Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  But not this night.

  Father tried to go on. “What a pleasant surprise to see—”

  “You let him hold me?” Even in her enraged state, the vitriol in the words was a surprise. Her shoulders quivered.

  Father raised an eyebrow, his lips reversing course into a frown. But rather than ask a surprised question as any normal person would do, he simply stated, “More dreams, I see.”

  The calm in his voice was like dry kindling on a blaze. She slammed the door and practically charged at his desk, pounding her firsts into its well-worn surface. The copy of The Lessons fell to the floor.

  “How could you have been friends with him? More than friends. His teacher. He lived here, under your eye. Probably sat right there.” She flailed a hand at the window seat. “Same place as you let me sit as a child. How... could you?”

  She glared at him, but his demeanor remained unphased. Imperturbable. They stayed that way, staring at one another, for what might have been moments, might have been hours.

  Splat.

  She looked down to see a droplet staining the page of one of father’s books. It took several moments for her to realize she was sobbing. And it only took a moment more for father to be out of his chair, around the desk, and holding her. She buried her face in his robe and quaked with silent gouts of anguish.

  “I miss her,” she finally managed to murmur into father’s shoulder. He wasn’t one to waste words and he just grasped her, remaining silent, but she felt the agreement in his grip. Eyes squeezed shut, she embraced him with desperation.

  After a time, her tears ceased and her breathing eased. There, enfolded in father’s sure grasp, she could almost imagine how it had felt as a young child, the surety of being held by a loving parent; the blissful security that only youthful ignorance could bring.

  But she’d lost such innocence earlier than most. Ripped from home, cast away to this backwater to grow up removed from the society into which she’d been born. The injustice of it turned her stomach. She pushed herself out of father’s encircling arms, giving him a tired half smile as she strode over to the window and eased herself onto the seat built into it. Leaning back, she put one foot up on the cushion, knee drawn up to her chest. Father followed and settled into his favorite armchair before the room’s fireplace. Tiny birds were stitched into the chair’s green upholstery. It must have cost a fortune and she’d often wondered where father had gotten it, particularly out here. No artisan in Ral Mok could have crafted it. But that wasn’t important now.

  She studied the lines of his face for a time. He still hid age well, but after seeing his younger self in her dream the man now before her seemed old and worn. The lines of care at the edges of his eyes had turned to full-fledged wrinkles, if subtle ones. His hair now showed nearly as much gray as brown. She favored him with another smile, but now she was just stalling.

  She loved him. He’d protected her from the fallout of the Betrayer’s treachery. She knew that intuitively, even if she couldn’t actually remember. Banished from both the Senate and Tragnè City, he’d taken her with him, here to Ral Mok, raised her as well as any father could have, limited as her abilities might be. He’d every right to be disappointed in her. He, a great elementalist, at one time a man of great power and influence; she, unable to mend a scrape, much less use her channeling for anything of use. Yet he did nothing but support her. Teach her responsibility. The value of honesty and a hard day’s work. How to lead others, gain their respect.

  But she was now past the point where she believed he could do no wrong. It was a disconcerting feeling, realizing a parent wasn’t infallible. Like walking along a steep precipice with a railing that had suddenly ended. She wasn’t sure when this revelation had come upon her. There likely hadn’t been a single event, just a compounding of circumstances. What sort of man could have been friends with the Betrayer—his wife’s own murderer—and not seen the imminent disaster? And then, worse still, rather than strive to repent his mistakes, renounce his misplaced allegiance, he’d instead accepted exile to this place. The Betrayer’s childhood home, no less. And then he just kept on. Passive remarks against the Temple’s policy, like that episode this morning. Refusing to drop his use of Keeper-related terminology. Maintaining an Angelic Chapel on town grounds, a shrine to a religion long since dead everywhere save the traitorous North. He was stubborn and refused to change, no matter how much good it would do him. And her.

  Her smile faded as she stared into father’s jasper eyes. They held the same calm, self-possessed assurance they had ever since she could remember. She’d always taken that look for one of wisdom. But now she was beginning to doubt. Was his cool exterior just a mask for a defeated man? A coward? She bit her lip in anxiety at the mere thought of applying such a label to him, but the thought wouldn’t leave. A tear welled in her eye, but she blinked it away.

  “I intend to leave with the Parents after they complete their business here.”

  A twitch at the edge of father’s mouth was the only reaction he gave, but coming from him it was an outburst. The equivalent of another man lurching from his seat with a shout.

  “I advise against that course,” he said. His voice was steady. Even. But it rode on an undercurrent of emotion that startled her. Was that anger? Or perhaps concern? Regardless, his lack of blessing was hardly a surprise.

  “Why not? You’ve always been so insistent that I stay. But there’s nothing here. Trees and grass as far as you can see in every direction. How can I ever hope to reach my potential here?” She paused, then rushed on, “How can I ever avenge mother if I spend my whole life here? How can you for that matter?”

  Father exhaled through his nose. His lips stretched into a thin line that might have been a sad smile or a concealed grimace.

  “Some things are more important than revenge.”

  “What could matter more than justice for mother?”

  He steepled his fingers and held them to his lips, seeming to consider his next words with a care that tugged at him with the weight of mountains.

  “You, for one,” he finally responded. “Ever since we left the City, you’ve always been my principal concern, Jenzara. You’re bound for great things, my dear girl. And I must be sure to help you however I can. I made... promises.”

  The words should have caused a swell of pride within her. Instead, her rage spewed forth once more. His talk of promises could only be a reference to her mother, whom he’d allowed to march to her death in the North. She sprang from the window seat.

  “How can you say that? Didn’t you see what a fool I made of myself earlier? I can’t fight. I can’t channel. I’m no more than passing good with knives, or a bow. My hands shake at the mere thought of taking up a blade like mother. I’m not even good at your history lessons.”

  “There’s more to greatness than fighting and reading,” he responded. Father’s hands remained steepled before his face, but she would have sworn there was a smile playing at his lips now. She stomped her foot, realizing too late how foolish she must look, a woman grown, sulking like a child.

  “You’ve a good heart,” he went on. “Look how you tried to help that child today. Or how you stood up for me. And you know your limits. Who knows how many Agar’s or Tragnè’s have been lost to history because they thought themselves cleverer than they truly were? Wise men and women become great by acknowledging their limitations, while ones of near-boundless potential fall, defeated by their own hubris.”

  Father’s eyes glowed as they often did after he’d arrived at the moral of his lesson.

  Jenzara leered back at him. That boy she’d tried to heal had been a fifth. Feeling any compassion for him had been a mistake. Weakness. Standing up for father? Any child would have done it. And knowing her limitations? She was certain Agar and Tragnè hadn’t become famous through admitting their faults. Ferrin wasn’t praised as Ral Mok’s best student based on his mastery of the subtle art of understanding his limits. He was the best because he could do ever
ything. Better than everyone else.

  “Your mother would have been proud of you.”

  Those words pierced her worse than any blade. She choked back a sob and looked away from him. Now she knew he was just saying things to soothe her. Her mother had been a fighter. A proud warrior of Agarsfar. Jenzara didn’t want to even imagine what her mother might think of a daughter who was none of that. She quickly shifted away from such thoughts.

  “Why don’t you come with me, to Tragnè City? Surely after all these years you can go back now. You could keep teaching me there. When I’m not training at the Temple anyway.”

  Father tensed, and for an instant she thought he meant to spring from his chair. Instead, he rose with quiet grace, smoothing the front of his robe. Nonetheless, his eyes were troubled.

  “You cannot,” he said, voice clipped with a mix of emotions that caused Jenzara to take a step back. But the next moment she’d crossed her arms, eyes narrowed.

  “The Parents are the leaders of the land now, father. The Grand Father saved us from Bladesorrow’s plot and now protects us all from the shadow threat. I won’t deny the Temple just because of some old feud you once had with them.”

  He shook his head, closing his eyes as if composing himself before uttering another word.

  “It has nothing to do with any feud I had with the Temple. The Parents simply aren’t what they once were. Tragnè founded them for charity’s sake, to take care of those who could not care for themselves. But over the centuries they’ve twisted her words, her teachings. They act as if no one knows how to care for themselves. And they’ve perverted one muttered curse by Tragnè, spoken the day her beloved Agar fell to the shadow fiends of the Elsewhere, to mean that every man, woman, and child attuned to the fifth element is a devil, a curse on the land.”

  Jenzara frowned at him. He seemed to speak as if the Parents’ actions were a personal affront to him. Like he knew with absolute certainty what Tragnè had intended. But how could he? It wasn’t as if he’d known her. Tragnè had lived and died nearly a thousand years ago. The Temple knew best, surely.

  “You’re alone in that belief, father. No other man in Agarsfar would even think to question the Parents so.”

  “Plenty think it, Jenzara. They just fear to speak. If only you could know what their leader...” His voice trailed off and he held a hand to his temple as if his head pained him.

  “Never mind,” he went on. “Even setting our disagreement about the Parents aside, Tragnè City isn’t what it used to be. I know what little you remember of it must seem grand compared to what we have here. But it’s no longer like that. The people live on constant edge. Never-ending war. The Symposium fallen into disrepair since the Keepers were disbanded. It’s nothing more than a marketplace for second-rate goods and prison for the City’s shadow attuned.”

  Father sounded so bitter. And she supposed she couldn’t blame him. The Symposium had been his home for many years, ever since he’d left his first posting at Ral Mok to assume the mantle of Light Master, the Keepers’ most skilled light attuned. But Jenzara would not be held down by father’s regrets.

  “And what of Ferrin?”

  Jenzara started. She hadn’t been thinking of him at all. But she knew what father meant without explanation. Foolhardy or no, Ferrin would stay until his parents returned, or at least until he found whatever truths he thought existed in the bowels of the town library. The thought of leaving him here brought a sudden tightness to her throat that she didn’t understand. But she gulped it down and glared at father.

  “You’ve done nothing but tell me to keep away from Ferrin these last few years, and now you dangle him as bait for me to stay?”

  “Ferrin is dangerous,” father said, face drawn with a concern she didn’t understand. “But he can also keep you safe. I know he’d never let anything happen to you.”

  Jenzara drew her brows down. He was trying to trick her. But perhaps father had trained her a little too well. She saw plain as day the unspoken implication in his words. From whom he thought she needed protecting.

  “You can’t stop me from going,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. Father always managed to be more convincing when he kept calm in the face of another man’s anger.

  The tact seemed to work. He let out a sigh and returned to the chair at his desk that he’d occupied before she’d entered.

  “We’ll speak more of this later. For now, you must rest. We’ve a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  She half opened her mouth, wanting to say more to him. Convince him that she was leaving right then and there. But he’d already gone back to scanning the page of one of his massive tomes, the one about traveling, specs balanced on the bridge of his nose.

  She left without another word, a sense of loss gnawing at her, as if she weren’t just leaving him in his study, but leaving him forever. But even that wouldn’t cause her resolve to waver. Once the Grand Father finished his business at Ral Mok she would leave with him, back to Tragnè City, where she could aid in the fight against the shadow. The fight that had stolen her mother.

  She would do it.

  11

  Devan

  The Second Lesson: No being—not even an Aldur—shall meddle in the Elsewhere.

  -From The Lessons

  DEVAN TOOK IN THE CONCLAVE’S meeting hall and waited for the afterimage of his memory parlor to clear from his vision. The three tables remained as they had been, the one still broken in half and charred at the edges. The chairs he’d been able to salvage were tucked in respectfully beneath them. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, he ran a hand over his shaved head, his scalp still raw and red. With the others gone, he’d seen no reason to keep his spiked hair. Rituals were meant to be followed by a people, not an individual.

  The cavern smelt stale, like an untended attic. Though, unlike said attic, it was clean. After he’d mustered enough light power to heal himself from Val’s attack as best he could, which had taken quite some time, he’d interred the bodies and spent the better parts of three days scrubbing the floors.

  He still felt awful. The corruption of the traitor’s shadow hex had nearly been lethal and Devan’s own healing abilities went little beyond the skill needed to staunch the pain of a skinned knee. It was funny (or perhaps the word was “humbling”; it wasn’t one he often used), wielding power that enabled him to hold time itself together, yet he couldn’t even mend a broken bone. Recovery had been long. Excruciating. The dreams of his past he’d had the first few days after battling Val.... It’d been a relief when he’d finally regained enough of his senses for his mind to retreat to his memory parlor. Ideally, he’d have liked nothing more than to spend another week or two resting there. And after that? Track the turncloak through time and place, not resting until he found Val. Then he would end him for what he’d done to the others.

  But this was no ideal world, and the Path would neither wait for him to rest nor afford him the time it would take to find Val, particularly now that he was no longer of the Aldur. Entire shelves of books were beginning to disappear, history ceasing to exist over what Val had done. The disaster he’d set in motion was progressing faster than Devan could have imagined. And besides, Val had lost his ability to peregrinate. A terrible disadvantage for him in all but one respect—it prevented Devan from tracking him. Devan’s chronometre, which had once showed him the temporal positions of each of the Aldur, now displayed but a single hand, representing his own location. Val could be literally anywhere on the great circle of the Path. It’d be like diving into an ocean in search of a single pebble.

  “The aegis of duty hangs ever above the hammer of malice,” Devan grumbled to himself. Stephan had never been lacking in such sayings.

  So rather than go back to sleep or continue to entertain fantasies of how best to kill his old friend, Devan instead rose and strode towards the exit, carefully avoiding some faded stains he’d been unable to completely scour from the stone floor. He passed the Conclave�
�s elemental shrine on his way out. Unlike most other shrines, which were built around a central fountain, the Conclave’s was centered around a massive tree. A willoak, the only of its species that grew anywhere in Agarsfar so far as he knew (and he knew much). Its trunk was thicker around than a man could hug, its bark nearly black, rough and ridged. Dark veins ran through the wood, giving off a subtle purple glow when you didn’t look directly at them. The tree’s branches sprouted like a mushroom cap, curving up then back down to create a seeming protective canopy over the rest of the shrine. A circular channel built of gray brick ran around the tree, filled from an underground spring that lay beneath the Conclave. Ever-lit torches encircled the water, casting light on a garden of fire orchids growing beneath the tree’s guarding embrace. Light poured over the shrine through a portal at the cave’s apex.

  He strode down the hall and out of the hall, passing the crypt on one side, the armory and hall of memories on the other. This latter place was where the others’ personal chambers had been. As he approached the cave’s mouth he saw it was day, a clear blue sky overhead.

  Good, plenty of light for traveling. Sometimes he’d have to wait out the night if there was no moon from which to channel light. The elemental shrine was good for simple channels, but strong horology required far more light than shone in through the skylight above the shrine at night.

  He stepped from the darkness and savored for a moment the warmth of the sun on his face. All of Agarsfar seemed to sprawl out before him from the Conclave’s vantage high up in the Raging Mountains. The barren waste of the North stood in the fore, leading to the sparkling River of Her Lady’s Justices, and beyond that the lush greenery of the South. How long had it been since he’d been outside? He couldn’t remember. Maybe not since he’d crawled back into the Conclave after fighting Val. That might have been a week or a month ago; he’d been delirious for some time.