Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  Much of the corruption was far too entangled with the lad’s own essence to banish. Like countless strands of yarn hopelessly knotted. Yanking at them would only tighten the knot further. But some of the corruption yet remained distinguishable from the boy’s own life force. Devan latched on to it, enveloped it with his peregrinating channel, and banished it back to the Elsewhere.

  Ferrin’s eyes gaped open and he gasped. His breathing slowed to normal, but he was still barely conscious, mumbling incoherently. Something about needing to go rescue the Jenzara girl. The black rings under his eyes made him look more a skeleton than a living man.

  “That is all I can do,” Devan said. “The corruption is far advanced.”

  Erem looked at him with hard determination. “You’ve said before that you could shorten my journey North. Could you also shorten a trek to the City of Light from here?”

  “Tragnè City? Do you truly mock the Path’s need so that you’d go that far out of your way? The Second Symposium in the North is more than capable of curing the lad’s corruption, and the North is where you must go if there’s any chance to save us all from the Path’s collapse.”

  Erem’s face twisted. “It’s not all about your blasted Path, Angel.” His countenance contorted further. “Valdin will take the girl, Jenzara, back to Tragnè City. I must do something for her if I can. I’ve failed her to this point. And there is a chemist there who can cure the boy.”

  Devan considered telling the man that the sanctity of time itself was not worth risking over the life of a single girl, no matter who she was or might become. Sending the one man who had the ability to save the Path into literally the den of his greatest enemy? That was utter madness.

  And perhaps sheer brilliance. A bit of advice Stephan had given him when he was raised to Master Horologer occurred to him: You’ll never steer one’s actions if they know what you do. They must feel as if they captain their own vessel.

  There was wisdom there. Telling Erem to walk away from the girl wouldn’t persuade him to do what he must. But perhaps letting him see the City would. Could be the very shove that got the man to see sense. To feel as if heeding Devan’s advice was what he wanted to do.

  “Yes, I can get you and the boy to the City of Light. Where, specifically?”

  “The Quadrangle,” Erem replied without hesitating.

  Why couldn’t it have been some inconspicuous corner of the City? Drop him smack in the middle of it all, not a hundred paces from the Temple.

  “Very well.” Devan rose, stretching. Peregrinating multiple people was ordinarily a simple task, particularly when it was only place to place, as opposed to another time. But he was now acutely aware of the screaming pain coming from his burnt arm. Could he go with them now? Almost certainly. But the thought of going to Tragnè City, seeing Val. Perhaps it’d be best if he hung back, let his wounds heal. Besides, he had some reading to do.

  “I’ll need to stay behind for a time.”

  Erem lifted the solar specs off his eyes, glaring at him with suspicion.

  “I thought you were intent on keeping me alive? You’d send us to the City of Light by ourselves?”

  Devan grimaced. Sometimes this man was almost as insightful as Stephan. “I won’t be far behind. You know the places in Tragnè the Temple avoids. Stick to them until I arrive.”

  Erem kept his gaze on him for several moments, the scrutiny of his dark eyes a discomfort.

  “Fine. But be quick, Angel. I might not be as irrational as the boy, but I feel just as strongly about rescuing Jenzara. We won’t be able to wait long.” He lowered the specs back over his eyes.

  “Yes, I know,” Devan replied with a solemn nod. “And I’ll be there.” He waved a care-free hand at the man, but the apprehension in his chest didn’t dissipate. “Are you ready?”

  Erem knelt next to Ferrin and closed his eyes. “Proceed, Angel.”

  And Devan did, calling upon the elements and his will to peregrinate the pair to the City of Light. Right beneath Val’s nose.

  Stephan be good, this had better work.

  36

  Jenzara

  We quickly learned travel by boat or ship was limited in this new land. Shoals and jagged reefs made the east coast impossible to navigate. The western shore was better, a trade route developing there, but storms and turbulent currents often made land travel more appealing.

  The West River was the only inland waterway, suitable for barges of shallow draft. From Corim’s, a barge could float down to Bristine in perhaps a week’s time, faster with the aid of a water attuned. From Bristine, a proper sailing ship could arrive at the capital in two days’ time.

  -Excerpt from Tragnè’s Oral Histories

  WET, ROTTING WOOD. Damp blankets. The floor tilting beneath her prone body.

  She opened one eye with great difficulty, the other refusing to open at all. And little good the open one did her. Wherever she was, it was dark. A thin strip of light shone an indeterminate distance away from where she lay, perhaps the crack beneath a door, but she couldn’t be certain.

  The floor heaved again. She thought she’d be sick, except her body didn’t have the strength to bring anything up.

  “We should have killed her there at the Crossing.”

  A harsh voice from somewhere beyond the door. The churning in her stomach now bore no relation to the floor’s heaving.

  “Did you leave your ears in Ral Mok, Shinzar?” Another voice she knew, and less welcome than the first. “I told you the girl was not to be harmed, and you half bash her skull in?”

  “She tried to kill you.” The first man’s voice rose, incredulous. “The Grand Father himself. Even if she weren’t a shadow friend, that’s enough by itself to justify her execution.”

  “That’s not for you to say. I’ve need of her once this wretched barge gets us to the City.”

  “What could you possibly...”

  The hair on her arms rose. Someone had channeled. There was silence for a time. Then the first voice spoke once more. Obedient, though grudgingly so. Like an adolescent who’s realized father doesn’t hold as much power as he’d once thought.

  “As you command, Grand Father, so does the Lady Tragnè.”

  Footsteps echoed away from the door, leaving her in dark silence, the faint sounds of water slapping against the barge’s hull her only company. And before long even that companion was lost to her. Face throbbing, head pounding, consciousness slipped through her fingers.

  HER MOTHER WALKED THROUGH a busy square on a brilliant summer’s day. A bright blue sky was free from clouds. People bustled all about her, many giving nods or smiles of recognition as they passed. She returned waves and smiles of her own. Her short sword hung with a relaxed ease at her waist, as if she never took it off. She moved with such grace. None of the passersby gave her weapon a second glance. And why would they? Everyone expected a blademaster of the Symposium to go about armed.

  Sandstone columns bordered one side of the square in the direction mother was headed. The Symposium. Many of the columns were carved to resemble great leaders of Agarsfar’s past, among them Grand Master Keeper Forgedrock Glofar, a descendant of Tragnè herself; Curator Luin Rinktar, famed for the hanging gardens found throughout the Realm of Tragnè outside the city proper; Admiral Eldric Lustin, founder of the Western Trade Route that stretched from Tragnè City up to North’s End.

  Jenzara’s mother strode between the columns and onto the Symposium Mall. Much of the Symposium was open-air, causing it to seem more a park than an institution of learning. Which, in many ways, it was. All were free to come here. Families sat on blankets spread out on the Mall’s many green places. Children ran about, zagging between merchant booths that stood scattered about the space. A baker selling fresh apple tarts shouted invitations for free tastes. A tailor displayed new cloaks to a couple, hands entwined.

  Her mother continued through this scene, inhaling aromas of good weather and cheer, an upward tilt to her lips. The Symposium was like it
s own little city, buildings flanking broad avenues that ran parallel along either side of the Mall. She walked past the famed Symposium library. How Ferrin would love a day in there. A smithy forging elemental steel dowsed a red-hot length of metal in a basin of water, steam shooting upward. Laughter came from a well-kept tavern.

  Shouting from a side street. Her mother turned. The scene might have been comical if not for the anger in the words being exchanged. A short, bespectacled man with wiry, straw-colored hair stood before a storefront grasping what appeared to be a broom handle. He brandished it like a sword in the face of a much larger man who had a ruin of a face. He’d only one eye, the other socket scarred as if a potter had smeared clay over it and forgotten to soften the edges. His bulbous nose flared as he shouted at the shorter man, swatting his length of wood aside.

  “That impudent little fifth didn’t even stop to apologize. Got mud all over my new boots. He deserves a lesson, Westcott. Tell your girl to give ’im here.”

  Behind the broom-wielding man stood a skinny young woman. Her narrow face and pale hair showed her to be the man’s daughter, though she was at least half a head taller. Her blue eyes glared at the large man, though the set of her mouth suggested she held a healthy bit of fear towards him as well. Her hands were clasped on the shoulders of a young boy. He was dressed well enough, perhaps a merchant’s child, or maybe even one of the Keepers’ children who lived within the Symposium walls. His cheeks were streaked with tears and he was sobbing softly, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

  “Leave off it, Frankard,” Westcott said, using a shoulder to adjust his glasses. Despite his seemingly timid stature—not to mention the broom handle he continued to brandish, now more like a live snake than a blade—Westcott’s words didn’t lack for confidence. If he shared any of the intimidation his daughter felt, his voice didn’t betray it. “He’s just a child. Let it be.”

  “I don’t care how old he is. The lad’s a fifth. Can’t treat him the same as other young ones. Hard words and harsh actions are the only way their kind learns. Now if you don’t give ’im here, I’ll take that broom and—”

  “Apothick Master Keeper Westcott Greenleaf. Water Master Keeper Frankard Oceanshade.” Mother’s tone was stern and formal. “What is going on here?”

  Jenzara’s mother could see well enough what was going on. But when a man chose to act a fool, forcing him to say aloud his thoughts was a sure way to a quick end.

  “Suzahne,” Oceanshade huffed.

  Westcott gave her a tight smile, readjusting his grip on the broom handle so he now held it like a walking staff. “Just a bit of misunderstanding, is all. Frankard was just leaving, I think.”

  “Don’t patronize me, you potion-mixing sword kisser. That lad has it coming and I—”

  “Frankard, that will be enough.” Mother reached into her purse and flipped a bit to him. He caught it, looking down into his palm with surprise. “Go have one of the cobblers out on the mall polish your boots. No harm done.”

  His face darkened. “No harm done?” He tossed the coin back at her feet. “You think it’s just my boots I’m worried over? No. It’s the lack of respect these fifths show us. Like they think they’re our equals. Someone needs to show them where they really stand.”

  He took a step toward the boy. Westcott flipped the broom handle upward, so it stuck into Frankard’s sternum. The man gave a grunt that turned to a growl, his single eye a furnace.

  “You dare assault me?” He drew a stout hatchet from a belt loop at his back, swiped it through the airspace before Westcott’s face, causing the man to flinch back. Westcott’s daughter gave a squeak of dismay, the boy began to cry louder.

  Mother’s hand hovered over the blade at her hip. Hovered, then dropped away. Her eyes tightened.

  “Frankard,” she said, voice like the crack of a whip. “If you push this any further, Grand Master Keeper Bladesong will hear of this. And you know how he feels about disputes between his Master Keepers.”

  Frankard’s eyes flicked to her, then back over Westcott and the sobbing boy behind him. Muscles in his neck tightened and mother tensed those in her own arm, anticipating the man’s continued idiocy.

  “Have it your way, then.” Frankard dropped the axe back into his belt. “But you’re right. Rikar will hear of this. We can’t accept such disobedience from our lessers.”

  With a final, one-eyed glare for Westcott, Frankard stalked away, muttering to himself as he went. Westcott let out a long breath. His daughter grasped a nearby door frame. The boy who’d been at the center of the dispute took advantage of the lessening of her grip and bolted away towards the Mall. Mother didn’t bother to stop him.

  “A rough man, that one,” Westcott said, looking after Oceanshade. He leaned against the broom handle as if suddenly very tired. “I thought you might actually come to blows with him, Suzahne.”

  Mother shook her head. “Someone once told me there’s no true convincing with a blade. For that, you must keep your weapon sheathed.”

  “Sounds familiar.” Westcott smiled, standing a little straighter. “Maybe you should ask Taul to speak with Frankard. He seems to convince anyone within hearing of the need to treat the shadow attuned same as everyone else.”

  Mother returned Westcott’s smile. “I’m not sure anyone will ever get through to Frankard.” She looked off in the direction the man had gone, expression turning thoughtful. “But perhaps you’re right. Taul does inspire the best in others.”

  AWARENESS RETURNED like a hammer to her skull. She groaned and tried to roll over, but found every muscle in her body so stiff that she barely got a shoulder off the bed. As if she hadn’t moved in days. Both her eyes seemed to work now, at least.

  She was somewhere new. Before, she’d lay on little more than a pallet. Now, she was in a true bed, a plush comforter pulled up to her chin. Someone had changed her clothes, from the soiled traveling garments she’d worn since leaving Erem’s clearing, to a soft, linen dressing gown. Her insides recoiled at the thought of who might have done the changing. The floor still rocked below her, so still on the water. She must have been moved from one of the West River barges to a true sailing ship, likely out of Bristine Port, headed for Tragnè City.

  The realization of what that meant came down upon her like a collapsing roof. She’d been found with two fifths. Fifths who had slain other Parents. And now she was in their custody, headed for the capital. That could only mean one thing.

  Her eyes shot open and she nearly shrieked. But she clamped down on the cry with such force she bit her tongue, bringing tears to her eyes. Better that, than to alert the room’s other occupant to her waking.

  Grand Father Valdin sat before a small desk, head down, hands rubbing at the sides of his face. He mumbled into the darkness about them.

  “It was right. It must have been.” There was a small picture frame propped on the desk before him, but Jenzara couldn’t make out anything other than a woman’s outline.

  “They killed you without cause. And this is the only way to change it.”

  Despite all the man had done to her, somehow she still felt sorry for him, sitting there all alone, voicing laments to a portrait. He seemed like one extended too far and at his energy’s end.

  No. Stop that. She wanted nothing to do with him. No amount of suffering would be sufficient recompense for murdering father. She shut her eyes, hoping he would soon leave. But Valdin remained, unmoving, muttering apologies and uncertainties into the dark. Soon, her feigned sleep progressed to reality.

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” Taul Bladesorrow asked, voice cracking with dismay. “You must call the meeting.”

  “Easy. Easy.” Her mother placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it away, staring at the room’s third occupant, who was shaking his head as he spoke.

  “I’ve always admired your passion, Taul. But your politics have a long way to go.”

  “Bah!” Bladesorrow turned his back to the man, striding several paces away. The trio was silent
for a time, tension hanging in the air like a noose.

  “I agree with him, Rikar,” mother finally said. “It’s not right. Nellis is one of the best. Our best. And he’s leaving because it’s gotten so bad.”

  Grand Master Keeper Rikar Bladesong’s hard eyes segued to a soft voice. “Nellis must do what he thinks is best. I must do the same.”

  “How wise of you,” Bladesorrow said, keeping his back to them both.

  Bladesong sighed. “Let me tell you something about wisdom, Taul. It’s no great skill. It’s merely listening and telling others what they need to hear.”

  Bladesorrow grunted from the back of his throat. “Then you must be a fool at the moment, Rikar, because I’m hearing nothing I wish to.”

  “You don’t under—”

  “I understand perfectly. They’ve made the decision for him. Someone sent him the corpse of a pup in a box with a sign around its neck. You know what it said?”

  No response.

  “You’ll be next, skomn.” Bladesorrow slammed a closed fist into the wall. Mother went to him, once more placing a hand on his shoulder. This time he didn’t shrug it away.

  Bladesong took a long breath. “I hate it as much as you, Taul. Light help me, you know better than anyone how much it hurts me. But the Senate isn’t ready. We barely convinced them to ease the trade embargos. Restoring full relations with the North is still decades away. We cannot force this issue now.”

  “Little good that’s doing Nellis. Forced out of the Symposium by the acts of his own brothers and sisters.”

  Bladesong grimaced, but said nothing.

  “Maybe this can be a positive, Taul,” mother spoke quietly. “Nellis supports your vision as much as anyone. It will be good to have someone like him in the North while we wait for the political atmosphere to turn.”