Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  The tiers of the City through which they now walked were all much the same—a broad central avenue with alleys and minor thoroughfares branching off. The steppes dug into the mountainside lacked width for anything more. It was an architectural achievement they held as much as they did. Likely Builder Ral’s most praiseworthy achievement.

  The buildings lining the main avenues were stout, one-story stone structures. There was precious little wood in the North, and the land’s frequent dust and windstorms would have rendered using it as a building material a fool’s fancy anyway.

  As a rule, shops lined the avenues, with dwellings set off the main thoroughfare on side streets. The heat kept shopkeepers and merchants inside with the shade, and the general lack of wood made hanging signs a rarity. Rather, stone sculptures beside doors proclaimed the businesses within. A stone anvil here, a great basket of bread there. Even the cooperage featured a stone barrel out front, rather than waste a real one as advertisement. A great spigot protruding from a nearby wall proclaimed the shop of a water exchanger. “Salts” they were often called, elementalists skilled in the craft of separating salt from water. An art hardly practiced in Val’s grand South, where fresh water was plentiful, the Second Symposium at Mount Trimale needed an entirely separate school to teach all the exchangers the North required. There was virtually no freshwater North of Her Lady’s Justices, and even Northerners who lived close to that great river were loath to draw from it. Ever since Lady Tragnè’s great invocation had prevented the shadow hordes from crossing the river into the South during the Great Shadow War, many considered it bad luck to drink from its waters.

  Devan continued onward for several moments before realizing the others no longer followed. He turned, lips puckering as if he’d just quaffed one of the sour ales so much favored in the North. (The region’s temperatures made yeast nigh but untamable for any other sort of brewing.)

  His pupil stood in the middle of the avenue, hands on hips, glaring at Val.

  “And what makes you think I would want to come away with you to the South?”

  Val had taken a pace or two more before stopping. He turned back, brows jumping as if he’d just choked on his own pomposity. This time Devan was unable to suppress his smile, though she continued to glare at Val for long enough that even Devan began to doubt the joke. Then she broke into a grin.

  “I’m just teasing, dear. Come here.” She spread her arms as if for a hug. Val’s shoulders eased and he stepped towards her, opening his own arms for an embrace. But right before he got to her she sidestepped, snatched the hat off his head.

  And vanished.

  Val nearly toppled over at her unexpected disappearance.

  She reappeared next to Devan, her laughter a joyous song bringing a tingle to his skin. Val turned, nearly stumbling again as he did so, and gave her a strained smile. He was a thousand years older than Devan—still young for an Aldur—and not a wrinkle showed in his features. Yet somehow he always looked older when he smiled.

  “You ought not use your power for such banality, my sweet.”

  She answered with a smile showing too many teeth and held out the hat. Before Val reached her, though, it flew from her hand as if caught in a gale. She flinched in surprise, though Val didn’t seem to notice. He gave a growl and turned to give chase as it bounded down the dusty street in the direction they’d come. As Val hurried out of earshot, his pupil turned to look at him.

  “He’s right,” Devan said. “You really shouldn’t peregrinate just for show.”

  She dropped her brows. “And what about raising a fortuitous wind with an earth channel?”

  He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Exceptions can be made, I suppose.”

  She smiled, though the expression was fleeting, morphing to troubled contemplation.

  “Is Val right about me? That the Conclave will raise me? I just figured out this whole peregrination thing. And I haven’t even manipulated time yet.”

  Devan let his face drop back to a neutral façade. “Val would know better than I. He spends far more time with the others. I’ve been here in Trimale with you for nearly the entirety of your studies, save for our visits to the cottage.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Even I know that’s not the reason Val spends more time with the Conclave than you. You just don’t like being around others.”

  “Other people are complicated.”

  “Other people try your patience.”

  He frowned at her. Her lips turned upward.

  “Right now you’re trying my patience.”

  She snorted. “Stop evading. Val’s not objective.” She smiled after him, toying with a strand of hair as she did, twirling it about her finger. He’d finally reached his hat and was dusting it off. Then she turned a tight smile back on Devan. “You, on the other hand, would scold your own mother if the situation warranted. I want your opinion.”

  Her innocent determination was at once heart-warming and anxiety inducing. He looked past her gaze without turning his head.

  “You channel nearly as well as Val, though he’s been at it for millennia and you barely a pair of decades. You have grasped basic peregrination faster than any I’ve ever heard of. Even myself. You devour books at a rate that could rival even Stephan.” He moved his eyes back to hers. “You could be the most powerful Aldur the Conclave has ever seen.”

  Before she could ask more, he pulled her to him with one arm, squeezing as if the Path itself depended on the strength of his grasp. She returned the hug and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Good,” she said. “That will lighten mother’s heart. She’s always saying I need to learn faster. To help father.”

  Devan added a reassuring squeeze to her arm with his free hand and was glad she couldn’t see the grimace that came over his face. He’d never questioned her mother’s motivations, didn’t even really understand them, but knew they weighed heavily on his student.

  “One day at a time, giving it your best. That’s all anyone can do.”

  Before she could respond Val was back, regarding them like children who had outsmarted the adults.

  “Are the two of you finished?”

  She released him and flung her arms around Val, kissing him on the cheek. His expression softened like butter in the northern heat and he embraced her with similar vigor.

  Devan gave them a moment, but his momentary gaiety was gone.

  “Let’s go.” He turned back up the avenue without waiting. They had to hurry to catch up.

  “Why are you so grim, anyway?” his pupil asked as she caught up to him. “I thought you loved your job.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “You’ll see,” he muttered. Usually her inquisitiveness was a gift. Not now.

  She pressed on.

  “Why don’t we just peregrinate to the Symposium?”

  “Second Symposium.”

  She threw her arms in exasperation. “It’s the only Symposium I know.”

  Devan stopped short, spinning on her. “If you want to be Aldur, you’ll need to learn the way of things.”

  She flinched back, hands raised, palms outward. “Alright, alright.”

  “Take it easy, Devan,” Val said stepping between them.

  He glared from her to Val, then turned back up the street. “Well, it’s true,” he said as he strode away. A few moments later, he heard them coming after him once more, though not as closely as before.

  “It’s the Keepers,” Val said, answering the question Devan had ignored. “They dislike it when we appear out of nowhere.”

  “I know that,” she said. “But since when do you care about what the Linears—” she paused, as if tasting the shape of the word, “—what the Linears think?”

  Val gave a gruff laugh. “I guess that’s fair. But, well, in this time the Keepers at Second Symposium are just about the only ones who still keep the faith. After the Shadow War, we’ve become little more than whispered stories in the South. The Temple’s seen to that. Walking up th
is hill is a small token of gratitude for their continued support I suppose.”

  She sounded like she wanted to ask more, but at that moment they turned a corner and the Founders’ Circus stretched out before them. Somehow it managed to be both no different than the rest of the austere city and yet breathtakingly grand.

  The Domkirkja Aldur dominated the Circus. Five minarets soared above them like falcons, so tall they were difficult to see without straining one’s neck. Majestic. Breath stealing. The towers were arranged in a triangular pattern, one to the fore, two slightly behind to either side, then two behind those. Each ended in a point tipped by a colored orb, one for each of the elements. Their facades were latticed stonework, a series of descending arches imposed one upon the other. Combined with the yawning entryway, it caused the structure to seem as if it were judging all those who passed, disfavoring them with a stern frown.

  The Linears believed it another of Ral’s grand achievements, but Devan knew better. The Cathedral had been raised by the Aldur at the end of the Shadow War, an enduring reminder of his people’s aid and sacrifice during the conflict.

  Positioned at the center of the Circus, in direct line with the Cathedral’s entrance, was the land’s largest elemental shrine. A huge fountain, commanded by stone likenesses of Tragnè and Trimale, facing each other and gripping forearms. A recreation of the day they’d laid the final stone on the Unity Bridge at Riverdale, connecting North to South. The oneness exemplified by the scene was an ideal to which Agarsfar had been unable to rise.

  Around the fountain were planted five rows of fire orchids, likely one of the largest collections of the exotic plants in all of the Seven Realms. Water bounded off the fountain’s basin to mist on their pedals. Baubles of contained mortal and shadow fire bobbed in the pool. From time to time two would collide, causing micro eruptions within the orbs that sent brilliant colors dancing off the water’s surface. Several people were gathered around the fountain, collecting water into great leather skins, taking care not to waste a drop of the precious liquid.

  Devan headed towards neither the fountain nor the cathedral, but off to the left. A low wall was all that separated Second Symposium from the rest of the Circus. It wasn’t so much a building as a bazaar of learning. Open-air tents were scattered about, bright fabrics flapping in the slight breeze that the summit of Mount Trimale sometimes enjoyed. Groups of students were massed under some, listening to teachers or reading great tomes. Others covered vendors of all sorts—farmers selling the north’s famous melons, flesh red as blood and tart as lost dreams; a smithy selling everything from swords and axes to nails and cooking pots, the latter crafted just as fine as the former; a book binder; several water exchangers; and even a panther trainer, several of the fine beasts tethered to posts, basking in the shade, great tongues lulling. Off to one corner there was even a small stand selling goods made of ebon, a trade still legal in the North despite all the trouble it had caused with the South. A stone placard dyed in yellow with black script warned those not attuned to the fifth element to stay away.

  All these tents were centered around an open training ground where pairs of students clashed with one another under the watchful eyes of several Keepers, the order who held both the land’s elemental knowledge and its secrets of weaponcraft.

  As Devan moved through the throng, his pupil and Val following close behind, silence fell. When he approached the training ground, one of the overseeing Keepers turned towards the sudden quiet. His eye twitched at the sight of them, though he otherwise gave no outward sign of surprise. After murmuring a few words to his companions, he motioned for the sparring to continue and made his way over. He wore a bright blue tabard with a golden lion emblazoned across the chest, partially covered by a dark beard. Much of the rest of his features were obscured by a pair of solar spectacles, shading his eyes from the brightness.

  “My lady,” he said once he’d reached them, bowing low to Devan’s pupil. She smiled and nodded to him in reply, as if she were used to this treatment. But the slow scan of her eyes over the gathered men and women didn’t escape Devan. She was looking for her mother. He wasn’t sure whether she wanted her to be there or not.

  “And honored Aldur,” the man said to Devan, giving him an equally low bow. Devan gave a twitch of his chin that some might have deemed a nod.

  The Keeper then turned his eyes to Val. He hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough for Val to grind his teeth loudly enough for the whole Second Symposium to hear. His eyes were like awls, driving into the man. The Keeper’s eyes bulged as he realized his mistake and he dipped into a third bow, this one sloppy in its haste. Perhaps that would teach Val to go about without his peoples’ traditional hair styling and face paint.

  “We are honored by your presence, of course,” he said to Val while averting his eyes. “But two?” That question he directed back to Devan. “Is that needed?”

  Devan could practically hear the sneer on Val’s lips.

  “What I mean to say is... It’s just that... I wouldn’t want to waste your time, is all.” His words trailed off until they were nearly lost in the northern breeze. He knuckled his forehead and tried to take in both Devan and Val with a single gaze while looking at neither.

  “Be at ease, Brother Keeper,” Devan said. “We may not both be needed, but better to be thorough in such matters.”

  “Of course, of course. Well, you’ll be wanting refreshment, I’m sure. And the lady will want rooms while she waits for you. If you’ll follow—”

  “We’ll see to it now,” Devan said, turning his back to the Keeper and striding back the way they’d come, towards the Cathedral. Murmurs and anxious stares followed his every movement. His pupil and Val followed, the Keeper hurrying to keep up.

  “Certainly, certainly. But,” he lowered his voice, “you mean for the lady to accompany you?”

  His pupil sniffed.

  “Experience is the best teacher,” Devan replied without looking at the man or slowing his gait.

  “Of course.” The Keeper hardly sounded convinced but had the sense to keep his opinion to himself.

  “The boy is in the catacombs. I’ll show you the way.”

  “Boy?” Val said.

  At the same time, Devan’s pupil exclaimed, “The catacombs are no place for a child.”

  Devan closed his eyes at their foolishness. Why not just proclaim they’d no idea what was going on? The Keeper nearly tripped over himself again in surprise.

  “He’s no child, my lady,” the Keeper said. “Not anymore.” His face scrunched in confusion as he turned to Devan. “Don’t they know?”

  “Just lead on, Brother Keeper. Let me worry about the rest.”

  The Keeper’s eyes flicked to the other two, then back to Devan. “As you say, Virtuo Timi. As you say.”

  He led them around the fountain and through the great arched entryway of the Cathedral, through an antechamber where assorted statues stood. They were Aldur, Devan supposed, though he recognized none of them. One, head and shoulders taller than the rest, was dressed in a robe finished in mother of pearl, dyed in a quintet of colors. Devan ruminated that it was good Stephan wasn’t here to see how the Linear sculptors imagined him to look.

  Beyond the sculptures stood a great pair of doors, fitted with intricate panes of stained glass. These led to the basilica proper, used for both services and governmental sessions. But before they got to those doors, the Keeper veered off down an ill-lit corridor.

  “What did he mean, the boy’s not a child anymore?” his pupil asked.

  Devan silenced her with a motion of his hand just as the Keeper stopped before a wooden door that was slightly too low to walk through without stooping. Seven great padlocks hung about its frame. The man produced a rusty ring of keys and began unlocking them one by one.

  “You didn’t tell me this is what you needed help with,” Val said as they watched the Keeper. Morbid understanding crawled over his features.

  “Would you have come if
I had?”

  Val inhaled sharply, as if to offer a sharp rebuke. But then he hesitated.

  “I don’t know. It’s detestable business.”

  “Maintaining the True Path sometimes is.”

  The Keeper flinched as if he’d just heard something he wished he hadn’t and began unlocking faster, nearly dropping the keys.

  “What is going on?” His pupil had her arms crossed now, angry glare shifting between both him and Val. Devan said nothing.

  “You’ll just have to see,” Val said, taking her hand. “Devan’s right. You’ll need to know this. Even if I don’t like it.”

  The last lock clattered to the ground. Devan’s heart leapt, but he managed to maintain his outward composure. It wouldn’t do to show the others the emotions roiling within him. The Keeper pulled the door open, then stepped off to the side.

  “You know the way from here, I trust, Honored Aldur?”

  “Afraid to come with us?” Val said.

  The man drew himself up, yet somehow managed to also shy away from Val. “Not afraid, Honored Aldur. But I know trouble when I see it. Just getting him down there was more than enough for me. Took a whole covenant. Twenty-six of the finest Keepers we’ve got, all channeling together.”

  “A whole... covenant?” his pupil murmured.

  “Perhaps the Symposium isn’t what it once was, then,” Val said, laying a comforting hand on his beloved’s shoulder.

  “Enough, Val,” Devan said, eyes never leaving the open doorway. “You know what awaits us down there. The man is right to be uneasy.”

  Devan remained silent and unflinching until Val gave a grunt of assent, then he turned to the Keeper.

  “Thank you, Brother Keeper. Yes, we can take it from here.”

  The man bowed to them. “I’ll await you in the basilica, so I can come lock the door once you’ve finished.”