The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  He swept out with a feint. Swain dodged, rotating his blade and deflecting the blow. He brought his sword up and held it out in front of him, keeping Darien at a distance. Then he brought the blade back over his shoulder and swept it down. Darien ducked under the attack and used his momentum to shove Swain forcefully aside.

  The Prince whirled around, scoring a cut across Darien’s back. Then he launched a crisp sequence of attacks that battered him to the ground. Overwhelmed, Darien raised his sword over his head to fend off Swain’s hacking cuts.

  He struck out with a foot, taking the Prince behind the knees and sweeping his legs out from under him. Swain hit the ground and rolled, somehow ending up on his feet. He sprang back, then whirled, delivering a slice that cut through Darien’s gambeson, drawing a line of blood across his ribs as he rose from the ground.

  Kyel gasped, appalled by the sheer brutality of it all. The harsh clangs of steel impacting with steel drove home the viciousness of the fight. It was starting to sink in that one of the two men before him was going to die a brutal death. Kyel dreaded that moment.

  Swain struck again, batting Darien’s sword aside. Darien danced back, drawing his long dagger from his belt. Crossing both dagger and sword, he interrupted Swain’s next strike with a scissoring motion. The two men circled slowly, each waiting for an opening.

  All at once, Darien lunged. Moving both dagger and sword together, he parried Swain’s attack with the dagger while throwing a high cut with the sword. The curved blade took the Prince in the neck, continuing its slice down through tissue and bone. Darien tore the sword out, fanning the cobblestones with blood. He stepped back, weapons held ready, even as Swain fell.

  Chest heaving, Darien stood over the Prince and watched him bleed out. Callously, he wiped his blade clean on the fabric of Swain’s leggings. Then he returned both weapons to their sheathes and turned to fix his stare on Kyel.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  Kyel understood. There was nothing more he could do. The city had fallen and would soon be overrun. He couldn’t stop Darien, not by himself.

  Darien glared at him hard, his expression going from dark to demonic. A terrible green light suffused him, pulsating, sucking the light from the day. The shadows of the square deepened, the air growing fiercely chill. It was terrifying to behold, especially since Kyel knew what was happening: Darien was filling himself to saturation with the combined might of both the Onslaught and the magic field. Preparing a strike that Kyel couldn’t deflect, not even with Thar’gon’s great aide.

  “Darien, no!”

  Naia hurled past Kyel, inserting her own body between the darkmage and himself. Darien’s expression changed, fading through various degrees of rage into something that looked like regret. The green aura around him slowly waned but didn’t fade completely.

  Naia took a step toward him. “Please, Darien. You need Kyel to destroy the Well of Tears.”

  Darien recoiled as if struck.

  The glow around him winked out. He looked back and forth between Naia and Kyel with the haunted face of a condemned man. He shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “It is possible!” Naia insisted, closing the gap between them. “Come away and listen. You sent Quin to Titherry for a reason. We have your answer, Darien! The answer you wanted us to find!”

  Darien looked dazed, as if the sight of her was like venom, paralyzing his ability to react or comprehend. His mouth moved, fumbling silently, at last forming words. “Quin? You came with Quin?”

  She halted before him, commanding, “Afford him clemency!”

  To Kyel’s disbelief, Darien obeyed. Nodding, the darkmage turned to address him. “A truce, then. Your life is under my protection.” He turned back to Naia, his face telling a dismal story of boundless guilt. He said softly, “Naia. I don’t know what to say … I don’t have the words….”

  Naia stared at him a long, hard moment. “Then don’t speak.”

  36

  Freedom of Will

  Darien closed his eyes as Azár fell into his arms. He sagged against her while she hugged him tight, maybe tighter than ever before.

  She sighed happily against his ear. “Thank the gods you are safe. Did you take the city?”

  “Aye, we did,” he said, letting go.

  “Ishilzeri! My husband is a great commander!”

  “Your husband is exhausted.”

  Darien turned and started pulling off his armor, tossing it piece by piece on a rug laid out on the ground. When he was down to just his leggings, he strode over to a cask of water standing upright against the side of the command tent. He plunged his head in, then righted himself with a great gasp, whipping his hair back and spraying water everywhere. Azár brought her hands up, shielding her face. There was laughter in her eyes. Darien bent to pick his shirt back up, using it to wipe the wet grime from his face. Shoulders sagging, he walked toward the tent’s entrance.

  “You should lie down,” Azár said, plucking the dirty cloth out of his hands.

  He’d forgotten he was holding it; his mind felt dazed. He was battle-weary. No, it was more than that. He was grieving, Darien realized. He’d killed his mentor. No matter what else Nigel Swain had become to him, he would always be that.

  He paused and turned back to the soldiers lingering behind him. “A moment, Sayeed.”

  His First hurried over, concern on his face. He had been acting odd, ever since the battle. Darien didn’t understand why. Sayeed had begun treating him as though he’d taken a mortal wound. His apprehension was almost palpable.

  And irritating.

  “We’ll need some fresh horses for the morrow,” Darien said. “And round up what’s left of the Zakai. It’d be wise to enter the city by procession, to demonstrate our strength. I want the Zakai to ride at my side. I’ll need a guard of honor.”

  Sayeed stared at him blankly, as though he hadn’t understood a word.

  Darien raised a weary eyebrow. “Horses. Zakai.”

  The man ducked his head more deferentially than he ever should have. “Of course.”

  Darien clapped him on the back and sent him off. Then he ducked into the dim interior of the tent and trudged wearily through the cloth partition. He stripped and sank into bed, falling instantly to sleep.

  When Darien open his eyes, he found Azár lying soft and naked at his side, her body only half-covered in blankets. It was night, but the ambient light was enough to reveal her features. Darien traced the gentle curve of her body with his gaze. She was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She stirred, her eyes blinking open enough to look at him.

  “You’re awake,” she said groggily, stretching. “You slept through dinner.”

  Which explained his vast hunger. Darien sat up, letting the covers fall off him, and rubbed his eyes. He wondered what time it was. He still felt bone-weary.

  “How does one become a Servant?” Azár asked, setting a hand on him. “Is there some vow or ritual?”

  The question came out of nowhere and caught Darien by surprise. Rubbing his eyes, he answered guardedly, “There’s a vow.”

  “And did you speak this vow?”

  He frowned, not liking this peculiar line of questioning. At best, it brought on feelings of shame. “I did,” he admitted.

  “Will you teach it to me, so that I might speak it also?”

  Darien winced, shocked by the question. Azár was beautiful and good. Unblemished. The thought of her becoming a creature such as himself was horrifying. Shaking his head in dismay, he asked, “Why would you wish that?”

  She sat up and set her hand on his own, gazing into his eyes. “Because our time in this world grows short. And I am scared. I have only just found my husband. I do not wish to lose him.” She leaned into him, kissing his cheek. “Where you go, I go.”

  “No.”

  Appalled, Darien jerked back from her. He threw off the covers and stood up.

  Confusion rampant on her face, Azár asked, �
��Why not?” She drew her knees against her chest.

  Darien stood gaping down at her, not knowing what to say. Hoarsely, he whispered, “Because where I’m going, you can’t follow.”

  Azár’s face darkened, her eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

  He hung his head, feeling suddenly sad. He wanted to stay with her. To grow old with her. To love and raise his daughter. He sank back into bed and, with a sigh, pulled her close.

  “You don’t belong there,” he said softly.

  “Neither do you.”

  He breathed a sigh and assured her, “You have me now. And when I move on, you’ll have my memory. Keep me alive in your heart.”

  “You already live in my heart.”

  Darien took a long, steadying breath, trying to stuff his emotions back down deep where they belonged. He couldn’t afford to acknowledge them. He owed her that much. He wanted to tell his wife he loved her but couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

  He knew that saying them would only hurt her more.

  Somehow, he’d fallen back to sleep.

  Darien woke to empty blankets and a devil-dog licking his face with a sticky tongue. Groaning, he raised his hands up to fend the damn thing off. He squirmed his head from side to side, trying to escape its fetid breath.

  “All right! Enough!”

  The hound drew back and stared down at him with hollow eyes. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the corner. But the thing disobeyed him, instead trotting out through the cloth partition. Darien ran his arm over his face, then grabbed a handful of blankets to wipe off his arm.

  The partition flapped open, and Azár stepped through. A warm smile brightened her face. “It is good you are awake. Your Zakai and horses await you outside. And you have a visitor.”

  Darien grunted and pushed himself out of bed. He started toward his wooden chest, but Azár’s hand on his arm stopped him.

  “I brought out the outfit you wore at our wedding.” She motioned toward a chair.

  There, laid out neatly, was the embroidered black tunic the tailors of the Jenn Asyaadi had made for him. He’d forgotten he owned it. He moved to the chair and held it up, then pulled on the pants. He had to rely on Azár to help him with the tunic. He couldn’t button the sleeves on his own.

  When she was done, he tied back his hair then turned toward her. He brought a hand up to trace her cheek. “You should wear your red gown.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise even as her hands went to her belly. “You wish me to come with you?

  Darien nodded, smiling. “I’m not entering our new capital without my wife.”

  Azár glowed with excitement. While he collected his weapons, she produced the red gown she’d worn the day he’d proposed marriage to her. He watched her pull it on, then took a step back, admiring. Pregnancy suited her, he decided. Azár’s olive skin seemed even softer than usual, her hair lustrous and sleek. Her dark eyes glowed with excitement and affection.

  Offering his arm, Darien led her through the partition into the gathering area of the tent. So intent was he on his wife, that he almost didn’t notice the lone figure in the corner. He glanced up and froze.

  Naia stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Her gaze trailed from Darien to Azár, then back again with a questioning look.

  Composing himself, Darien led Azár forward. Very rigidly, he said, “Azár, this is Master Naia Seleni. Without Naia, I couldn’t have sealed the Well of Tears.” He turned to Naia. “I would like to introduce to you Lightweaver Azár.” He added, “My wife.”

  Naia blinked her shock but recovered quickly. She put on a welcoming smile and took Azár’s hands into her own. “I am most honored to meet you, Lightweaver Azár. Congratulations on your nuptials. I wish you both much joy and happiness.”

  Darien shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and stood fidgeting with the collar of his tunic. Beneath the thick fabric, he was already breaking a sweat.

  “Thank you for receiving me,” Naia said. “I have come to accompany you to the palace. But first, I need you to do something for me.” She lifted her hands, offering an object out to him. “I’m going to ask you to put this on.”

  When he saw what she was holding, Darien’s breath clotted like blood.

  Fear clenched his chest in an iron fist and squeezed. His heart terrorized his rib cage, his mind staggering toward panic. Reflexively, he reached out and groped for the Onslaught, wrenching it into him.

  “Get that thing away from me!”

  “Stop!” Naia held up the Soulstone before his eyes. “Quin repaired it—it can’t harm you.”

  “How could you? You know what that damn thing did to me!”

  Naia dropped her hand, the medallion dangling from her fingers. Her face set in patient lines, she moved toward him, speaking calmly, “You know me, Darien. I would never ask this of you unless I thought it truly imperative. And it is imperative.”

  She raised the Soulstone again, offering it out to him in her palm. “Take it. It can’t harm you again. You’re dead; there is no gift left within you. Nothing to fear.”

  Darien looked back and forth between Naia’s face and the medallion in her hand. Little by little, reason returned to him. He let go of the Onslaught, letting most of it drain away, holding back just a little. His eyes ticked down to the glowing stone, then back up to Naia’s face.

  At his side, Azár snarled, “Is that the thing that killed my husband? Are you a witch, come to claim his soul? I will—”

  “No.” Darien shook his head, eyes transfixed on the stone. “I trust her.”

  “Take it,” Naia urged. “Take it and put it on.”

  He looked at her sideways. “Why?”

  Naia met his gaze unflinchingly. “Because that is what you are destined to do.”

  Darien nodded, at last understanding. Naia had journeyed to Athera’s Crescent with Quin. She must have gained some knowledge he wasn’t privy to.

  He reached out and grabbed the glowing medallion. As his fingers closed around it, the feel of the cool stone shot fear into his chest. His mouth went dry, his heart thundering. He clenched his jaw, fighting against panic as he brought the thick bands of the silver collar up and wrapped them around his neck.

  “Azár,” he said. “Fasten it for me.”

  “Husband—”

  “Do it.”

  For the second time in his life, he heard the horrifying sound of the Soulstone’s clasp snapping closed.

  Darien cried out as the stone’s power raged into him. He sagged to his knees, folding forward. A savage torrent of energy streaked up his nerves and assaulted his mind. The violence of it was appalling. Recognizing the feeling for what it was, he didn’t struggle against it. He could feel the power within the stone pour into him, filling his mind with a warm, wonderous feeling he’d entirely forgotten.

  The Transference ended as abruptly as it had begun. Darien knelt trembling and gasping on the rugs, staring up at Naia’s face in outright amazement. He reached up and uncinched the clasp, letting the collar slip off his neck. His mind raced frantically to understand the implications of what had just happened.

  Through shivering breaths, he demanded, “Why?”

  Naia bent over, a warm smile on her face. “Don’t you understand? You’re alive.”

  Darien stared at her numbly.

  It took him a moment to realize she was right.

  Then another moment to see the irony.

  That was the one thing he’d been lacking, the only thing separating him from life. It was the spark of the gift that had been ripped out of him upon his death, now given back to him by the very object that had stolen it in the first place.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

  Azár dropped to his side and hugged him protectively.

  Naia smiled to reassure her, then said to Darien, “You lost the legacy of power within you when you died. Since then, your link with Xerys has been the only thing keeping you in the flesh. Your gift has no
w been restored. You no longer need to fear your Master—Xerys has no power over you anymore. Your destiny is your own, to do with as you wish.”

  Darien struggled to his feet, panting to catch his breath and leaning heavily on Azár. He was filled with a numbing euphoria.

  He took Naia’s hand and gasped, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  But Naia shook her head, retracting her hand. “Don’t thank me, Darien. This is no gift.”

  “What do you mean?” He stared at her in incomprehension.

  “Trust me. You will understand.”

  Frowning, Darien nodded. He closed his eyes, fighting to calm his breath and steady his mind. Azár drew him aside, shooting a sharp glare at Naia. Rubbing his back, she whispered something in his ear that fled right by him. He wasn’t paying attention. His head still reeled from the Transference, and he was still struggling to make sense of this new position he found himself in. He was still a Servant of Xerys. But he no longer had to be his Master’s slave.

  “Are you able to continue?” Azár asked gently. “Or should I tell the Zakai to stand down?”

  Struggling out of his thoughts, Darien shook his head. “No. This should be done now, not later.”

  He swiped his sleeve across his brow, wiping off at least some of the sweat. He paused for a moment to collect himself. Then, taking Azár by the hand, he walked on unsteady legs out of the command tent and into the cool morning air. He had to squint against the sun; it seemed enormous and far brighter than ever before. Darien looked around in amazement, at a world saturated with color. He’d forgotten what it was like, to have his senses augmented by a mage’s gift burning inside him. An entire division of cavalry stood arrayed before him, brilliant banners flapping in the breeze. Darien paused, allowing himself just a moment to marvel at the sight.