Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  Father stood with his back to a young girl, maybe of eleven or twelve years. One of the kitchen maid’s girls, Melane was her name. A sweet child, if a little quick to a tantrum now and again. She had pretty hair and usually a smile that filled her face. But now blood flowed from her nose, tears from her eyes, sobs from her mouth.

  Jenzara went to her without further thought, tossing the bag of grain aside and kneeling beside her. The girl immediately buried her face in Jenzara’s chest, moaning into her shirt.

  “Oh Lady Jenzara, they hurt me.”

  Jenzara ran a hand over her hair, tried to shush her tears away. Unconsciously, she opened herself to the morning light and channeled a trickle of power into the girl, humming a tune her mother had used to sing as she did. It was hardly a channel at all, not even powerful enough to stop the girl’s nose from bleeding. But it would ease the girl’s pain. Melane let out a sigh and relaxed slightly in Jenzara’s arms.

  This supplied Jenzara an opportunity to look about. Father still stood with his back to her and Melane. She was startled to see that he was coiled like a serpent ready to strike, staff in one hand, braced against his forearm and pointed down, his other arm out to the side for balance. A trio of Parents stood before him, each baring a mace. They were spread out, as if to encircle father. But none were moving any closer to him. They glanced to each other, as if unsure how to proceed. Or if they even wanted to proceed.

  Jenzara looked down to Melane, then back to the Parents across from father. For an instant she felt an urge to leave the girl, extricate herself from whatever was going on here. Her face burned with shame at the thought and she tightened her embrace on the injured girl. Surely there was a perfectly good explanation for whatever was going on here.

  “What is the meaning of this?” barked Shinzar. “Master Raldon, you will divest yourself of that weapon immediately.”

  Jenzara’s chest tightened as the potential severity of the situation struck her. Whatever had occurred, it seemed Melane had done something to anger these Parents and father was now interceding on her behalf. The thought of anyone laying a hand on Melane, or any of the other children at Ral Mok, sent a chill of anger through her. But these were Parents. If they had done so, then perhaps there was a just explanation. And now, she realized, she too was potentially interfering with a matter of the Temple. The urge to leave Melane reared in her mind once more, but she stayed put, eyes never leaving father’s back and the Parents beyond.

  Father’s stare didn’t leave the Parents before him either as he responded. “I will do so once I have assurances these men will not lay their hands on the girl any more than they already have.”

  One of the Parents before father blustered incredulously. “You can make no demands upon us. She defied me. One of the Parents of Tragnè! Such blasphemy will not be tolerated.”

  Jenzara held back a gasp at the accusation. Melane let out a whimper and grabbed a fistful of Jenzara’s shirt.

  Father was unphased. His tone serrated the space between him and the Parents like falling icicles during a winter storm. “I don’t believe that’s quite the whole story.”

  Jenzara looked about for a place to hide. What was father thinking, speaking so to a Parent?

  “Master Raldon,” Shinzar said, impatience leaching into his tone. “The Edicts are quite clear that anyone who defies one of Her Lady’s chosen is no better than a—”

  “Enough of this,” the Parent who had spoken before cut in. “I will not stand for this.” Raising his mace overhead, he rushed towards father. Jenzara gasped.

  But the man didn’t even get halfway. Father no more than flicked his staff upward before a brilliant barrier sprung up before him. The Parent gave a cry, raising an arm to shield his eyes, and crashed into it. The smell of burned flesh struck Jenzara’s nostrils as the man staggered back. It took several moments for the man’s mind to sync with reality, looking from the shield of light to his burned arm with wide eyes before bellowing a cry of pain.

  “How dare you,” Shinzar spluttered, his voice nearly incoherent with rage, the grip on his mace white knuckled. “You presume to flaunt the Edicts by attacking one of the chosen? Do you know the penalty for such insolence?”

  The heat of the kitchen ovens was a cool breeze compared to the glare that passed between father and the Parent.

  “Death, I believe.”

  The heads of all those gathered turned in unison to the source of the voice. Grand Father Valdin was walking from the direction of the Parents’ tents. Men and women alike fell to one knee as he passed. He didn’t acknowledge any of them, making his way to stand next to Shinzar.

  “Grand Father,” the Parent bowed his head, holding a fist over his heart. “This man has—”

  “Peace, Shinzar,” the Grand Father said, holding up a hand. Shinzar’s mouth snapped shut. “I would hear from Raldon what occurred.”

  A few of the folk gathered about shot angry glances at the Grand Father when he addressed father without his title, though none spoke aloud, much to Jenzara’s relief. Most still had yet to rise from where they’d knelt when the Grand Father appeared.

  Father remained silent for a time, studying the pair of Parents who still stood before him, and the third on the ground cradling his arm. Finally, he seemed satisfied that they intended no further attack and released the shield of light he still held.

  “These three men were harassing young Melane,” he said, turning to address the Grand Father. “When she refused to clean their boots, this man here,” Father motioned to the one on the ground, “slapped her. Thankfully, I happened to be passing by and interceded before matters progressed further.”

  Father offered no further elaboration.

  “That’s not how it happened at all, Grand Father,” Shinzar said.

  “You witnessed it, then?”

  “Well, no. But the Edicts are clear on the consequences of meddling in the business of Parents.”

  “You needn’t recite the Edicts to me, Shinzar,” the Grand Father said, almost as if his mind were on something else. “I know what they say. I wrote them, after all.”

  “Of course, Grand Father. Then certainly you won’t object to—”

  “You will remain silent.”

  The command came in the same level tone that father often favored. It brooked no debate. Shinzar seemed to quiver with rage, but he offered no further words. The Grand Father turned to the man on the ground.

  “You struck the girl, Parent Otani?”

  “Well,” stammered the man, still wincing, “I did, yes. But she—”

  “Silence,” the Grand Father rumbled, far louder than seemed likely for a man of his apparent age. “There is little of the Lady’s justice in attacking those unable to defend themselves. Perhaps a dose of the same will impress the lesson upon you.”

  Parent Otani’s face went white. Then he began to scream. The Grand Father’s eyes were locked on the man’s injured arm, which was suddenly surrounded by a bright aura. But rather than the soothing white of a healing channel, it shown a turbid yellow. The stink of burned flesh intensified tenfold. The man began to roll on the ground in agony as the Grand Father continued to gaze at him, face painted with dispassion.

  Finally the man passed out and the Grand Father looked away. Fear filled the eyes of all those gathered about, including the other Parents.

  “Shinzar, see Otani to one of our healers. When he wakes, inform him he’ll be on refuse duty until we return to the City of Light.”

  “Yes, Grand Father. As you command.” Any defiance that had been in the man before had vanished, though his eyes still burned. He hurried to the fallen Parent and along with the other two carried him away.

  The Grand Father turned to father. Rubbing at his temples, he let out a sigh.

  “Now what about you, Raldon? Shinzar is right. Interfering with official Temple business is a serious matter. At best, you’d be strung up upon the Senate’s pillars for days. Naked, most likely.”

  This
time there were several angry mutters from the still-gathered crowd. Jenzara realized her voice was among them before catching herself. This was the Grand Father, after all. But stringing father up for defending a child? Certainly the Grand Father couldn’t be serious.

  For his part, father’s expression never wavered from its steady gaze of determination. It seemed to welcome any who wished to challenge his authority. Even the Grand Father.

  “But perhaps we can come to a more reasonable understanding,” the Grand Father said, loud enough to make clear he addressed not just father, but all those who could hear.

  Father’s features changed. Muscles relaxed, eyes seemed to gaze at nothing. His face placid as an unmoving river. Docile even.

  “Let us discuss this further in your study.” The Grand Father motioned to father and he approached without a word.

  “Lady Jenzara.” She jumped at being addressed by the Grand Father. A hint of the compassion she had seen the night before at the Angelic Chapel shone in his eyes.

  “You’ll see that the girl is treated, yes?”

  In that moment an inexplicable urge to please the man washed over her.

  “Yes, Grand Father.” She could barely get out the words, so eager was she to respond. “Yes, of course. Your will be done.”

  He gave a curt smile and a nod, then he was gone, headed towards the Keep, father trailing behind him. She glanced after them, wishing she could follow. To remain in the Grand Father’s presence.

  “What did I tell you?”

  The words jolted her like a gong ringing in her mind. She shuddered and nearly lost her balance. What had just happened? She was still staring after the Grand Father, but couldn’t put a finger on why just a moment before she’d felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to follow after him.

  Shaking her head, she looked to see who had spoken. Ferrin stood next to her, arms crossed and looking off in the same direction as she, towards the retreating figures of father and the Grand Father.

  “What?” she asked, not bothering to keep the annoyance from her tone. She was still angry at him for last night. The way he’d spoken of the shadow, as if he disagreed with the Temple’s treatment of fifths. And how he’d spoken of her mother.

  Her frown deepened.

  “The Edicts,” he said. “They’ll twist them to support everything they do. Just like I said.”

  “They only apply to fifths and shadow friends who support them,” she grated.

  Ferrin laughed, a bitter sound like a fiddle with damp strings. “Sure. And you know what the Parents do when you question their will? They name you a shadow friend, which, under the Edicts, strips you of your rights. So like I said, the Edicts allow the Parents to do as they Elsewhere please.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but he spoke over her.

  “You think the Grand Father is taking your father off to shake hands with him in private? Congratulate him for a job well done embarrassing three Parents so publicly?”

  She wanted to shout at him for his impudence. But at that moment the Grand Father said something to father. They were too far away now for her to hear, but father nodded vigorously, as if nothing would bring him greater happiness than to please the man.

  Jenzara furrowed her brow. That wasn’t like father at all. And why was the Grand Father leading him away to the study?”

  Ferrin fumed. “I have to go. More studying to do.”

  A chill rushed through her as the pair of men disappeared through the doors leading to the Great Hall. She wanted to go after them, go after Ferrin, too. But she had to care for Melane, who was beginning to sob again.

  “You’ll come to the banquet tonight, yes?”

  Ferrin paused, but didn’t turn. “What’s the point? I don’t see anything to celebrate here.”

  She searched for a suitable reply, but Melane’s whimpers made it difficult to think of a response. Jenzara gave the girl’s hand a squeeze. A visit from the nation’s leaders ought to have been a joyous occasion. But then why couldn’t she shake the sense of foreboding that had settled into the pit of her stomach?

  13

  Ferrin

  The Founders of Agarsfar, the Leveande, benefitted from the counsel of the Aldur themselves. At one time, five chapels devoted to their faith graced the streets of Tragnè City, and Agar himself was oft seen at them with an Angel at his side. But after the Shadow War, the histories make no mention of Alduric advisors. Where did they go?

  -Excerpt from a tome in the lower level of Ral Mok’s library, title worn away with age

  FERRIN RESTED HIS HEAD on the large tome open before him, nose pressed into the binding. It was much cooler in the dark depths of Ral Mok’s library than up above under the red-tinged, afternoon sky, and after several hours of reading the temperature was causing him to drowse.

  This was hardly what most thought of when Ral Mok’s library came to mind. The main shelves were upstairs. Rows of wondrous mahogany shelves full of books bound in colorful leathers, the smell of ink and paper in the air, and plenty of light from walls of stained-glass windows. Even Ferrin had to admit it was an impressive space. Outsiders were always shocked, as it hardly fit their conception of a backwater like Ral Mok. But say one thing about Master Raldon, say he loves teaching. And you couldn’t do that without books. He was still a Keeper at heart, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

  But Ferrin had read all the books on the main level already. Most had been boring, and none held the answers he sought, neither about channeling nor his family. So here he was, down in the dregs of the building, where the books deemed unfit for general circulation resided on rickety shelves that seemed in a state of perpetual readiness to tip over, though they were so tightly packed together that none would have far to fall before bracing against a neighbor. For the pleasure of such company, Ferrin traded the aromas of leather and parchment for dust and dank; the light of day for the flicker of candle; and human company for solitary silence. That latter he preferred, actually. Most of the people at Ral Mok were as boring as the books above and possessed even less useful knowledge.

  There were only two tiny desks in the space, sitting side-by-side. Ferrin had commandeered both, covering each in so many volumes he could hardly see over them out into the vast darkness. Shoved into the space seemingly as an afterthought, there was hardly enough room between desks and wall to pull out their chairs to sit. An oil lamp provided the only light, perched on a stack of books in a manner that surely would have given Master Raldon fits had he been there to see.

  The volume before Ferrin had seemed a prime find several hours before. A census dating from before the start of the present war, 15 years prior, organized by the strong and weak elemental attunements of all those surveyed.

  Most were born attuned to a pair of the five elements, one attunement being strong, the other weak. These were inherited from your parents. So if both were attuned to fire, there was a good chance their child would be too. If neither parent was attuned to water, then none of their children would be either. And so on.

  Even with the events of the night prior and this morning, he’d brimmed with excitement over the book. He knew his own attunements, of course, which meant he knew something of his parents’ as well. He’d figured he could search the book for couples where one had fire attunement and the other earth and develop a list of people who were potentially his parents. It was his constant mission, though some time ago he’d realized that it was not really his parents he needed to find, per se, but answers. Why had they left him here? Had it been difficult? Why Ral Mok? What had they intended for him?

  Sadly, the book had proved of little practical use. First, it gave no indication of the relationship between the individuals listed. Just location and attunement in page after page of lists. Worse still, several of the pages covering the immediate environs surrounding Ral Mok had been rendered all but unreadable by a water stain.

  Ferrin sighed and shoved the book aside, which sent several other volumes tumbling to
the floor. He rubbed at his eyes. Admittedly, even if it had been useful, his heart wasn’t in the research today. His argument with Jenzara from the night before weighed on him, nagging like a stomachache that wouldn’t go away.

  And then that scene this morning. He’d always known Raldon had been considered one of the most gifted Keepers of his time. But to face down three Parents at once, and for the trio to be the ones who seemed uncertain? Ferrin had nearly felt proud to know the man.

  And yet, the reality of Raldon’s abilities had only galvanized Ferrin’s disquiet over the aftermath—Raldon acquiescing to Valdin without question, as if a servant to a master. What had that been about? Powerful individuals had visited Ral Mok before—generals headed north to Doom’s Keep, senators from Tragnè City, provincial arbitrators to resolve civil matters and misdemeanors. The Western Province’s Curator had even visited from Lustin once. Raldon had never demonstrated anything even resembling subservience to any of those men and women. He was always in command of a situation. And yet, there he’d been this morning, coming at Valdin’s beck and call.

  The broader question remained as well: What was such a large group of Parents doing here at all? Even after that episode with one of them striking Melane over nothing at all, almost no one seemed concerned. Most continued to fawn over the Parents.

  The land had never truly had a ruling class. Agarsfar had been founded by refugees from Sykt, far off to the South, across an ocean, the North Sea, that hadn’t been crossed in a thousand years, since before the Founding. Sykt’s government had been vested in a line of patriarchal sovereigns for as far back as the histories went. These had become increasingly oppressive, hoarding elemental education for a small fraction of the highest echelons of society and using it to suppress the masses. Such oppression had been perpetuated by the government’s military arm, the Keepers of the Blade, often shortened to simply Blades, an infamous order of blademasters. Legends—for such stories were all the knowledge of Sykt that remained in Agarsfar—said they had been founded to guard a mysterious weapon of supposedly great power. As the tale went, none had ever been able to wield it. So the Blades had stewarded over it, preserving it for the fabled sword bearer, the one who could wield the untouchable blade. But as with most other things in Sykt, the order had become twisted and corrupt, carrying out political killings and other maleficent acts at the King’s behest.