She dared not move. She dared not look up or even glance around. She wasn’t even certain that there was anyone else with them in the room. But by the unspoken rules of protocol, there was nothing else she could do. Merris had no choice but to kneel there, abased with her palms and head resting against the floor, for however long it took to be acknowledged.
It took a long time. For over a minute she remained in that position, listening to the echoing sounds of her own heartbeat.
Finally, a deep and authoritative voice resonated throughout the chamber:
“You may rise.”
The sound of that voice was disturbingly familiar. Merris found herself complying automatically with the directive, rising first to her knees, then to her feet. She took a step backward behind Quin. Her eyes wandered around the chamber in subtle confusion, scanning the shadows of the dimly lit room for the face of the man who had addressed them.
At first glance, the room appeared to be empty. But then the Prime Warden of the Lyceum, Zavier Renquist, stood up and approached.
“Grand Master Quinlan Reis,” resonated the deeply baritone voice that was so oddly familiar. “It is good to see you again; you have been away from us far too long this time.”
Merris watched with a sensation akin to awe as Prime Warden Renquist reached out a hand and clasped her companion’s forearm in a warm gesture. Renquist was a tall man with long brown hair that he wore pulled back sharply from his face. Like Quin, he wore the indigo robes of the Lyceum. But from Renquist’s broad shoulders hung the white cloak that was the emblem of his office. A brace of tapers high above on the wall cast a dance of shadow across the angular planes of his face.
Quin cleared his throat, eyes apparently unable to meet the harsh intensity of Renquist’s gaze. “I apologize for my dereliction of duty, Prime Warden,” he said, staring down at the ground. “I am afraid that my health has been somewhat compromised of late.”
The thin smile that appeared on Zavier Renquist’s lips was almost fatherly. “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
Quinlan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, I suppose you’re correct,” he nodded, holding his hat in his hands. He turned, gesturing toward Merris. “Please allow me to introduce my lovely companion, Merris Bryar. Merris was an acolyte of Aerysius until just yesterday. She was witness to an unfortunate incident that has caused her to rethink her allegiance.”
Renquist’s eyes shot instantly toward Merris. His stare was hawk-like and intense, fiercely inquisitive. Merris felt like her every nuance was being probed by the harsh severity of that gaze.
Zavier Renquist said, “I take it that your presence here is without the knowledge or consent of your own prime warden.”
It was not a question, but rather a statement of plain, simple fact. Merris couldn’t tell whether the man was pleased or displeased. His expression gave away absolutely nothing of his emotions or intent.
“I apologize, Prime Warden Renquist, for the nature of my arrival,” Merris told him with the slightest dip of a curtsey. “I hope that my actions have not put you in a difficult position.”
Renquist merely waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Save your apologies,” he rumbled. “The only person you are capable of putting in a difficult position is yourself.” A knowing smile formed slowly on his lips as he reached out and clasped her hand. “Welcome to the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar, acolyte Merris Bryar. May the grace and blessings of the gods be upon you.”
“And also upon you, Prime Warden,” Merris spoke through a daze of nervous fog in her head. She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice, but it was there despite her best efforts.
Renquist must have sensed her anxiety.
“Please. Be at ease.” He set his hand lightly upon her shoulder. He leaned forward ever so slightly, gazing into her eyes with a penetrating stare. “You must have quite a story to share,” he said softly. “I would be very interested to hear it.”
Merris ran her tongue across her lips, buying herself time to work up enough nerve to speak. “Actually, I’d rather that you read it, Prime Warden.”
She extended the last of the scrolls she carried toward him, offering it up in the palm of her hand.
“What is this?” he wondered, the expression on his face suddenly uncertain.
Gathering her courage, Merris answered in a steady voice, “A letter addressed to you from Grand Master Braden Reis. He put his own life at risk to make certain that you received this.”
Renquist took the letter from her hand, gripping the scroll in his fist.
It was then that she noticed the ring that he wore on the third finger of his right hand. A silver band set with a lapis stone. She realized with dread that she had seen such a ring before.
It was the same ring she had seen only yesterday on the finger of the man in the cellar.
Merris’s eyes went wide, her heart plunging deeply into her stomach. Upon the lapis stone was inlaid the same image she had drawn for Braden in Sephana’s sitting room. The unholy rune dacros, the symbol of Xerys, God of Chaos and Lord of the Netherworld.
A bone-numbing chill slipped over her. Merris shuddered, realizing where she had heard that voice before.
If Renquist had any way of sensing her fear, he didn’t let on about it. He went deliberately about breaking the wax seal and unrolling the scroll. Merris stared on in silent horror, eyes locked on the lapis ring as the prime warden’s gaze traced slowly across the parchment. All the while he was reading, she could feel the dread within her swelling, changing, evolving into something much more sinister.
She realized that she was utterly terrified. Like a mouse frozen in the shadow of a raptor.
Zavier Renquist rolled the scroll back up and carefully set it aside. Then, clenching his hands together behind his back, he strode away from them. The white cloak he wore with its embroidered Silver Star rippled behind him as he walked, swaying with the motion of his gait.
“You have earned my gratitude, acolyte Merris. The sound of his voice was throaty and resonant. “Unfortunately, you will not be returning to Aerysius. Not now, at least, and probably not ever. I will do everything in my power to make your life at the Lyceum fulfilling. If there is ever anything you require, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
She could tell by his tone that their audience with the prime warden was over.
Quin stepped forward, furiously shaking his head. “But Prime Warden, my brother…” He spread his hands beseechingly. “I’ve had no word…”
“Your brother is a very capable man, Quinlan Reis,” Renquist asserted, still with his back to them. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just us. But these allegations are very concerning,” Quin pressed him, stepping forward. “You need to bring this matter before the Assembly.”
Zavier Renquist turned back to glare at him with dark and derisive eyes. “To what end?” he demanded. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the bulk of our armed forces are already deployed along our southern border. If I were to even mention the contents of this letter before the Assembly, our invasion of the Rhen would be all but insured.”
“But Prime Warden—”
Zavier Renquist raised a hand, firmly cutting off his words. “Tread softly, Quinlan Reis,” he uttered ominously. “The hawks are already circling. Let me handle this. If I need your help with this matter, please be assured: I’ll ask for it.”
Merris effected the scantest curtsey as she fled the chamber, waiting only for the sound of the door closing behind them before whirling to confront Quin.
“He’s the man from the cellar!” she gasped in a whimper, latching on to the lapels of his vest with both hands. “He’s wearing the ring!”
“Renquist?” Quin gasped in a voice that sounded utterly bewildered. Then he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut.
Merris nodded urgently, pressing her lips together in frantic dismay. “We just gave your brother away!”
Quin shook his head, sucking in
a cheek. “No, we didn’t,” he disagreed ominously. “He already knew about Braden. We just gave ourselves away.”
Chapter Six
The Silver Star
Vintgar, Caladorn
BRADEN LET HIS GAZE wander around the circular table, taking in the faces of the five mages that surrounded him. No; not mages. Darkmages. Nach’tieri, in the language of the clans. Each person gathered in the room with him already had a soul so terribly black that they were each capable of wielding the Onslaught, the infernal power of the Netherworld. Every mage seated around the table…including himself. Cyrus Krane had been right; Braden was already one of them, whether he wanted to be or not. He had already made that decision nine years before. There was no going back from it now.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Or go along with it.
Braden leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. He allowed his gaze to drift slowly toward Byron Connel, lingering on the silver morning star that the man had carried in with him, now resting on the tabletop in front of him. Thar’gon was its name, the Silver Star of Battle, renowned heirloom of the Warden of Battlemages. It was a handsome weapon, the haft short and wrought completely of beaten silver. A long spike extended straight up from the top of its mace-like head, girthed by many smaller spikes. The haft was wrapped in black leather strapping, which was looped at the end so that the morning star could be hung from a belt or peg. It was far more than just a mere weapon; Thar’gon was a legendary talisman endowed with a rich compliment of arcane abilities.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Braden said finally, his eyes sliding away from Connel’s weapon. “I’ll need a while to think on it. But you’re not going to hear my answer until you can prove to me that Sephana Clemley remains alive and unharmed.”
“You have my assurance that Master Sephana has not been harmed in any way,” Krane asserted.
Braden glared his contempt at the man. “Let me make myself absolutely clear: I don’t trust you. I never have. Tell me, where did all the shades come from in that warren of yours beneath Aerysius? The creation of just one necrator requires twenty human deaths. How many lives have you already sacrificed?”
He shifted his gaze to Byron Connel, who was seated to Krane’s right. “Bring me Sephana. Right here, right now. This negotiation is over until I see her with my own eyes.”
“Sephana is still in Aerysius,” Myria admitted with a look of concern, glancing back and forth between Connel and Cyrus Krane. “It will take us some time to accommodate your request.”
Braden dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “Then use the damned transfer portal. Whatever you have to do—just get her here. Expeditiously.”
Myria leaned into Krane, setting her hand on his arm as she conferred with him quietly. The Prime Warden of Aerysius at last issued a stilted nod.
“Byron, you may remain,” he commanded.
Myria Anassis stood up from her seat. As she did, Sareen and Nashir rose with her and followed her around the table and out of the room. Sareen glanced back over her shoulder, casting a smug grin at Braden as she disappeared through the doorway. Only Cyrus Krane and Byron Connel remained with him in the chamber.
Braden turned his gaze toward the window-wall of ice, staring down into the depths of the chasm below. The sacred river Nym churned in its course, turquoise blue and softly glowing with a quiet iridescence. He wondered what gave the river its characteristic color and radiance. Magelight, perhaps. He frowned, considering the implications. That would mean that the bottom of the gorge would have to be outside of the torrent of Vintgar’s power vortex.
“While we wait, there are a few details that I would like to clarify,” Byron Connel said. “Not a negotiation. Call it simply a gesture of goodwill.” He leaned back in his chair and absently stroked the wrapped haft of his weapon.
Still staring at the gorge below, Braden nodded his permission.
Connel straightened in his seat, steepling his hands before him on the table. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, even frank. “As you’ve probably guessed, the recent escalation in tensions between Aerysius and Bryn Calazar has been nothing more than fabrication. A smokescreen. We created the crisis in order to turn attention away from our own operations.”
Braden turned to glare at him, seething in silence. He didn’t respond to Connel’s admission. He was too afraid of what would come out of his mouth. His eyes darted to the man’s silver weapon, imagining what it would feel like in his own hand.
“As I’m sure you’ve probably guessed, your work in Aerysius has failed. As we speak, Caladorn’s armies are mounting a large-scale offensive, invading the Rhen through the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. Within two weeks, both the Hall of the Watchers and the Lyceum will be all but emptied, allowing us access to those two Circles of Convergence. The other six circles are already under our control.”
Braden remained completely impassive as he listened to the unfolding of Connel’s strategy. Outwardly, his face was a study in utter indifference. On the inside, Braden was silently raging. Connel’s words explained why his own work in Aerysius had been such a vexingly uphill struggle, why his every attempt at compromise had been met with resistance and delay.
“What about the mages who remain behind?” Braden demanded. “They’re not going to just surrender the circles to you freely. If you go through with this, you’re going to have a lot of innocent blood on your hands.”
Connel replied, “We will have safeguards in place to insure that no one will interfere with our purpose.”
“A lot of good people are going to die, Byron. And you can give me no guarantee that your plan is even going to work.”
“Nothing in life is ever guaranteed,” Cyrus Krane interrupted. “You should understand that better than anyone, Ambassador Reis. ‘The brave act. Only cowards ever yield,’” Krane quoted. “I know you, Braden. And I know you are no coward.”
Braden turned to Aerysius’s prime warden with an incredulous sneer. “If that’s what you think, then you really don’t know me well at all.”
Bryn Calazar, Caladorn
Merris took a step back away from Quin as she realized they were not alone in the hallway. She whirled to find herself confronted by the same flustered woman who had tried to divert them from Renquist’s office in the first place. The woman stood now with hands on her hips, face set in livid irritation. Quin took Merris by the hand and hurried her past the woman, pausing just a moment as they crossed in front of her.
“It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Gertris,” he said, reaching up to tip the brim of his hat in her direction. “I’m truly sorry the years haven’t been kinder to you.”
Merris gasped as she felt Quin’s hand on her back, hurrying her forward. She had to struggle to keep up with him as he directed her toward the end of the hallway. “Why are we walking so fast?” she whispered.
Quin leaned in close, muttering into her ear without slowing his pace a fraction, “Because Renquist knows we haven’t told anyone.”
Merris’s eyes went wide in understanding as she struggled to hurry. Quin directed her away from the forecourt, ushering her through another doorway that took them into the dark interior of the Lyceum itself.
“Where are we going?” Merris wondered, gazing around nervously. They had entered a large domed chamber with intricate tiles lining the walls. The high glass windows let in only starlight.
“We need to find another way out,” Quin explained as he directed her across the carpeted floor to the opposite end of the room. “The problem is, our options are a bit limited.”
They stepped through a door that led to an arcaded walkway with a ceiling of domed vaults. Here, their path was dimly lit by widely spaced braziers that glowed softly with magelight.
A man stepped out from behind a pillar in front of them, cutting off their route.
At the sight of him, Merris halted in mid-stride. She felt her chest tighten as she stood there, glancing frantically around, waiting as her
companion appeared to be taking his time about assessing the situation. At last, the sallow mage beside her sucked in a cheek and muttered softly:
“Yes, indeed. A honey of a pickle.”
Merris blinked at the remark, feeling her stomach lurch.
From the pocket of his vest, Quinlan Reis produced a small bronze flask and went unhurriedly about the business of removing the stopper. He brought the container up to his lips and, throwing his head back, took a rather large swallow of the contents. He then replaced the stopper and tucked the container neatly back into the pocket of his vest.
A confident smile erupted on his face.
“Why, look here, darling. It’s Rustin Taman,” Quin announced spectacularly. “Merris, please allow me to introduce you to Master Rustin.”
Merris swallowed, her eyes widening in alarm as she took in the threatening presence of the mage who confronted them. The man was dressed all in dark leathers rather than the ceremonial robes that Merris had become accustomed to seeing. His face was dark and bearded, black hair pulled back into a topknot. His eyes were piercingly narrow and intense, fixed on Quin’s face.
“Hello,” Merris muttered as she moved to put her protector between herself and the threatening mage.
“Step away from the girl, Quin.” Rustin’s voice was rigid and cold, absolutely flat.
The side of Quin’s mouth jerked upward into the crooked resemblance of a grin. “Now, Rustin, didn’t your mother ever teach you how to be cordial? Say hello to Merris.”
The dangerous-looking man before them only shook his head. “I think we both know that I’m not here to be cordial. I’m going to say this one last time: step away from the girl.”
Darkstorm (The Rhenwars Saga Book 1) Page 9