The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Read online

  He turned back to Meiran.

  Her blood was nearly spent, running in scarlet rivulets down the side of the altar and mixing with the pools of water on the floor. He moved to place two fingers on her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was still there, tremulous, and growing fainter. He stood over her, gazing down at her beautiful, ashen face until the tempo of her heart finally stalled in her veins.

  He pressed his hands against her cheeks as she died, cupping her face as if with the tender embrace of a lover. There was a faint tingling sensation in his fingertips where they touched her soft skin, weak at first, then growing infinitely stronger. The flow of power swam up from within her, coursing into him, filling his body and mind with a shuddering ecstasy almost too great to stand.

  He pulled himself on top of her, moving his hands behind her back to lift her body against his chest, hugging her fiercely as he absorbed the final spasms of current that flowed into him. When it was finished, he collapsed on top of her, spent and gasping.

  He pushed himself off her, standing up. His breath still came in gasps, his body trembling from the deluge of energy from the Transference. With his newfound strength, he placed a finger on her forehead and uttered an enchantment that would have been completely beyond him only a few moments before. He pressed upon Meiran’s soul a Word of Command, sending her spirit to the Netherworld with a task she would have no choice but to perform.

  He lifted her body, carried the dead weight of her over to the Well. With one, smooth motion, he cast her in. The blue fabric of her dress rippled in the wind created by the speed of her fall. He watched as the sight of her was quickly lost, consumed by the shadows of the Well. He never heard her body hit the bottom. As far as he was aware, it never did.

  Aidan Lauchlin knelt on the floor in the dim light of the Well’s shining runes. He waited, wondering how long it would take her to complete the task he had Commanded of her soul.

  Dark colors swam gradually into focus, hazing in and out across his vision. It took Darien long moments to realize it was the ceiling he was looking at and not some confused chiaroscuro that had taken on a life of its own.

  Blinking, Darien sat up, staring around the room in foggy bewilderment. He must have fallen asleep, though he didn’t recall doing so. There was a dull throbbing in the back of his head. His mouth was dry, and his eyes ached when he reached up to rub them. Beside his chair, the crystalline goblet sat empty. The bottle next to it was mostly full, completely untouched, except for the one glass that had been poured from it.

  Vaguely, he wondered what time it was. It felt as though he’d been sleeping forever. He struggled out of the chair, regretting the motion instantly. The throbbing in his head turned to a stabbing pain that lanced like hot irons into his eyes. Wincing, Darien squinted as dark blotches swam across his vision.

  It took him a moment to recover enough to stagger across the room to the hearth. The fire had burned out, the coals gray and cold. That was the first thing he noticed. Frowning, he glanced toward the paned window. Through glass streaked with rain, he saw only consummate darkness. Panic seized him. It was late.

  Then he noticed the clock on the wall with heavy iron counterweights. The position of the bronze hands on its face made the feeling of panic in his gut wrench into a wave of nausea. It was a quarter past the stroke of midnight. He was already late for the Rite of Transference in the temple.

  “Bloody hell.” His mother was going to kill him.

  Darien stood frozen, groping through the fog in his head to figure out what to do first. He had no time to clean up. His clothes were worn and travel-stained, his hair unwashed, his face unshaven. His body was covered with the dirt of the road. He’d taken no time to prepare himself mentally.

  He sprang for the bedchamber, ignoring the throb of urgent complaint in his head. His mother would have arranged for a wardrobe. She was never one to miss a detail. Yet, he still exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw fresh clothing already laid out on the bed.

  Stripping the filthy rags off his body, he donned the new black robes in a matter of seconds. One glance at the looking glass told him his face was a lost cause. He cupped his hands and filled them with water from the basin, splashing it over his cheeks. The towel he used came away from his face stained and filthy. He dragged his fingers through his hair, ripping through most of the snarls, then caught the long black strands up in a leather band.

  That was as good as it was going to get. As he dashed out of the bedchamber, Darien suddenly remembered the sword his mother had ordered thrown off the cliff. He had absolutely no intention of doing so; the blade had been a gift from Meiran. But he didn’t want to leave it lying around where someone could find it and report it had not been properly disposed of. Yet, when he glanced at the wall where he’d rested it, all he saw was empty space. The blade had been removed while he slept.

  The curse Darien swore as he slammed the door would have chilled even his mother’s cold blood.

  He was well beyond fashionably late by the time he reached the Temple of Athera in the upper reaches of the city. Being located on the sheer face of a mountain precipice, Aerysius was spread out more vertically than horizontally. Many of its streets were switchbacks, climbing steeply up the side of the cliff, that or granite stairs carved into the face of the mountain itself. Sky bridges linked the tops of towers at lower levels of the city with the bases of structures at higher elevations. Navigating the streets, particularly in the pouring rain, was difficult.

  To Darien, the climb to the temple was a grueling punishment. His body ached at every joint, and the throbbing in his head refused to go away.

  He was shaking and drenched by the time he topped the last flight of stairs. Darien shoved his hands out, thrusting the temple door open. His long strides propelled him into a well-lit antechamber.

  He stopped in the middle of the room, glancing frantically in all directions as he tried to figure out where to go. There were four doors leading out of the chamber, as well as two staircases to either side. He was about to just start trying doors when a cold voice halted him.

  “I’m not certain who I should be more furious with: you for arriving over an hour late or your brother for not bothering to present himself at all.”

  Darien slumped, shivering, not wanting to look up to face the wrath of his mother. She stood at the rail of the balcony, glaring down at him imperiously. At least she was alone. Darien wasn’t sure he could stand the humiliation of another public dressing-down by her. He moved forward grudgingly, ascending yet another flight of stairs to reach her.

  Emelda strode toward him as he arrived at the top of the staircase. Fury radiated from her presence, sharpening her every movement. When she reached him, she thrust out her hands and snatched his dripping cloak off his back, tossing it on the ground. Then she grabbed his face in her hand. The pressure of her fingers increased until they hurt. She jerked her hand away roughly.

  “What is the matter with you?” she hissed between clenched teeth. “When I sent you away, you were ready for this. More than ready! But now I see you’ve come back to us with the manners of a swine and nothing but contempt for our ways.”

  Darien seethed with a silent rage that threatened to ignite. Emelda was Prime Warden as well as his mother. But that was no excuse for the callous way she always treated him. She showed less respect for him than she did for the lowliest kitchen scullion. He didn’t care that she held the keys to his Raising in her hand, didn’t care that she had the authority to send him away again, perhaps this time forever. The anger inside burned fierce, an explosion of fury impossible to contain.

  “Then make your choice!” Darien demanded, quivering with rage. “Either let’s do this, or tell me now, and I’ll be on my way. I’m your son, not some damn indicator of how fit you are to be Prime Warden.”

  Emelda stared at him as if truly seeing him for the first time in her life. She blinked slowly before dropping her gaze. It was the only time in Darien’s memory he had ever seen his mo
ther back down. The silence between them stretched. Finally, Emelda looked up to meet his gaze. An expression of regret had replaced the anger in her eyes. Darien almost didn’t recognize the emotion, it looked so foreign on her features.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve always held the highest expectations of you. Perhaps they have been too high. I suppose it’s because, for the most part, you have always lived up to them.”

  It was Darien’s turn to drop his gaze. Her soft words had extinguished the last spark of anger left within him. He stared at the floor, thoughts and feelings running through his head in a torrent, leaving him terribly confused. He didn’t notice her hand moving until he felt the touch of her fingertips against his.

  “It is time,” she whispered. “Are you ready?”

  Darien nodded but didn’t speak. He felt incapable of trusting his voice. He allowed her to guide him toward a door off the balcony. Darien opened it for her and waited as his mother went through first. He followed behind silently in her wake.

  What he found inside the chapel looked nothing like the formal ceremony he’d been expecting. What he saw, rather, appeared to be a gathering of old friends. The High Priest of Athera appeared to be gossiping with Grand Master Ezras, an ancient-looking man seated at the far end of the room. They seemed to be swapping old stories over drinks.

  Beside them were a few other Masters he recognized, and even a Grand Master, all appearing to be just participating in friendly conversation. Yet, it was who he didn’t see that struck Darien most deeply. His mother had already warned him Aidan would be absent. But he’d been sincerely hoping Meiran would be there. It was more than just hope, really.

  He needed her there.

  Perhaps something urgent had come up. Or, more likely, she’d moved on to someone else. Whatever the reason, Meiran’s absence quenched the last spark of anticipation Darien had left.

  No one had prepared him for what he was supposed to do. Everyone was staring at him, he realized, all conversation suddenly halted. He noticed a few people shifting uncomfortably. He glanced back at his mother, who nodded her head in the direction of Ezras.

  Darien walked across the room in a carefully measured pace toward the old man. He tried not to look at any of the other faces in the room, not wanting to know what was written on them. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on Ezras until he reached the chair where the Grand Master was seated. He dropped to his knees before the ancient Sentinel and bowed his head deeply.

  Darien wasn’t certain why he had done that, or if it was even the proper thing to do. But now that he had chosen to make a place for himself at the Grand Master’s feet, he was committed. By the unwritten rules of protocol, he could do nothing further until he was bid. The next move had to be made by the old man. All he could do now was wait.

  The waiting seemed to last a lifetime.

  There was no sound in the room, not even a rustle of fabric or the tinkling of ice in a glass. Darien closed his eyes, his apprehension growing. He was beginning to get the feeling that there must be something else he should do, but he could hardly imagine what. The silence in the room was becoming uneasy. It was stretching too long, even for the witnesses. He felt their eyes boring into his back, felt himself becoming unnerved by their unseen stares. He almost stood up.

  Then he felt a pressure under his chin. The ancient Sentinel had reached down to take Darien’s face in his hand, lifting his chin with gnarled fingers, directing his gaze upward and into his own.

  He found himself looking into a pair of clear blue eyes that blazed with an acute flame of intelligence. There was no readable expression within them. There was only that single spark that burned with a luminous intensity. Darien found himself transfixed by it, unable to break away. The old man’s stare held him more securely than any iron shackle, even when he became aware that those clear blue eyes were doing much more than merely staring. Darien realized Ezras had been scrutinizing him the entire time.

  Suddenly, he was filled with doubt. The old man before him with the fiery gaze was one of the most powerful mages in Aerysius and was also the most accomplished.

  Ezras had been a prevailing force in the effort that had turned back the Enemy at the Battle of Meridan almost twenty years before. He had later gone on to do the same at the Battle of Dobson Hollow. All accomplished while maintaining his Oath of Harmony. Darien wondered if he was worthy of accepting the Rite of Transference from this man. He thought of his own professed opinions of the Oath and began to have doubts.

  He doubted, but he did not look away.

  Neither did Ezras. He sat staring Darien straight in the eyes as his cracked lips moved to form words.

  “Did you know I was a friend of your father’s?”

  Darien blinked. His shock was as much due to hearing the sound of a voice after such a long silence as it was to the sentiment in the old man’s tone.

  When he found his own voice again, it came out as a barely grated whisper. “No, Grand Master. I did not.”

  Ezras nodded slightly. His ancient hand yet lingered on Darien’s chin, while the intense blue stare continued to assess his every reaction. After another long stretch of silence, the old man spoke again.

  “You have his eyes. And I sense something else of him in you as well: you have his spirit. Gerald Lauchlin was an inspiring man and a loyal friend. You would do well to model yourself after him.” Ezras frowned, pausing a moment in reflection. “Come to think of it, it seems you already have. He was late to his own Raising too. Well, perhaps not quite so late as yourself.”

  The high priest must have taken that moment as his cue. He stepped behind the chair Ezras occupied and leaned forward to ask him, “Are you ready, Grand Master?”

  Ezras turned to look up at the priest with a warm smile devoid of any sign of regret. “Quite ready. This bag of bones some would call a body has stopped serving any useful purpose I can think of. Yes, I believe it’s well past time. You may begin.”

  The priest nodded. He turned to look down at Darien, who was still kneeling at the Sentinel’s feet.

  The priest asked, “Darien Lauchlin, are you prepared to assume the chains of servitude that will bind you forever as a guardian of the Rhen and of its people?”

  “I am, Your Eminence.” Darien was able to answer without hesitation, feeling himself bolstered by the old man’s indomitable spirit.

  “And are you also prepared to accept accountability for your every action, so that your decisions be always tempered by wisdom, compassion, and humility?”

  “Aye, Your Eminence. I am.”

  The priest moved forward to stand beside Ezras. He placed a hand on the Sentinel’s shoulder in a warm gesture that suggested an old friendship between the two men. He held his hand there as he stated formally, “Grand Master, may your journey to the Atrament be swift. Your time of service is at an end. Depart in peace, knowing that your service has not gone unnoticed nor unappreciated. Your name will be entered into the Book of Records, so that your works will be known until the end of time.”

  Ezras chuckled as the priest uttered the last line of the ancient ritual and removed his hand. “My thanks, Your Eminence. Most eloquently spoken. Though you should have omitted that last part about my works. I’m certain they’re not worth the waste of parchment.”

  He looked down at Darien then, a warm and welcoming smile on his lips. “Come, young man. Take these old hands. All this pomp and ceremony is frankly getting on my nerves. I’d like to have an end to it.”

  “Aye, Grand Master.”

  Darien barely heard the sound of his own voice. His heart beat fiercely as a host of conflicting emotions warred within him. These were the last moments of the old man’s life. Darien had never really known Ezras until this moment, but realized he was quite fond of the man. The old Master’s imminent passing filled him with a bitter sense of remorse.

  At the same time, he also felt singularly responsible for the ending of that life. He knew his guilt was unjustified. The transfe
r of power from one generation of mages to the next was simply the way it had been since the beginning of time, the only way it could ever possibly be. Deciding to pass on his gift had been Ezras’ choice alone. Yet, Darien found it hard to shake the guilt, all the same.

  There was also an acute sense of anticipation, knowing that the moment he had always waited for had finally arrived. That bitter-sweet feeling was mixed with an intense pang of sadness that had been lingering at the back of his mind throughout the entire ritual.

  He’d wanted so much for Meiran to be there.

  But she was not. So he did as the old man bid and took the mage’s age-spotted and gnarled hands into his own, closing his eyes.

  Almost immediately, he felt the stir of the conduit that Ezras established between them. He could feel the surge of it, the charge of power that flowed up his arms, into his chest, spreading out to fill his body with an overwhelming gush of exhilarating energy. It was as if every fiber within him had been suddenly awakened together at once. He could feel the magic field pulsing within him, throbbing, as brilliantly radiant as the sun. The feeling swelled, became encompassing, filling him entirely.

  And then, abruptly, he felt the conduit slam closed.

  When Darien opened his eyes, he found himself drained and weak. He gasped for breath as rivers of sweat streamed from his brow, and his heart pounded like a stampede of horses in his chest. His cheeks were wet with spilt tears he didn’t even remember shedding.

  The reality he awakened to was the same as before, and yet altogether different. It seemed more vivid, somehow, as if the world he’d known before was just a dim reflection that didn’t quite do justice to the real thing. The hues of colors seemed more saturated, the shadows somehow less dense. All of his senses were overwhelmed, the experience surreal. He felt like a newborn just expelled from the womb, opening its eyes for the first time.