Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  As if reading his thoughts, Bladesorrow suddenly lurched forward, grabbing him by the collar, pulling him close.

  “You’re too late, Angel.”

  The voice came from Bladesorrow’s mouth, but it didn’t belong to him. Rasping and high pitched, like boots crunching on shattered glass, it sent a chill down Devan’s spine.

  Not good. Not good.

  “He’s been rantin’ like that since the Dales,” moaned Nellis. “And ’is eyes. Tisn’t natural. Taul’s no shadow attuned.”

  Devan ignored the dwarf. Bladesorrow’s black eyes were fixed on him, burning with hate. But after a moment, his face contorted into a snarl. Somehow, Devan knew the expression wasn’t directed at him, but inward, towards the thing that was speaking through Bladesorrow’s mouth. After a moment more of looking up towards him, Bladesorrow’s eyes rolled back in his skull and his head fell back to the wagon’s floor, a groan issuing from his lips.

  Devan studied his face. Bladesorrow had succumbed to the Call of the Seven. It shouldn’t have been possible, for he was a light attuned. And yet there it was, plain for all to see, though the man was somehow fighting it, not allowing the Seven complete control. But right now it was the least of Devan’s concerns. The man was clinging to the Path by his fingertips, the yawning chasm of the Elsewhere calling to him. Puzzling over how the man had been possessed would do little good if he died while Devan stood there.

  “The shadow heart,” Devan snapped, motioning at the object protruding from the wound. The fierceness of his voice caused the dwarf to jump, but Devan barely noticed. His eyes remained focused on Bladesorrow. “Why haven’t you removed it?”

  Nellis glowered at him. “R’move it? Are ye mad? The best result o’ touchin’ a shadow heart be a quick death. Any Angel-fearin’ dwarf knows they come from the Elsewhere, and the teachings o’ the Church be clear: Ye don’t meddle with the Elsewhere. Most o’ me people didn’t even wish te bring Taul wit’ us, much as many o’ them like ’im.” The dwarf sounded embarrassed at this admission. “True b’ told, I’m questioning the decision m’self.” He bowed his head, scuffing at the ground. “But I couldn’t just leave ’im.”

  There was sincerity in the dwarf’s face and Devan didn’t chide him further. Nellis was right to fear the shadow heart. Very few creatures—none of them good—were capable of wielding the things. Death was usually a mercy once a man was infected by one. Often, one didn’t simply die from the wound, but slowly transformed into a mindless shell, slave to the will of whatever dark creature had originally possessed the shadow heart. Bladesorrow would become such a Shade if nothing was done. The apparent usurpation of his light attunement evidenced in his black eyes was just the first symptom.

  “Bring me your best healers, master dwarf,” Devan demanded.

  “But I a’ready told ye, we can’t—”

  “Go. It’s not the shadow heart they’ll be dealing with.”

  Nellis looked exasperated, but Devan’s tone brooked no debate, so the dwarf hurried off and soon returned with two others. Devan would have had trouble telling the three apart if not for Nellis’s red robes. Each had flaming red hair braided over their shoulders and extra-long mustaches.

  “Be prepared to treat a punctured lung and substantial blood loss. Understood?”

  The healers didn’t look like they appreciated being given orders by a non-dwarf, but each nodded curtly nonetheless. Probably out of pure terror, but at this point Devan would take what he could get.

  After studying the dwarfs’ faces and assuring himself they’d do their jobs, he turned back to the wagon to do his own. He paused a moment, glanced up at the sky, still a bright blue despite the Northern haze, then yanked away the covering that shielded Bladesorrow from view. The canvas gave a whoosh as it ripped from the frame and blew away on an arid gust of wind. Bladesorrow grunted at the sudden influx of light. He tried to move an arm to shield his eyes, but seemed too weak to do so.

  “Step back dwarfs.”

  Without waiting to see if they complied, he reached into the folds of his robe and grasped Stephan’s chronometre in one hand. Doing so wasn’t strictly necessary, but the physical contact helped him focus. He closed his eyes and felt the power of the four elements swirling within the Link. He reached out to them, shaping them to his will. At the same time, he reached out to the plentiful light streaming through the haze above, combining it with the four elements from the chronometre.

  Once he’d corralled all five, Devan turned his attention to the shadow heart. He hesitated a moment. Ideally, he would go back to the minutes before Val had attacked Bladesorrow, stop it from having happened in the first place. But there was no telling what else Val had changed in Bladesorrow’s timeline, no guarantee that stopping the attack would cause the Peace Accord to succeed. And without that, Bladesorrow could not assume his place as a Constant damming the flow of time in a single direction.

  And Devan also had to be honest with himself. The simpler reason for not going back further was he wasn’t sure he could survive another battle with Val. His one-time friend might be handicapped now, having lost his ability to channel all five elements. But the Val Devan would face if he went back to before Bladesorrow was attacked would still be an Aldur, able to wield all five elements, as Val had carried out the attack before their confrontation at the Conclave. And, ability to defeat Val aside, crossing the timeline of another Aldur carried its own set of complications.

  No, there were too many variables if he tried to go back further. Better to heal Bladesorrow here, then work to direct events back in the proper direction. Delaying the peace a few years wouldn’t harm the Path. Most likely, anyway.

  So he began to probe at the shadow heart’s constituent particles. Every object contained some combination of all five of the elements—even an object of dark power such as this. With a precise focus that would have crushed the brain of any Linear, he worked to shape the five elements under his control into an exact likeness of the shadow heart.

  It took time. To the onlooking dwarfs it probably appeared as if he was standing over Bladesorrow doing nothing. Perhaps even that he’d fallen asleep. But inside Devan’s head a battle raged. No object willingly submitted to the will of another, though few inanimate objects had any real ability to resist. Some legends taught that knowing a thing’s true name granted power over it. Preposterous fairy tales. A name held no intrinsic value, nothing of metaphysical significance. At some point or another every name had just been made up, invented out of thin air to simplify communication. But understanding a thing’s true elemental makeup? Now that was power. A connection beyond the physical.

  The shadow heart, however, fought Devan’s attempts to know it, like a Northern destrier refusing the saddle. Devan had never tried to control a living thing with an elemental channel before. Such carnal enchantments were forbidden as the worst kind of metaphysical violation, and one that often resulted in permanent damage to the target’s mind. But he imagined this was how it must feel. Like trying to pry a door open that wouldn’t budge. The thing was actually shaking in place, causing Bladesorrow to howl in agony and the wagon to shudder under Devan’s feet.

  At least the dwarfs won’t think I’ve fallen asleep, he thought darkly.

  With the force of sheer determination, Devan manipulated the elements until they finally fell into place, though the shadow heart’s resistance remained. Rather than the satisfaction of a key opening a lock, this felt like opening the lock with a key that didn’t quite fit. The feeling ground at Devan’s mind like a mistuned harp. He gritted his teeth. Control was his now and he commanded the particles of the shadow heart to move. The vile thing vanished from the wound in Bladesorrow’s side, reappearing a moment later hovering above the ground a short distance from the wagon. The heart shook like a man in death throes and for a moment Devan sensed it trying to fly towards him. He quickly broke his link with the thing and it thudded to the ground, a puff of crushed earth billowing up around the impact. Then it disi
ntegrated to dust.

  Devan exhaled, releasing both the intense focus of his channel and a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and opened his eyes. It was only then he appreciated that he’d climbed onto the wagon and was standing directly over Bladesorrow, straddling his body. The dwarfs gaped up at him.

  “Healers!” Devan snapped. “Get up here and tend to this man’s wound. You’ll find the corruption is gone. Do it NOW.”

  The pair didn’t move.

  “The damage be done, Angel,” Nellis said. “Even if the shadow heart’s out of ’im, its foul essence ’as still corr’pted ’im already.”

  Devan snorted. “Do you really think I would have gone to all that effort if I couldn’t have removed the corruption as well?”

  Nellis’s face grew hopeful. “Ye can do that?”

  “He’s just a man with a hole in his side now. Are you going to help him or forever be remembered as the dwarfs who let Grand Master Keeper Taul Lights... Bladesorrow bleed to death in the bottom of a ruddy wagon?”

  The two dwarfs Nellis had summoned hesitated a moment, then jumped into action, scurrying—as much as a dwarf can scurry anyway—up into the cart. The web-like pattern of veins that had emanated from the wound were gone and the man’s breathing had already steadied, though Devan noted with displeasure that Bladesorrow’s eyes remained black as night. He might have peregrinated both the heart and its corruption from him, but the vile thing had still left its mark. There were no signs of the Seven in the man now, and sometimes it was possible to reverse the ravagement of the Seven’s Call. But he would need to be closely watched. And, regardless of whether he recovered, Devan suspected Bladesorrow would never channel light again. Yet another tributary off the True Path with which to deal. But that was a small price to pay for evading the death of one of the Agarian Constants. A death from which the Path couldn’t recover.

  As the healers set to their task, Devan jumped off the wagon, boots sending up a dust cloud as he thudded to the ground. With a casual gesture he brushed some dust from his robe (and used a subtle earth channel to keep it from his eyes). Nellis tried to speak, but Devan held up a hand to quiet him. His work wasn’t yet finished. In fact, he suspected it had just begun.

  Devan shut his eyes and reached for the elements once more, bringing up the vision of the True Path in his mind. He stood on the same precipice as before. Usually, once he’d resolved a rogue strand, he could expect to feel a physical manifestation of the Path’s healing. Like the anticipated unclogging of your ears after climbing a great height.

  He felt nothing of the sort now. If anything, a pain was building at his temples, begging for a release that wouldn’t come. His eyes sprinted across the arc of river that lay below him, fixing on the spot to which he’d traveled. They came to a dismayed halt when he located it. If it’d been a storm before, that part of the Path was now a maelstrom, rivulets of time diverging every which way. No sure way forward. Rather than helping matters, what he’d just done had made matters worse. Much worse. What had Val done that fixing the anomaly he’d caused could actually cause things to get worse?

  Devan scanned the Path for Bladesorrow. It ought to have indicated he was right there, only steps away from his physical body. Instead, the Path was confused, pointing Devan in multiple directions. As if the land’s largest mountain was simultaneously on the east and west shore.

  A paradox.

  He took in a sharp breath. “Unmarked paths and I’ve lost my compass,” he cursed. He’d endeavored to save them all from complete annihilation only to create an issue of far greater magnitude.

  A paradox was a temporal disruption so traumatic that it split a person in two, resulting in a “remnant” and “anti-self.” The only way to resolve it was to physically bring the two halves together. The volatile reaction resulting from such annihilation was usually powerful enough to repair the Path. At least, that was the theory. Devan had never seen it occur. Frankly, it was possible that bringing the two together could create further problems, a chain reaction of anomalies.

  Simply killing one of the halves wouldn’t help either. Then the paradox would endure unresolved, the only fix at that point being to destroy the other half as well and mend the Path as if that person had never existed. But that wouldn’t work with a Constant like Bladesorrow. The dam he represented on the True Path must remain in place.

  He tried to think back on what else he knew of this phenomenon. Stephan had once debated its finer points with Val, though he recalled little of that conversation aside from the colorful names Val and Stephan had called one another. They may have both been Devan’s friends, but they certainly hadn’t gotten along with each other.

  Thinking of that pair twisted his stomach as if he’d swallowed spiked wire. He pushed the thought out of his head. There was a far-more-pressing reality before him at the moment: He could only sense the remnant half of the Bladesorrow paradox. That was the one he’d just saved. Was it possible the anti-self had remained corrupted by the shadow heart and already perished? If so, then it was already too late. The Path would fall and...

  No. He couldn’t think that way. If Bladesorrow was already beyond saving he wouldn’t still be here. None of them would be—existence would be at an end. The anti-self must be out there. Somewhere.

  He had to act quickly. There were ways to buy more time, slow the Path’s deterioration, if it came to that. But for now, immediate action was needed. He just had to figure out why he couldn’t sense the anti-self. And where it had gone. Devan snapped his eyes open and spun on the dwarf, leaving his troubling vision of the Path.

  “What happened to him, Master Nellis? How was he stabbed by that shadow heart?”

  For a moment, Nellis continued to just stare at him, saying nothing. Then his eyes refocused, his face paling. He Pathed himself, tracing a straight line with one hand from his forehead to his pelvis then back.

  “Angelics be good. Ye’ wouldn’t believe me if I tol’ ye.”

  Devan laughed. Tried to, at least. It came out a short, acerbic sound. He didn’t have time for the dwarf’s numinous blubbering.

  “Out with it, master dwarf. I’ve seen much and read all. Nothing you say will surprise me. And the Path itself might depend on your answer.”

  That had not been the right thing to say. Nellis’s eyes bulged and he Pathed himself once more, shaking his head all the while in disbelief. He looked down at the ground, scuffing one of his boots against the rough slag. He continued to shake his head. Finally, he murmured, “I’ve seen one o’ the Seven this day. One o’ the Great Terrors. That’s wha’ happened te Taul there.”

  This time it was Devan who felt his mouth hang agape. One of the Seven walking free? Nellis had actually been right. He didn’t believe that.

  15

  Jenzara

  One bridge spanning both halves of our great nation. May we all put into practice that which it symbolizes.

  -From Tragnè’s Oral Histories: Excerpt from the Speech Commemorating Completion of the Unity Bridge at Riverdale

  LAUGHTER FILLED THE Great Hall as the welcome feast stretched into its third hour. The sun had long since set and the hall stank of lamp oil and sweaty bodies. People were packed onto benches at the Great Hall’s long tables, arranged four deep and dozens across spanning the Hall. None had wanted to miss this dinner, a chance to dine with the Parents of Tragnè. From her vantage on the dais at the head of the Hall, she could see it was nearly impossible to lift a fork without banging elbows with your neighbor. Servers squeezed through gaps between tables, sloshing wine from pitchers and carrying platters stacked with everything from roast corn to stuffed pigs’ heads, and pretty much every other recipe Ral Mok’s head cook could imagine.

  Jenzara poked at her own food, moving it around the plate but making no move to eat. Braised rabbit in a chestnut broth. She imagined that it smelled lovely under the stench of her surroundings. Indeed, she’d overseen much of the feast preparation herself. A chore father ordinaril
y would have seen to personally, though today he’d insisted she do it.

  Actually, one of the Parents had relayed the command to her. She hadn’t laid eyes on father since that morning when he’d walked off with the Grand Father after that near-disastrous encounter with the trio of Parents. Shortly after she’d left Melane at the town infirmary, one of the Lady’s Chosen had informed her that father would be tied up with the Grand Father for the rest of the day and she was expected to finalize preparations for the feast. It was strange for father to be so absent. He normally would have been all over the town, checking in on the progress.

  For an instant, the thought crossed her mind that he was perhaps avoiding her after she’d stormed into his study the night before. But that was ridiculous. If anything, he’d be seeking to talk her out of leaving with the Parents when they departed Ral Mok. Not that she’d be dissuaded. She was going and that was that.

  But his absence still distracted her. She glanced to the empty chair beside her, a high-backed seat that towered over her like a guilty judgment. It was one thing for him to leave the preparations to her; it was another entirely to skip the feast itself. She’d waited as long as was proper and then some, but eventually she’d had to signal the start of the meal without him or risk a riot of hungry townsfolk, not to mention Parents.

  The Grand Father was also conspicuously absent, she noted with a sour frown as she swirled the food on her plate some more. This feast was in his honor. The least he could do was attend for a time.

  She’d thought of inviting Ferrin up to the dais. Then at least she’d have some company. But after thinking on how he’d spoken of the Parents the night prior, she had thought better of it. The last thing she needed was him saying something he shouldn’t to one of their guests, cause a repeat of father’s showdown from this morning.