Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3)

by M. L. Spencer

  Not Meiran. The one person in the world he thought might understand had rejected him utterly.

  Darien scowled, the expression looking more like a grimace. “Love is for the living. The dead can only regret.”

  The old man nodded, but it wasn’t a nod of agreement. He was bobbing his head as he ruminated on the words.

  “You can do better than regret,” the blind man said at last. “You can atone.”

  Darien realized the old man was probably right. He had been given a rare and precious gift, an opportunity to put to right some of the wrongs he had committed in life. Not often was a soul given such a second chance. He had absolutely no idea what to do with it, or where to even begin.

  Darien felt a tug on his arm and realized he’d stopped walking. He allowed the blind old man to guide him forward again, deeper into the shadowy heart of Qul. A thick blanket of darkness cloaked the village, the stench of coal soot heavy in the air. The unpaved path beneath his feet was wet and oozing with wastewater from the dwellings. He saw no trace of litter anywhere on the ground, no sign of insects or vermin. The streets were narrow and murky, oddly canted in places. They smelled of damp soil and mildew.

  There were very few people about, mostly older women and young children who wandered the streets in small groups, thick robes swaying from their slight frames, fringed shawls draped from their shoulders. Some bore earthenware pots on their heads, others carried baskets in their arms. They took note of Darien with darting glances filled with curiosity and dismay.

  The old man patted his shoulder, steering him through an opening in the wall. They entered an alley, so narrow that he could reach out and trail both hands along the walls of the houses to either side. The smell of mold was pervasive, the walls slimy to the touch. Darien hesitated.

  “This way.” The blind man urged him onward.

  His companion guided him to the entrance of a dwelling halfway down the alley. There was no door. Strings of dark beads and threaded scraps of pottery hung like a curtain across the entrance. The old man swept a hand out, parting the odd drape with a tinkling clatter. He motioned Darien within.

  He started inside, but paused, turning back around as he realized that his companion wasn’t following.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  The old man grinned and pressed a hand against his breast. Still grinning, he turned and ambled off down the path, trailing a hand along the bricks. Darien frowned and turned away, letting the curtain of trinkets fall closed behind him. He walked forward into a shadowy courtyard. Ahead, he could hear the faint trickle of water. A fountain, perhaps. No one was about; the courtyard stood empty. His eyes scanned ahead, noting the openings of rooms to either side. Grilled windows looked down from the second story, some lit, some not.

  Darien walked toward a gentle wash of light coming from the nearest doorway, his hand sweeping back a thick drape of cloth. He paused, looking in. His hand lingered by his side, holding the cotton drape at bay as he stood there motionless in the room’s entrance.

  Azár’s face glanced up at him from where she was seated on a thin ledge that ran the length of the far wall. At her feet, Quin lay sleeping in a bed of padded matting covered by a thin blanket. His mouth was open, snoring lightly. Azár regarded Darien with a questioning stare before rising to greet him.

  Seeing his face, she said, “I’m very sorry, Darien.”

  He nodded his head in gratitude. “I couldn’t find her,” he admitted gruffly. “It’s my fault. I should have seen this coming.”

  Azar regained her seat, motioning her hand to the mats laid over the ledge at her side. “Sit. Rest.”

  He moved toward her, casting his tired body down next to her. He leaned back against the wall, stretching his muscles with a sigh. Glancing miserably around the room, he took in the barren chamber. There were no decorations, no furniture. Diverse pottery was scattered on the floor along the fringes of the room: various jugs and jars, plates and bowls. A few bunches of herbs hung upside-down from the ceiling, ostensibly to dry. A bronze lantern pierced through with hundreds of holes cast the room in an eerie, dappled light.

  “How’s Quin?” he asked, looking down at the slumbering figure.

  Azár spread her fingers in a vague gesture. “He sleeps the healing sleep. He has not yet awakened. I’m thinking, though, soon. He has slept a long time.”

  Darien nodded, staring down at Quin’s peaceful form. Odd, to think he was gazing into the face of the very man responsible for all this tragedy in the first place. Once, Darien had found it expedient to hate Quin. That hadn’t lasted long. Despite his tarnished past and unfaltering penchant for misfortune, Quinlan Reis meant well. He was every inch an idealist, just a failed and broken one.

  Azár lifted a pitcher from a tray on the ledge and poured Darien a cup of water. He accepted the cup from her hand, considering her face silently. Azár seemed older, somehow. She no longer had the look of a wild and furious child. Her rough edges had softened somewhat; her eyes had lost much of their accusation.

  She said, “Tell me what happened.”

  He threw his head back and drained all the water in one swallow, his throat dry and aching from grit and thirst. He held the cup up for her as Azár refilled it, her eyes locked on his own.

  Darien broke away from her stare, fidgeting and uncomfortable. He raised the cup to his mouth and took another drink. Lowering his hand, he looked down into the shadows of the cup.

  “When I died, I used an artifact to preserve the legacy that was inside me. So that it wouldn’t be lost from the world. At the time, I was eighth tier. It was too much power for me. Too much for any one person. It was slowly driving me mad.”

  He drained the rest of the water, wiping his face on his arm. He leaned forward, setting the empty cup down on the mat by his side. His eyes wandered away, gazing off into the shadows of the room. Not at her.

  “The legacy in the artifact was split between two people. Both were women I had loved. At different times. For different reasons. One of them, Meiran, became prime warden after me. When you brought us back from the Netherworld, Renquist took an interest in her. He sent Quin to bring Meiran to Bryn Calazar.”

  Darien indicated the slumbering darkmage with a nod. “Renquist intended to leverage Meiran the way he’d leveraged me. He can be very…persuasive.” Darien scowled, swallowing his anger. “And very cruel. I wasn’t about to stand for that. Quin owed me a favor, so I had him bring Meiran to me, instead.”

  Azár’s eyes widened. Her posture stiffened, her hand dropping to her side. “You defied the prime warden?”

  Darien sucked in a cheek. “Not explicitly.”

  Azár glanced sideways in thought. Even in the dim lighting of the room, the look of alarm on her face was easy to discern.

  “This is very serious, Darien Lauchlin. What you have done…it could be considered treason.”

  “Perhaps.” Darien dismissed her concern with a shrug. “But right now I’m not worried about Renquist. He’s not responsible for any of this. But I know who is: Nashir Arman, the same man who put your lightfields to the torch. All of this is his own personal vendetta. He has a grudge against me.”

  Azár frowned, twin creases etching the skin between her eyebrows. “Why? What did you do to earn this man’s wrath?”

  Darien stared down at his hands in his lap. One of the sleeves of his robe had slid back, revealing the puckered red scar on his wrist. He answered Azár without looking at her, his voice gravelly and barren.

  “I seduced Nashir’s woman…and then I killed her.”

  He sat there for a long moment staring down at the awful scar. The lingering silence that filled the room was almost like a third participant in the conversation, its very presence obvious and awkward. It was a long time before he heard Azár’s guarded whisper:

  “You have very cold nerves, Darien Lauchlin.”

  He looked up at her, eyes full of spite. “I acted out of desperation, Azár, but that’s beside the point. Nash
ir wants blood for blood, and now he’s taken Meiran. I tracked his men as far as I dared into the vortex to the north. I couldn’t risk going further in.”

  She threw her hands up. “Then there’s nothing to be done. The only thing in that direction is Tokashi Palace. If this man Nashir has assumed control of the fortress, then he’ll have legions of Tanisars under his command. I am sorry, Darien, but this woman you seek is already lost.”

  “Meiran’s not lost,” he insisted, rising from the ledge and moving over to kneel at Quin’s side. He lay a hand on his chest, probing the man’s condition. The sense of health that was returned to him eased his mind.

  He stood back up and turned to Azár. “I’ll get her back,” he said.

  Azár rose from her seat, moving to stand right in front of him. The top of her head came no higher than his chest; she had to look up to glare him in the eye. “You said there were two women that you loved. What became of the other?”

  Darien frowned, realizing that since Meiran had returned, he had not even once given thought to Naia. Guilt seeped into him, cold and bitter. Of all the sins he’d committed in life, his transgressions against Naia were the ones that shamed him most. No amount of apology could ever suffice. He’d used Naia terribly and then cast her aside. He had robbed her of all she was. For him, she had abandoned her vocation, her identity, all of her aspirations. And then he’d taken his own life, leaving her selfishly behind.

  Darien shook his head, staring emphatically into Azár’s dark eyes. “It’d be better for Naia if she thought I was still in Hell.”

  Azár seemed to accept his response. She backed away with a saddened expression on her face. “I’ve been here too long. I must go tend the lightfields.”

  He nodded, gazing down at his boots.

  Azár reached up, draping her shawl over her head like the cowl of a cloak. “Stay here, Darien Lauchlin. Don’t go north to Tokashi. Only death awaits you there.”

  Darien grinned mirthlessly. “Death and I have an understanding.” More seriously, he added, “I won’t abandon Meiran.”

  Azár paused. “Do what you will, then. What will be is already written.” She frowned, her eyes dropping to his side. “That knife you carry…may I have it?”

  The question took him by surprise. Darien fished the knife Haleem had given him out of the satchel he wore at his side. Frowning in consternation, he extended it hilt-first toward Azár, searching her face as she plucked the weapon from his hand.

  “I thought you already had a blade.”

  Azár shrugged, holding Darien’s knife up before her face as she slid the hilt from its sheath. She rotated it slightly, admiring her new possession before tucking it back away. “I can always use another. It’s a good blade and, besides, you won’t be needing it any longer. The shroud has no pockets.”

  She turned and left.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tokashi Palace

  Tokashi Palace, The Black Lands

  WHEN MEIRAN WOKE, she was lying on her back in a cold, lightless room. The stone beneath her was frigid, and the chill penetrated deep into her body, making her bones ache. She groaned, rolling onto her side before sitting up and wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.

  She stared at the iron grate that served as the door. It was old, covered in rust. In the cold and silence, her mind began to drift. Would she die in this room? Perhaps. She had no idea whether Quin was still alive, or if Darien even knew she was missing. She shivered harder as cold and despair seeped further into her bones.

  From somewhere outside came a loud, metallic clang. She heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming. Meiran hugged her knees against her chest, gaping through the bars of the iron grate. There was only darkness on the other side. The sound of footsteps stopped. She let her gaze wander upward.

  A man appeared on the other side of the grate.

  Meiran scrambled back against the far wall. The man stood still, staring at her with an impassive gaze. He was beardless and rippled with muscle, garbed in a long white tunic and formal coat. His face betrayed no hint of his intentions.

  The man unlocked the grate, letting it swing open. He took a step into the room and paused. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stood motionless, black eyes considering her in silence. He said nothing, just stared, as cold seconds crept by.

  He prompted her forward with a sideways jerk of his head.

  Trembling, Meiran got up from the ground. She walked three lurching steps toward him, her legs shaky and weak. The dark man grabbed her by the arm, guiding her firmly out into the corridor. Meiran went along without struggle. They were well within the vortex, and the chiseled muscles of her guard brooked no argument.

  She followed him into a wide corridor lit by the melancholy glow of hanging lanterns. The man guided her through an open doorway. There, her feet transitioned onto marble tiles. Meiran stumbled, her eyes drawn upward to the walls. Her mouth hung slack.

  The hallway they entered was tiled from floor to ceiling in elegant, changing patterns. The designs scrolled around the walls, sometimes blue, sometimes red. Elaborate gilt metalwork wove in and out through the figures. Gold inlay wrapped around the columns that supported the vaulted roof, more gold than Meiran had ever seen in any one place.

  Whoever controlled this fortress commanded enormous wealth.

  And enormous power.

  They passed other people in the hallway, mostly servants carrying trays and pitchers. Kitchen or serving staff, perhaps. Meiran had no idea where her escort was leading her, but it became apparent that they were heading deep within the living quarters of the fortress.

  Her silent companion stopped in front of a large, gilded door. He paused there, seeming to take a moment to collect himself, straightening his posture, adjusting the collar of his tunic. Then he opened the door and guided Meiran inside.

  A room-length wooden table was the focal point of a long chamber lined with dazzling wall tiles. The ceiling was painted blue, sprinkled with golden stars. Liveried servants stood like human statues, stationed at intervals along the walls. The table was empty, the chairs unoccupied.

  A jerk on her arm pulled Meiran to a halt. She turned to glance up at him and found the man staring straight ahead at a golden screen at the far end of the chamber. She followed his gaze, her eyes drawn toward a motion on the other side.

  A voice proclaimed, “Nashir Arman, Overlord of the Khazahar, Xerys’s Shadow on Earth.”

  The screen slid back, admitting a man into the chamber. He was tall and dark of complexion, his eyes full of malice and shadow. Just the sight of Nashir Arman made Meiran’s stomach spasm. She took an involuntary step back against her captor’s chest.

  Nashir fixed his gaze on Meiran as he took his place at the table’s center, his eyes moving slowly over her. His angular face was rigid, devoid of all emotion. For just a moment, their gaze met. Meiran felt her stomach lurch; there was no trace of a soul left in Nashir’s shadowed eyes. If there had ever been any humanity there at all, it had long since eroded.

  Nashir Arman was far more demon than man.

  Meiran swallowed, rocked by waves of revulsion that made her feel physically ill. Servants swept forward, helping Nashir settle in at the table, removing his overcoat and arranging his fine robes. A boy brought a silver bowl of water, placing it down on the table before him. Nashir dipped both hands into the bowl and brought them up to wipe over his face.

  Movement on the other side of the table attracted Meiran’s attention. She gazed in interest as a woman entered the room through the screen. Nashir’s lips drew immediately into a smile at the sight of this newest arrival.

  He raised his hand, beckoning the woman to join him at his side. She strolled into the room with a casual grace, her eyes flicking upward to alight on Meiran’s face before shying away. She wore a brilliant green gown encrusted with jewels, the fabric swirling gracefully as she claimed a seat beside Nashir.

  The demon made a gesture with his hand, inviting Meiran t
o take the chair opposite him. As she took a seat at the great table, none of the servants came forward to attend her, remaining at their stations along the walls. She stared down at the dinner service set out in front of her. The plate was jade-green celadon worked with a honeycomb motif. It was empty.

  Nashir Arman smiled cordially. “Welcome to Tokashi Palace, Meiran Withersby.”

  A line of servants filed into the room, carrying an assortment of trays and bowls, which they arranged in an elegant spread in front of Nashir and his guest. Meanwhile, other servants came forward to wordlessly remove Meiran’s utensils and plate. The hospitality of a meal, then, would not be extended. Meiran felt a little of her courage slip, afraid of what that might signify.

  She watched as Nashir and his lady helped themselves to the steaming platters of food. It was a sumptuous variety: breads and pickles, vegetables and grains. As Meiran sat there looking on, Nashir tore off a piece of bread, which he used to dip into a bowl. He talked as he chewed, staring down into his plate.

  “The last I remember of you, you were kneeling at the feet of my Master’s throne. I see that both your life and gift have been restored to you.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “I am wondering…how was this accomplished?”

  Meiran glared into Nashir’s soulless eyes, watching him take another bite. He gazed at her expectantly, chewing slowly as he awaited her response. The woman at his side cast Meiran a condescending smile as she bit into a plump grape.

  “I inherited Darien’s legacy through the Soulstone,” Meiran said. It was hardly a secret, and there was nothing to be gained by holding that information back.

  Nashir’s thick eyebrows flicked upward in curiosity. “Impressive. All eight tiers?”

  Meiran didn’t respond. She dropped her gaze to the table.

  Nashir’s smile faltered. “Not all eight, then. The legacy was split.” He shared a glance with his woman as he scooped a morsel of eggplant into his mouth. “Who did you share this legacy with, I wonder?”

  Meiran ignored the question, still staring down at the wood of the table before her. Her stomach growled. The smell of the food made her mouth water.