Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  “Speak to me no more, Messorem,” Devan whispered.

  He stayed long enough to watch life completely drain from the body. Then, with a flick of his hand, he directed a channel of shadow flame from one of the nearby torches at the corpse. He turned and strode from the chamber, leaving the charring flesh behind him. Try as he might, the last words the monster had spoken repeated again and again in his mind, refusing to stay buried even after he’d ascended from the depths of the Cathedral.

  9

  Ferrin

  Are there Angels? The Mighty Aldur? Who am I to say? But there are men, true flesh and blood, who can perform feats once reserved by the legends for only the Gods. I have seen it.

  -From Tragnè’s Oral Histories

  FERRIN REMAINED SILENT for several moments, considering what Jenzara had just told him of her encounter with the Parents while beyond the walls.

  “You told them you wanted to join?” he finally asked.

  Jenzara had been leaning back in one of the Angelic Chapel’s pews. She sat up at his question, narrowing her eyes at him through the evening dimness. It’d been hours since her return, but she’d only gotten here a few minutes ago. Raldon had set her to preparing the feast they’d inevitably be holding to welcome the Grand Father and his retinue. He was always doing that now, delegating tasks that he’d ordinarily handle to Jenzara. Normally it would take days to prepare a feast of such magnitude, but Raldon had insisted it be tomorrow. Jenzara still needed to return to the kitchens before bed; she’d barely been able to get away to meet him here as it was.

  She showed no signs of having slaved in the kitchens, however. She’d changed into a green silk tunic trimmed in white. It was unbuttoned at the neck just far enough that Ferrin needed to make a conscious effort not to allow his eyes to linger. Jenzara wasn’t beyond punching him in the arm, after all. Her shirt was complemented by tan pants tucked into brown mid-calf boots. He’d always appreciated that she eschewed the frivolous dresses most of the girls their aged favored.

  “After all I just told you,” Jenzara said, “that’s what you’re keying on? Yes, I told the Grand Father I want to take the oaths.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it’s true. We’ve talked about this before. The North and the shadow friends who inhabit it killed my mother. What better way to honor her than join the men and women whose mission it is to combat those forces?”

  Ferrin ran a hand over the back of his head. She was being ridiculous.

  “I didn’t think you actually meant it. Thought you were just, you know, venting. Valdin didn’t actually accept your offer, did he?”

  Even through the gloom of the ill-lit chapel he could see her redden. And even though he was glad—relieved even—at what her reaction indicated, he regretted asking the question. Of course he hadn’t accepted her. He’d asked her to demonstrate skill in the light and she’d nearly killed the poor shadow child rather than heal him. Best to leave it at that. Jenzara didn’t take kindly to reminders that she wasn’t exactly her father when it came to channeling.

  “Could we get some light in here?” she asked. “I can barely see you.”

  Without rising, he reached out with his mind to one of the torches at the chapel’s entrance. With a flick of his hand he directed a stream of fire at one of the unlit torches hanging from the elemental shrine at the chapel’s center. Birds went right on singing their nighttime tunes as if he hadn’t just created fire from thin air, but Jenzara flinched as it shot past her. The sudden flare illuminated the chapel’s interior, revealing the familiar space dominated by the three sets of pews with three rows each, the shrine at their center. The benches weren’t particularly comfortable, but the knot they put in his back brought with it a certain nostalgia after all these years. Ferrin laid outstretched upon his, much as he had that morning when Jenzara had found him, legs taking up nearly the entirety of its seating space.

  The surprise his lighting of the torches had caused seemed to have temporarily robbed Jenzara of anything to say, so they sat in silence for some minutes. She’d tilted her head up until it rested on the back of her pew, eyes closed. Her full lips were set in a frown and the firelight danced off her chest as it rose and fell with each breath. When she opened her eyes he couldn’t help thinking that their unique shade of purple had always reminded him of the orchids planted in the elemental shrine.

  “What do you think of this elemental exam the Grand Father intends?” she asked.

  “I think it will end poorly.”

  She frowned and the shadows played off her face in such a way that accentuated her high cheekbones, giving her an appearance of angered pride.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He snorted. “Obviously the Parents believe there’s a true shadow threat here—why else bring an entire covenant? So, that means one of two things will happen. Either they’ll find a shadow attuned here, and I’ll leave to your imagination what would happen to that poor soul and anyone associated with him.”

  He paused and saw in Jenzara’s face that she knew full well the consequences faced by one attuned to the fifth element. He also saw she’d have no pity for anyone the Parents apprehended.

  “Or two,” he went on, “they won’t find any shadow attuned, but they’ll find someone to charge under the Edicts to save face. How embarrassing would it be for the Temple to send a covenant out to the wilds of the Western Province and not come back with stories of a shadow friend’s blood spilt?”

  Jenzara regarded him with a look of shocked astonishment that was both comical and a little disturbing in its naivety.

  “That’s absurd, Ferrin. The Temple would never falsely accuse someone of shadow friendery just to save face. And with our current company you’d better watch how loud you say such things. Father lets you get away with more than you deserve. Actual Parents of Tragnè will not be so forgiving. You should have seen how some of them looked at father for just displaying irritation with the Grand Father.”

  Ferrin tilted his head back, out of the torches’ ring of light so Jenzara couldn’t see the exasperation on his face.

  “They disbanded a third of the Senate and the land’s largest institution of secular learning to consolidate their power, Jenzara. I don’t think they’ll have any qualms killing a westerner or two in the name of the Edicts.”

  Jenzara shot up from her seat at this, causing Ferrin to nearly tip backwards off the pew in surprise.

  “Taul Bladesorrow murdered Grand Master Keeper Rikar Bladesong and his son. It was plain for all the land to see. And yet, the Symposium still supported him, even voted to raise him to Grand Master in place of the man he killed. And then what did he do? Sell the South out to the North, destroy Riverdale, and nearly kill the Grand Father himself. The Senate’s decision to disband the Symposium seems more than warranted to me. Sometimes I think of it and I’m ashamed to call Ral Mok home. It chills me to the bone that the Betrayer once walked these same grounds as a youth.”

  Ferrin continued to keep what he knew must be an expression of petulant distaste out of the light, but Jenzara saw him wave his hand at her well enough.

  “And what of the man who trained him?”

  Her hands clenched to fists. “You leave father out of it.”

  Ferrin decided that was not a place to tread further. “The victors write the history,” he said.

  “What?”

  He bent back into the light.

  “I know you don’t care for history class much. And based on most people’s unquestioning belief of Valdin’s account of what happened at Riverdale, neither does much of society. But let me remind you of some facts that no one seems to want to remember.”

  Jenzara crossed her arms, a posture she often favored him with. Usually he found it amusing, even somehow attractive. But not right now.

  “Taul Bladesorrow was the most powerful light attuned Agarsfar has seen since maybe Tragnè herself. At eighteen, before he even joined the Symposium, he healed Grand Master
Bladesong’s son from an incurable disease by performing the first Invocation in generations. He—”

  “A skilled traitor’s still a traitor.”

  Her interruption caused him to trip over his next few words. Once he got going it was hard to stop. He cleared his throat. She knew full well how he hated to be interrupted.

  “An Invocation is far more than a skill,” he finally managed to spit out.

  She continued to glare, but he could see in her eyes that she didn’t know what he meant.

  “There are five Invocations. One for each element. The old heroes were able to perform them all the time. But since Tragnè’s death, the histories report only about a dozen occurrences.”

  This had her interest, at least. Tragnè had always been her favorite growing up.

  “Usually you can only tap into the one or two elements to which you’re naturally attuned. But if one’s attunement to a specific element is strong enough, it’s possible to gain a glimpse into the workings of all the elements sufficient to perform acts far beyond those of even the most powerful elementalist who is channeling a single element. That’s called an Invocation.”

  “That’s almost as ridiculous as that peregrination nonsense you were talking about earlier,” she replied. “Where do you hear this stuff?”

  Ferrin raised his eyebrows at her, though not for the reason she thought. He hadn’t considered that connection, that the Invocations and the storied peregrination of the Aldur were linked, or at least related. But it made sense. Those who had achieved Invocations since Tragnè’s passing had been among the most skilled elementalists of all time. Not quite Aldur, but showing much of the same power and mental affinity as the Angels of lore. He contemplated telling her that it’d been her own father who’d told him about the Invocations, but thought better of it. She was angry enough.

  “Just one of my books. Think of it like this,” he hurried on before she could object. “It’s like being a master with a single weapon, say a blade. If someone instead hands you an axe, or a hammer, whatever, you might not be a master with it, but you won’t be totally defenseless either. Same goes for channeling. If you’re strong enough in one element, then it’s possible to get some use out of the others as well.”

  “If that were true,” Jenzara said, “then strong elementalists would be channeling all five elements all the time.”

  “No. Not strong elementalists. Really strong, like once-in-a-generation powerful. Elemental skill’s not what it once was. The days of Ral raising whole buildings from nothing but boulders and a stiff breeze, or Tragnè warding an entire river against forces of darkness, are gone. Besides, the Invocations don’t grant long-term access to all the elements—just short flashes. It’s like wearing too-big boots. You’ll be able to walk, but not very—”

  Jenzara’s scowl deepened.

  “Oh never mind. You’re missing the point.”

  “Which is?”

  He threw his arms in the air.

  “The point is Taul Bladesorrow was so powerful in the light, he performed a feat no elementalist has performed in millennia. So powerful in the light the Temple itself wanted him among their ranks. So powerful in the light he would have become the Light Master Keeper—over your father no less—had he not been so skilled with the sword he became the Blade Master Keeper instead. Does that sound like someone who’d murder his adopted father and brother and try to betray the whole South to a supposed Northern shadow horde?”

  “He killed my mother,” she seethed.

  “What proof of that do you have besides the word of one man? Shades, they never even recovered Bladesorrow’s body.”

  She ignored him. “The Symposium supported him and he killed her.”

  “Raldon was amongst those who supported him.”

  For a moment he thought she’d strike him. But instead she took in a long breath and spoke so softly he had to lean in to hear.

  “Bladesorrow befriended Nellis Lonemage. A Northerner so powerful in the shadow the Symposium had to send him back from where he came.”

  He resisted the urge to call her an idiot at the top of his lungs. She was so narrow minded when it came to the fifth element he could shake her.

  “Angels forbid he befriend someone different than him.”

  “No Northerner is worth befriending,” she slung back at him. “The Temple gets that, as does the Senate. Why don’t you?”

  He shut his eyes. “The Senate has been crippled ever since the Temple took the Symposium’s seats for its own. The Commons might as well stay home, so little their votes are now worth. And if you think anyone in Tragnè City is interested in actually winning this war against the North, you should look at the latest reports again. Virtually the whole army is sitting at Doom’s Keep, growing fat on fish from Port Lustin. A smattering of patrols along the Justices. Shadow’s cry! The only force beyond the river is a covenant posted at the Ruins of Ral Falar of all places—about as far from any strategically useful location as they could—”

  “Shut up,” she hissed.

  “I won’t.” He was walking a thin rampart, but she needed to hear it. “The Temple worked against everything your mother sought to protect as a Keeper, its cardinal principles: Knowledge. Valor. Equality. What would she—”

  He spluttered as Jenzara actually slapped a hand over his mouth. He was about to growl a protest and swat her arm away when a man’s shadow fell over them. Swallowing his retort, he turned slowly. His eyes fell upon the man he’d seen earlier in the courtyard, the one who’d been speaking to the shadow children with great interest. He was examining two mosaics on the chapel’s far wall, back to them. One depicted the angelic crest—a simple shield with a horizontal line of black at the top, above an equally sized horizontal block of white. Below these the bottom half of the shield was divided into a trio of red, blue, and green.

  The second mosaic, before which the man stood, depicted a hawk, talons grasping at a mound from which protruded the heads of seven black snakes. Beneath it, etched in flowing script, was inscribed: Never again to walk the Path against its people’s will. The Parent made a sound in the back of his throat like a man at a funeral. Then he turned and his glistening eyes widened at the realization he wasn’t alone. The torches suddenly guttered out, leaving the chapel in darkness.

  Gooseflesh rose on Ferrin’s arms. That had been no chance gust of wind. Even through the sudden darkness, he could feel the eyes on him, the look of a starved man just presented with a feast. Ferrin suddenly felt a strong urge to check his flesh to make sure it was still attached to his bones.

  “Lady Jenzara,” the man’s voice hummed through the dark chamber. “Such a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Grand Father,” she replied. Then she did something Ferrin had never seen her do before. She curtsied. That was ridiculous for a whole variety of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that the Grand Father couldn’t possibly see her through the gloom.

  “And who is your friend? Surely anyone who shares the company of Raldon Everbright’s daughter is worth knowing.”

  “Certainly, Grand Father.” She sounded like a maid pandering to her employer. “This is my friend—”

  “I’m nobody,” he cut her off. “And I need to be going. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jenzara.”

  He turned and rushed out of the chapel without another word, Jenzara’s shock and the Grand Father’s violative eyes tearing into his back the whole way. He couldn’t place where the premonition came from, but he was certain he didn’t want the Grand Father knowing anything about him. That man had been trouble for Agarsfar since he was raised to the Grand Parentage in... He actually couldn’t think of the date at the moment. Shades, his head was spinning.

  He rushed on through the evening twilight, past the smithy and goat pens. Off to one side on the expanse of lawn between the Great Hall and the main gate the Parents had erected several tents, each large enough to stand in. Light spilling from one of the flaps illuminat
ed several men on their knees, heads bent in what Ferrin assumed were prayers to the Lady Tragnè. Not a dozen paces from them, two forms huddled together, chained to one of the tent posts. He almost stopped. The Grand Father unsettled him, but he’d no fear of the other Parents. They put on the appearance of abiding by the Temple’s cardinal virtues—justice, humility, charity—but he saw through it. The arrogant manner in which they carried themselves, as if those around them were some lower order of man. Too good to even stay in Ral Mok’s guest suites.

  They’d better stay away from Jenzara.

  The thought gripped at his insides like a trowel in dry soil when he remembered what she’d said just minutes earlier about wanting to join them. He hurried on and was breathing hard by the time he reached the towering oak doors to the Great Hall. Much too late he realized he’d left Jenzara alone with the Grand Father. He nearly sprinted back to the Chapel, but restrained himself. The man wouldn’t dare harm Raldon’s own daughter. What had occurred in the days and weeks after Bladesorrow’s death were largely a mystery to all; kept silent by the Temple, Ferrin had no doubt. But there was a reason Valdin had sent Raldon here, as far away from Tragnè City as could reasonably be justified. Raldon had been a threat to the Grand Father’s authority, a man with whom the Grand Father feared to trifle.

  A smattering of townsfolk sat in the Hall eating late dinners, scattered in small groups across the space’s multitude of tables. Each was long enough to seat twenty comfortably, thirty or more on feast days. Tomorrow, each would be stuffed to capacity.

  Several people at a table laughed in unison. Somehow, their mirth brought dread to his soul. He’d never seen an execution, but in that moment he was certain of how a condemned man must feel at he mounted the gallows. Ferrin strode through the hall, looking straight ahead, resisting the urge to run as his heart threatened to rupture. As soon as he turned a corner he leaned against a wall, trying to calm himself in the shadows.