Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3)

by M. L. Spencer

  In. Out.

  She peered out from beneath the long lashes of her eyes. She could see Sareen’s graceful form, a golden silhouette against the warm wash of light, settling down beside Kyel on the floor. He lay curled on his side, head resting on his hand, his cloak enveloping him like a blanket. Sareen set a hand lightly on his back. She tilted her head, tracing her fingers over the soft embroidery of the star on Kyel’s cloak. She continued the motion, sliding her hand down the length of his arm, caressing his hand.

  Kyel flinched awake.

  As Naia watched through cracked lids, he scrambled back away. The woman before him stayed her ground, raising her hand in a gesture of reassurance.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” she whispered. “I suspect I owe you both a great deal of gratitude for returning my life to me.”

  Naia blinked at the sound of Sareen’s voice, elegant and tender-soft, with an accent that was at once both exotic and sophisticated. She watched as the darkmage bent forward, laying a comforting hand on Kyel’s arm. The expression on her face spoke of wonder and exhilaration.

  Kyel gaped up at her, aghast, muscles flexed as if ready to bolt. His face was a medley of dismay, fear, and fascination.

  “It was Naia that healed you,” he finally managed.

  Naia winced internally, hearing that. She didn’t trust the enticing darkmage, who seemed to be trapping Kyel under the spell of her allure. He looked utterly baffled, captivated.

  Sareen smiled down at him. Reaching out, she stroked her fingers over Kyel’s bearded cheek. “But you helped, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Kyel admitted, gazing wide-eyed up into her face.

  Sareen’s smile broadened, her eyes sparkling. Leaning forward, she pressed a tender kiss against Kyel’s brow. “Thank you so much. I owe you my life.”

  Naia felt an appalling chill slither over her body. Things were getting quickly out of hand. She didn’t know what to do. Sareen’s placid voice drifted toward her across the chamber:

  “So…why?”

  “Why what?” Kyel whispered, licking his lips. He struggled to sit up, resting his weight on his elbows. He gazed up into Sareen’s eyes as if transfixed by what he saw there. Naia clenched her fists in consternation.

  “Why did the two of you conspire to return the breath of life to one such as I?” Sareen traced her fingers down the sides of his face, first one cheek, then the other. She smiled, a tender, caring expression.

  “We need your help,” Kyel croaked, wriggling away from her.

  “Truly?” Sareen scooted after him.

  This had gone on long enough. Naia could no longer pretend to feign sleep. She sat bolt upright.

  “Be very careful, Kyel,” she warned.

  “Kyel?” Sareen glanced back over her shoulder at Naia, flashing her a smile of gratitude. Then she turned back to the subject of her attentions. “That’s an intriguing name.” She reached out, taking his hand. She brought it up to her lips, kissing it.

  Then she rose gracefully to her feet. Her body swayed as she paced across the shrine, dropping to her knees in front of Naia. She canted her head to the side, smiling coyly.

  “So, here’s the gentle beauty who woke me from my grave.” There was a hungering desire in Sareen’s voice that also simmered in her eyes. More for herself, Naia realized, then for Kyel. “I owe a special thanks to you.” Sareen’s smile seemed genuine, as did her admiration. “That took quite a bit of talent; I’ve never heard of anyone healing through death before in all of history. What order are you trained to, dear?”

  “You owe me nothing.” Naia edged back away from her. Her eyes shot a stabbing glare at Kyel: a warning.

  “Your name is Naia?”

  There was no denying the interest of attraction in that voice. Sareen maintained her beguiling smile, her face smooth as butter cream.

  Naia knew better than to answer. The woman was already armed with too much information about them already. She gazed defiantly at Sareen.

  The darkmage smiled. “It’s just a name. A very beautiful name. Nothing to be afraid of.” She leaned forward, her lips brushing against Naia’s ear. “Do you know my name?”

  Naia shivered. Unbidden, the words slipped past her lips. “Sareen Qadir.”

  The woman’s smile brightened. She straightened, taking a step back away. She moved to the center of the room, where she could stand and consider both Naia and Kyel together without turning.

  “Now, tell me. What do the two of you need so desperately that you’re willing to wake the dead?”

  Naia glanced to Kyel, her eyes capturing his gaze and holding it. Fear needled her spine. Gathering her courage, Naia rose to her feet and stood facing the alluring darkmage. Kyel followed suit, edging closer to her until he was standing at her side.

  “We want to know where Quinlan Reis took Meiran Withersby,” Naia announced. She gazed at Sareen expectantly, hoping that her fear didn’t show outright on her face.

  Sareen spread her hands. “Well, that’s a difficult question for me to answer. Being that Quinlan Reis was responsible for my own particular…condition.”

  “Why would another Servant try to murder you?” Naia asked.

  “I have no idea. I could only speculate.”

  Naia narrowed her eyes. “Then speculate.”

  Sareen turned away to face the Goddess of the Eternal Requiem. She stared up into the statue’s cold face. With her back still to them, she said softly:

  “I imagine he was probably trying to avenge his brother’s death.”

  Naia frowned. “You killed his brother?”

  “Not directly, no.” Sareen glanced back over her shoulder. “But I was involved.”

  Naia considered the explanation. It was possible Sareen was telling the truth; she most likely was. Only, Naia doubted it was the only explanation, or even the correct one.

  “Where would Quinlan Reis have taken Meiran?” she pressed.

  The woman turned back toward her, clasping her hands. “I honestly don’t know. If he has turned completely away from Xerys, then his soul is forfeit. Perhaps he took your prime warden ahead to Bryn Calazar to give the appearance that he’s still doing the work of our Master even as he plotted against me.”

  Naia clenched her jaw in frustration. This was going nowhere. This woman did not have the knowledge they sought. Either that or she was a subtle and convincing liar. The truth probably lay somewhere in between.

  Naia asked, “What does Renquist want with Meiran?”

  “Control,” Sareen responded immediately.

  Naia blanched, feeling her stomach sink. “What do you mean?”

  The woman’s smile returned, this time almost gloating. She strode forward until she was standing right in front of Naia, gazing down into her eyes. “I’m sorry, darling, but I do believe it’s my turn.” She trailed a finger down Naia’s cheek. “If you want me to keep speaking, you must answer a question or two of mine.”

  Naia stared resentfully into Sareen’s face, shuddering from the touch even as she fought the impulse to blurt out an affirmative. She regretted healing Sareen. She had vastly underestimated this demon’s sophistication. Sareen was working on her mind, seducing Naia’s will and intentions. Bending them subtly in the directions she wanted. Naia could feel Sareen’s power working, helpless to do anything about it.

  “I will answer two questions,” Naia allowed. It was the most resistance she could manage. She swallowed, unable to break eye contact.

  Sareen asked, “Where did you learn to heal as you did? To turn back the clock on death? The most talented healers of my own time couldn’t have managed it. How is it possible that you were able to accomplish what has never before been achieved?”

  Naia felt a sharp pang of fear. This, she knew, was very dangerous territory. But before she could stop herself, she was already answering.

  “Before I became a mage, I was a priestess of Death.”

  Sareen’s eyes widened with a look of astonishment. “That ex
plains a great deal,” she said, pacing away. “In my time, neither the Lyceum nor the temples would have ever countenanced such a dangerous union of knowledge. Yet, what a wonderful resource!”

  Sareen paused, blinking.

  She whirled back around, fixing her stare on Kyel. “And do you have any such special talents?”

  Kyel immediately shook his head. “No.”

  “None at all?”

  “Nothing,” Kyel admitted with a shrug.

  Sareen frowned, her eyes darkening. “That’s too bad. I’m really very sorry, Kyel.”

  Her eyes filled with sincere regret.

  “No!” Naia screamed, throwing herself forward. A strong slap of air brushed her easily aside, throwing her to the ground.

  Kyel dropped to his knees, eyes bulging, mouth agape as he struggled for breath. His hands groped frantically at his chest.

  “Kyel! By the goddess! No!”

  Sareen turned to Naia with an expression of genuine remorse. “I’m sorry, little one.” Her voice was full of sympathy. “He’s just not valuable like you.”

  Kyel fell forward to the ground, limbs flailing helplessly. His chest seized, lurching for air.

  With a scream of rage, Naia closed her eyes and lashed out at Sareen. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t thought out. She used the knowledge gleaned from years of working with the dying and the dead. She didn’t think of the consequences. She just acted.

  Naia reached deep into Sareen’s body and silenced the beating heart she had so recently brought back to life.

  There was no gasping, no struggle. Sareen’s expression went slack. She crumbled face-first to the floor, her hair shrouding her face.

  Sobbing, Naia threw herself down on the floor beside Kyel. He was breathing again, his eyes watering as he gasped for air. Naia hugged him fiercely. She brought her right hand up to wipe away her tears—

  —and saw the hideous red scar that twisted around her wrist in the place where the chain-like marking had been just seconds before.

  Naia screamed. She scrambled backward, staggering to her feet. She grasped her wrist with her other hand, clutching it against her chest. She screamed again and kept screaming, over and over. Her panicked shrieks filled the room, echoing off the walls of the shrine. She collapsed to her knees as her wails faded into violent, wracking sobs.

  A thunderous clatter echoed through the shrine. The great oaken door jolted as it was assaulted with force from the other side. Naia couldn’t move. She hugged her arm against her chest, sobbing wretchedly. On her knees, she wobbled over next to Kyel. He was unconscious, but mercifully still breathing.

  An echoing crash resounded through the shrine as the door gave way. Priests in white vestments rushed forward into the room, spilling down the stairs. Striding through their midst was Luther Penthos, rushing through them toward his daughter.

  He swept Naia up into his arms, hugging her close against him. Then he pulled back, cupping her tear-stained face in his hands. His frightened gaze probed her eyes. He must have seen something there. His jaw fell slack as he stared at Naia’s wrist.

  His face collapsed in despair.

  And then he reacted. Clutching her by the arm, Naia’s father dragged her forward across the room. Before she could protest, he forced her across the threshold of the portal into the otherness of the Catacombs. The light shivered, shifted. His grip on her wrist was violent and painful.

  Naia fought for her hand back, wrenching her arm free of her father’s grasp.

  He swung toward her, looming in his anger, more formidable than Naia had ever seen him. No longer was Luther Penthos a fragile old man. He was the Vicar of Death, the incarnation of his office, in all its fearsome majesty.

  “Use the Catacombs to flee the Rhen!” Naia’s father ordered her. His tone left no room for argument. “Flee the Rhen and never come back! Do you understand? Don’t tell me where you’re going. I don’t ever want to know.”

  Naia stared at him through tear-filled eyes, grimacing through her terror. “What? Why?”

  Luther Penthos raised a hand as if to strike her across the face. But he clenched his fist, instead, eyes turbulent with sorrow and wrath.

  “You broke Oath, Naia! By rule of law, your life is now forfeit!”

  “Father, I didn’t mean to—!”

  He shook his head, eyes chilling in their fury. “It doesn’t matter! The only thing that matters now is time. You must hurry! They’ll be looking for you. Don’t leave a trail for them to follow.”

  Tears streamed down her face as Naia shook her head in protest. “No, Father!”

  He wrapped his arms around her, forcing her against his chest in a last, violent embrace. “I can’t protect you, Naia. But neither will I be party to my own daughter’s execution. Now, go!”

  She walked away a few steps, burying her face in her hands, sobbing wretchedly. She stopped and turned back. “Father, no! Please!”

  Luther Penthos waved her away, his glare terrible and uncompromising.

  “Go, Naia. Go now and never come back. Never.”

  Sobbing, Naia stumbled forward into the Catacombs, clutching her ruined wrist against her chest.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chaos

  Tokashi Palace, The Black Lands

  MEIRAN FELT WARM, secure. Shrouded in comfort. As if everything wrong in the world had been suddenly made right. For the first time in years, she awoke to feelings of security and contentment. No longer was there that aching, throbbing place inside. That emptiness was now full. It abounded with warmth, gratitude, and compassion. They were not her own feelings.

  They were Darien’s.

  Once, Meiran had awakened each morning saturated with the comfort of Darien’s presence in her mind. She could feel him throughout the day, always there, always with her. She had never been alone. It was almost as if she wore him around with her, deep within her heart. She always knew what he was feeling, whether he was excited or melancholy, frustrated or confused, angry or desperate. Even after he’d left Aerysius for Greystone Keep. The connection between them had grown so strong she could still sense it, despite the distance. Though weak, the link between them had comforted her quietly from afar.

  When Darien died, Meiran had felt that link shatter. One moment he was there with her. The next, he was gone. She was left with only a hollow, empty ache.

  But now, somehow, he was back with her again. Filling her mind with feelings of warmth and a sense of solace. She could feel the heat of his body pressed up against hers, the peaceful rhythm of his heart. His fingers stroked her hair back away from her face, his touch soothing.

  Meiran opened her eyes even though she didn’t want to.

  Darien was lying beside her. Propped on one elbow, gazing down into her face with a soft expression in his eyes. His skin was flushed from the warmth of the blankets.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was low and hoarse.

  Meiran nodded, feeling the urgency of his concern for her.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered. “Are you?”

  “Better,” he answered. He was smiling at her wistfully, fingers still absently stroking her hair.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking of the day I fell in love with you.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You can actually remember which day that was?”

  Darien nodded. “It was the day of your Raising.”

  “Why that day?”

  “It was supposed to be my Raising. Remember?”

  She did remember. The legacy she’d inherited had come from Neria Terrant, Grand Master of the Sixth Tier, one of the most powerful mages in the history of Aerysius. The Sentinels had put forth Darien as their candidate to receive Neria’s legacy. Since he had the backing of the Sentinels, Darien was an easy selection. But Grand Master Neria overrode the decision. She reconvened the Assembly, staunchly and publicly refusing Darien as her successor.

  The result was a political skirmish between orders as both Sentinels an
d Querers set themselves at each other’s throats. In the end, Meiran was chosen to be the recipient of Aerysius’s most powerful magical lineage. Darien left the Assembly humiliated, still years away from another chance.

  “They were awful to you,” Meiran whispered. “Especially Grand Master Neria.”

  Darien’s fingers continued their slow stroking of her hair. His eyes grew distant, a quiet smile forming on his lips. “I remember. She called me a ‘cavalier delinquent.’ She told me my greatest attribute was that I probably wouldn’t survive long enough to do much damage.”

  “At least you proved her wrong.”

  Darien’s smile turned devilish. “I did. She grossly underestimated the amount of damage I was capable of.”

  Meiran was taken aback by Darien’s self-deprecating wit. It was so utterly out of character. It was something the old Darien would have said. The man who’d gone away to Greystone Keep, never to return.

  He continued, “At any rate, that’s why I fell in love with you. You were there for me when no one else was. And you didn’t have to be; you really didn’t know me well at all. But you went out of your way to walk me back to the Acolyte’s Residence. Along the way, you told me something I’ll never forget.”

  “What was that?”

  “You said I needed to start ignoring everyone else’s expectations and start living up to my own. It’s the best advice anyone’s ever given me.” More softly, he added, “I just wish I’d have followed it.”

  Meiran stared up into Darien’s face. His expression was pensive, his gaze remote. His eyes were focused somewhere far away, perhaps at the shadows, perhaps somewhere in the past. There was a quiet serenity to his features she hadn’t seen in years.

  “You were more deserving of that legacy than I was,” he said. “You’re a remarkable woman, Meiran. You’ve always had my admiration. And my heart. You still do.”

  His fingers caressed her brow, smoothing the strands of hair back away from her face.

  Hearing his words, feeling the warmth of emotion that flooded into her through the link, Meiran felt a drowning ache of sorrow. She pulled away from him, sitting up in the cold darkness of the cell. Darien looked at her with eyes full of anxious uncertainty. The link didn’t work both ways; he couldn’t sense the layers of guilt and dread she was feeling. But he could see them implied on her face.