the entire pavilion stood dim and empty.

  Only, it was not.

  There was a rustle on the other side of the tent’s partition. Darien turned, stiffening with suppressed tension. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

  The partition was drawn back to admit two men—the only two men in the world whose very presence made Darien’s nerves prickle. Without hesitation, he went to his knees and bowed forward, pressing his forehead against the rugs, his palms beside his face. He remained there, unmoving, until the rustle of robes told him
both men had taken a seat. Time dribbled forward, marked only by the ebb and flow of his breath.

  At last, a deep and familiar voice announced, “You may rise.”

  Darien pushed himself upright, feeling the blood drain from his face. He shifted into a cross-legged position, hands clasped in front of him. He raised his gaze slowly, hesitant to look Zavier Renquist in the eyes.

  The Prime Warden regarded him for a long moment without moving. He was seated on a rug, wearing the formal blue robes and white cloak of his office. Beside him sat Cyrus Krane, ancient Prime Warden of Aerysius, and Renquist’s second-in-command. Krane’s dark eyes surveyed Darien suspiciously. The man had never liked him. He’d never thought to question why.

  Renquist favored him with a fatherly smile. “Welcome, Darien. How is your health?”

  Darien’s eyes ranged from one man to the other. He answered guardedly, “My health is good, Prime Warden.” His back remained stiff, his fingers locked together with rigid tension. He sensed danger in the air, and his muscles were responding.

  Renquist nodded. “By all reports, you’ve done exceptionally well. You have managed to secure the whole of the North. Even the great city of Rothscard shall soon fall before us. As I predicted, you have truly become the greatest Battlemage in all of history.”

  Darien bowed his head, feeling a flush of humility tempered by apprehension. “Thank you, Prime Warden.”

  Again, Renquist supplied that same, fatherly smile. Darien didn’t trust it.

  “Now, let us speak of recent developments.” The Prime Warden sat back and adjusted his posture. His many-stranded silver necklace shimmered in the lantern light. “I received word that Byron Connel was slain in battle. And that his talisman fell into the hands of a Sentinel. Two events which are … most unfortunate.”

  Darien licked his lips, a faint shiver tingling his spine. He thought perhaps Renquist blamed him for Connel’s death. The man didn’t say it outright. Still, there was something that hung in the air between them, like a cold and threatening undercurrent.

  “The information you received is accurate.” Darien looked from one Prime Warden to the other. “The Sentinel’s name is Kyel Archer. He was my acolyte.” He hesitated, unsure of how much information he should share. Too little could rouse suspicion. Too much might get him killed. “A woman who travels with Kyel taught him the use of the talisman. It is my suspicion he inherited Meiran’s legacy, which would make him eleventh tier.”

  “Eleventh tier,” Renquist echoed, his voice a low rumble. Almost, Darien thought he saw a fleeting smile on the man’s face. The expression was there for only an instant, then was gone. If it had ever been there in the first place.

  The Prime Warden said, “That would explain why this Sentinel was able to repulse your attack at Glen Farquist. So, Darien. What do you intend to do about him?”

  Darien didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a moment to think over his response carefully. “Kyel’s not immune to my necrators. Or my thanacryst.”

  A glint of metal on Renquist’s hand caught Darien’s attention. The Prime Warden was wearing a ring he’d never noticed before. A silver ring set with a lapis stone. And upon that stone, depicted in gold overlay, was an ancient rune, one he knew well: Dacros. The first rune in the sequence that commanded the Well of Tears.

  Darien frowned at the presence of the ring, uncertain of what it meant.

  Renquist’s face became very solemn. “There is one last matter to speak of. As you know, the Reversal of the magic field is nearly upon us. As things stand, we do not have much time left in this world.”

  Darien gazed at the floor, not wishing to be reminded. He’d promised Azár he would find a way to save her and the child she carried. But as the days crept by, the more it became apparent he had made a promise he couldn’t keep.

  “I believe there is a way to change that destiny,” Zavier Renquist said softly.

  Darien’s eyes snapped up. Hope shot through him with the force of a lightning strike. “How?” he gasped.

  Renquist spread his hands. “There is a way to halt the Reversal, though at great expense.” His stare dug into Darien’s eyes as if boring into his soul. “Tell me. How much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice in order to save your wife and unborn child?”

  Darien’s heart stopped. He gasped but couldn’t draw breath. His mind stumbled to a standstill. “Anything,” he managed, surging to his feet. “What must I do?”

  Zavier Renquist rose to stand in front of him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said in a calm voice, “A thousand years ago, we had a plan to halt the Reversal. It involved combining the might of eight Grand Masters using the eight Circles of Convergence. Hence the covenant of the Eight Servants came to be. As you know, there are no longer eight Servants. Or eight Circles of Convergence.”

  He paced around the margin of the tent, circling Darien like a raptor. “But eight Grand Masters are not truly necessary. Only the vitrus of eight Grand Masters is needed.”

  Shaken, Darien looked at him in incomprehension. “So we need to combine thirty-two tiers of mage-power? How can that be done?”

  Renquist stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Through the Onslaught, you already have access to eight tiers. If you are correct in your guess, then this Kyel Archer has inherited eleven. That leaves us lacking only thirteen tiers. Cyrus and Quinlan each have five. All we will need, then, is three more tiers.”

  Darien’s heart froze. “No.” He shook his head adamantly. “Not Azár.”

  Renquist waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “Of course not. I was thinking, rather, of the former priestess who inherited half your legacy. Together, we can save the lives of every living mage. Including the lives of your wife and child.”

  Darien could only stare at him, rendered speechless by a blaze of hope that was incapacitating.

  Zavier Renquist smiled triumphantly. But the smile didn’t last long. His face darkened again almost immediately. “I doubt your acolyte will be willing to lay down his life willingly. You will need to dispatch him and absorb his legacy. I’ll take care of the others.”

  He took a step forward. “You will be my conduit, Darien. You will absorb all thirty-two tiers of combined vitrus. And, reaching through you, I will be able to halt the Reversal.” His expression turned grim. He placed a comforting hand on Darien’s shoulder. “Of course, as a consequence, you will not live to see your child born.”

  Even those words couldn’t cool the flame of hope that had ignited inside Darien. It raged like a firestorm, consuming him utterly. He retreated a step, shaking his head. “I don’t care. My life’s not important.”

  Renquist gazed at him sadly. “Thank you, Darien. Know that your sacrifice will save many lives … and return the sunlight to Malikar.” He hesitated then. Dropping his gaze to the floor, he spoke in a troubled voice, “You are like a son to me, Darien. Your loss will be deeply felt.”

  It sounded heartfelt. His own father had died long before Darien had reached adulthood, before he’d ever had a chance to make him proud. Zavier Renquist could never take his father’s place. Nevertheless, he felt moved by the Prime Warden’s expression of sentiment.

  “Now go.” Renquist dismissed him with a wave. “Find a way to strip your acolyte of his legacy.”

  “Aye, Prime Warden.” Darien effected a formal bow, bending at the waist. He turned to leave but paused, turning back. “Prime Warden, might I ask a boon?”

  Renquist nodded. “Of course.”

  “Please don’t speak of this matter to my wife. I don’t wish her to know.”

  Compassion filled Zavier Renquist’s eyes, and he dipped his head. “Rest assured. Your wife will remain in ignorance.”

  Darien bowed again, lower this time. And then he left the tent.

  31

  Promises and Lies

  Quin opened his eyes to the bleak grandeur of never-ending darkness.

  Around him, a faint green light awoke and brightened gradually
, until it was vibrant enough to see by. Turning, Quin found he could make out rough granite walls to either side: a passage that curved ahead of him as it sloped downward. It took him a moment to realize he was viewing the world through the hellish light of his own damnation. Looking down at his body, he could see the diffuse green aura that surrounded him. It didn’t seem as potent as it had before.

  There was a scuffing noise, and suddenly Naia was there with him. She drew up at his side, pausing as a mist of magelight crawled out of the shadows to linger at their feet. She placed a hand on his back and told him softly, “This is where we part.”

  Quin glanced at her in surprise. He’d figured he’d be journeying most of the way through the Catacombs in Naia’s company. In truth, the thought of forging on alone was more than a bit unsettling.

  Naia pointed to a fork in the corridor ahead that veered off to the right. “Follow that passage all the way to the end. It’s long, but you shouldn’t get lost. The exit will take you to a subbasement of the Temple of Death in Bryn Calazar.”

  Quin eyed the corridor warily. “Won’t I be marked?”

  Naia shrugged. “Possibly. If you are, I trust you’ll know how to deal with the situation.”

  Quin stared at her sideways. “I do. I’m just shocked to hear you condoning such methods.”

  She smiled at him sadly. “We’ve gone far past the point where our actions can be limited by what I condone. The stakes are far too high.”

  Quin stared at her in admiration. Naia had come a long way from the woman who had once been defined by the chains on her wrists. She spoke from a place of calm practicality, in a way he found vastly alluring.

  “Keep talking like that, darling, and I might never leave.”

  “Be very careful, Quinlan,” she said. “That man is a monster.”

  “I’m a monster, too,” he reminded her.

  Naia shook her head. “No, Quin. You’re not. Maybe you once were. But not anymore.”