Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  It also hadn’t slipped his memory that Erem was responsible for Jenzara’s capture. Perhaps hurling a fire hex at him had been extreme. Perhaps. But how could the man have been such a fool? If Valdin was indeed one of the Aldur, even a fallen one, how could Erem have expected to defeat him?

  Anger surged through Ferrin, the sudden tightening of muscles causing the ache in his shoulder to flare. He fingered his father’s necklace, seeking calm in the familiar buzz given off by the linked rings. That it was only an ache in his shoulder now was nothing short of miraculous. Westcott really had worked wonders. He ought to thank him at some point.

  Initially, after Ferrin had regained enough of his senses to think of more than the agony of his recovery, he’d thought things might be turning for them. Erem had said the Angel would show up presently and know what to do.

  Ferrin continued to struggle with that realization, still not entirely sure he believed it. An actual Angel? One of the Aldur? If it was true, what an incredible opportunity it could be. Maybe someone who could finally teach him properly.

  But in his brief experience with the Angel, he’d seemed no better than Erem. Stubborn and refusing to help Jenzara. And now it’d been a week and Devan was still nowhere to be seen. Ferrin was tired of waiting. Tired of Erem’s excuses, his refusal to come up with a plan of his own. Who knew what the Parents were doing to Jenzara? Thrown her in a dungeon without food or water? Torturing her for information she didn’t possess? He’d thought of even worse things, but the wail of his heart blocked his mind from going there. So he’d slipped out the back of Westcott’s shop this morning while the two men had been engaged in one of their heated debates, which always seemed to end in Erem fuming and Westcott looking despondent, unanswered questions brimming in his eyes.

  Westcott’s shop was in the old Symposium, an area the people of Tragnè City now referred to only as “the market,” apparently frightened to invoke any word that might draw memory of the disbanded Keepers. Yet the structure it was far too grand for such a mundane title. Much of the building was open to the air, what roof there was supported by massive pillars, a large mall running down its center, full of grassy spaces and dry fountains. At its middle stood an imposing statuary, a rearing lion facing a shrouded figure. The mall had been cordoned off into small merchant stands—alchemists, butchers, a strong-smelling tobacconist, a stronger-smelling fishmonger, and, judging from the half-dressed women standing about them, a brothel or two.

  From Westcott’s, Ferrin had headed straight to the Quadrangle. At first, he’d feared he would stand out as a newcomer. Having grown up in such a small town, he was used to new faces sticking out like a ball gown in an armory. But though there’d been more people in the Quad than he’d ever see in a single place before, no one had even given him a second glance. Heads down, on with their business. Not even a greeting or head nod. How odd it must be to live one’s life surrounded by utter strangers.

  Emboldened by the apparent safety of his anonymity, he’d taken a moment to just take in the fabled Quadrangle. Ral’s Obelisk, a memorial to Agar’s sacrifice in the Great Shadow War, towered at its center. Legend had it that Ral had crafted it from a single piece of marble the size of his fist. Even a thousand years later, the magnitude of such elemental power was staggering.

  Then there was the Senate, standing proud at the head of the Quad. Four columns, larger than even those holding up the Symposium, and four steps spanned its face—one for each of the founding heroes. The building’s cornice rose into a triangle, its apex directly above the Senate entrance. Etched into the pediment were scenes from the early years of the land—Agar leaping from the first ship that had landed at Bristine after the Leveande’s escape from Sykt; Tragnè and Trimale laying the final stone of the Unity Bridge at Riverdale; Ral overseeing construction of the Senate building.

  Then there’d been the Temple, adjacent to the Senate, across from the Symposium. Whereas the Senate was grand and full of pride, the Temple was stoic; stark; imposing. The building’s main feature was a sole, central spire, rectangular in shape, extending up into the sky like a massive cairn, nearly the height of Ral’s Obelisk. Its exterior was unapologetically sparse. Its only decoration a single stained-glass window above the entrance, depicting Lady Tragnè holding the sun in the palm of her hand. The façade, rather than individual blocks of stone, was made of thin stone pillars, fit snugly together one after the other. Each pillar was slightly higher than the one next to it, creating an upslope that enhanced the main spire’s looming appearance. Like a jagged mountain had risen from the ground.

  It was this last sight, that of the Temple, that had given him pause. The place was a fortress, with only one entrance he could see. And that had been guarded by several Parents who took great care to display the maces hanging from their belts. He’d been careful to keep his hood up and step to the other side of the Obelisk upon seeing them.

  As annoying as Erem’s constant admonishments of prudence were, Ferrin had figured that perhaps this circumstance called for it. After all, he couldn’t just knock on the Temple’s front door and ask them nicely to return Jenzara. And he very much doubted he’d be able to fight his way in and live. He’d no qualms killing for the right reasons now that he’d done it. But a high body count would do him no good if it ended with him captured or killed, Jenzara still a prisoner.

  So he’d turned back to the Symposium, straight to a place he’d always dreamed of. The Symposium Library. Sometimes knowledge is a far better weapon than a sword. At least, that’s what Raldon had once told him. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed it, but he certainly needed more information before he could employ any violence to rescue Jenzara.

  So here he was, pouring over maps and schematics, looking for some way he could sneak into the Temple. The library’s long room was musty with disuse. Judging by the Parents he’d needed to sneak past just to enter, he was willing to wager the building didn’t see much use. Easier to maintain oppression if you blocked access to knowledge, he supposed. But they hadn’t stopped him. He’d figured out the trick Erem had used at the Crossing to conceal their approach. Quite effective.

  Merely being in the presence of row after towering row of bookshelves made him feel closer to an answer. He’d needed to climb several ladders to find the volumes now arrayed before him. He sat at one of the room’s countless oak tables, a candle shielded by a dome of green glass lighting the pages.

  The clack-clack of boots on wooden floorboards pulled him from the latest city-planning tome. He nearly jumped from his chair, he’d been studying the vellum so carefully. His heart was hammering even before he located the sound’s source. Two white-robed men walked down the rows of shelves towards his table. Ferrin pulled the brim of the hood lower and slouched in his chair. No good.

  “There he is,” said one of the Parents.

  “Boy,” shouted the other.

  Much too loud for a library, Ferrin thought with dark amusement. When he made no move to rise, the man shouted again.

  “You’ll rise when one of Her Lady’s servants addresses you, son. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I was reading,” Ferrin replied, remaining seated.

  A surprised pause. These men weren’t used to anything but blind obedience. Then the sound of one of them stepping forward.

  His chair tipped backward, sending him sprawling. He crashed into a seat that was pushed in beneath another table at his back. Tasting blood, he glared up at the pair with what he hoped was terrible fury. The two didn’t even blink.

  “You were on the Quad earlier.” The Parent who spoke had a hand on the mace at his belt.

  “Lots of people are on the Quad all the time,” Ferrin responded, rising and spitting a glob of red sputum to the side.

  “Aye. But very few matching the description of an escaped convict given to us by the Grand Father himself.”

  Outwardly he only narrowed his eyes, but inside his mind raced. He nearly reached out to the ample shadows about the
m. But Westcott had been insistent that he refrain from channeling for at least several weeks. The last traces of corruption would take at least that long to disperse. So steel would need to be the answer here.

  Except, he realized with disgust at himself, he hadn’t brought his sword with him. At the time it’d seemed wise not to go prancing about Tragnè City wearing the sword of the Symposium’s last respected Grand Master Keeper. Now he found himself wishing he’d thrown wisdom to the wind. He did, however, have another weapon with him, though it was one he had yet to truly use.

  “You’ll be coming with us, boy.” The Parent reached out to him, but Ferrin slapped his hand away.

  “I don’t like being called boy,” Ferrin snapped. The Parent looked momentarily surprised, then his lips curled in a snarl.

  “How dare you—”

  Ferrin didn’t give him time to finish. He reached for the power of Erem’s dagger, tucked securely in his boot. He was momentarily surprised to find that the element didn’t call out seductively as it had every other time he’d channeled. But he’d no time to dwell on that now. With the dagger’s power boiling through his veins, he swiped his hand at the man before him, envisioning a bucket of paint splattering a wall.

  The result was immediate and disturbing. The Parent paused mid grab, eyes bulging. Then dozens of little red lines appeared on his robe, as if a child had taken to his clothing with a paint brush. But the lines quickly expanded, swelling out until nearly his entire robe was crimson. Blood bubbled out the Parent’s mouth and down his chin as he collapsed.

  Ferrin was almost as surprised at the result as the other Parent. They simply stood, staring at one another for several moments. Then he felt the second Parent reach for a light channel and narrowly dove out of the hex’s path. A small part of Ferrin’s mind noted with dismay that the channel had struck the table he’d been seated at, decimating the tome on western genealogy into a cloud of shredded pages.

  But the majority of his mind had eyes only for the remaining Parent. The man sent another hex hurtling through the air. He rolled behind one of the massive bookshelves, cursing himself for never thinking to ask Erem how he managed to form shields out of the shadow. Hurling it about with destructive force was easy enough, but building it into a concentrated wall was something else altogether.

  The Parent stalked around the table, back into Ferrin’s line of sight.

  “Come here, you filthy fifth. The Grand Father wanted you alive, but I’m well within my rights under the Edicts to strike you down here.”

  Another light hex only narrowly missed him. He countered with a shadow channel of his own, but the Parent deflected it away with an arrogant dismissiveness that left him feeling like he had when facing Erem in the woods. A little bit concerned and a lot frustrated at never having had real opponents against whom to practice.

  He rolled away from another hex and slammed into a wall. Too late he realized this row of books had no outlet on the other side. He was trapped.

  The Parent grinned down at him like a man about to enjoy a roast boar. Then there was the sound of shattering glass at the man’s feet. His murderous sneer turned to puzzlement, then surprise, then fear as a green mist rose from the ground around him.

  The effect was swift. But that didn’t reduce the horror of it. The man’s skin began to roll up, like he’d suddenly gained the weight of three men. Then it began to slide from his bones like wax. The Parent only had the capacity to scream for a moment, but that instant was enough to make Ferrin’s very soul quake with the sound.

  The mist dissipated quickly, leaving a mottled mess where there had been a man only moments earlier. And just beyond stood Westcott, leather sash stuffed with crystal vials slung across one shoulder. If the sight of the Parent’s skin melting off his bones had troubled Westcott, his beady eyes didn’t show it. He regarded Ferrin with the same downtrodden, questioning regard he’d often seen him give Erem over the past week.

  “Ferrin,” came a growl from over Westcott’s shoulder. “What in Agar’s name were you thinking?”

  Erem’s tone wiped any residual trace of fear from Ferrin’s mind. He sprang to his feet.

  “Doing what you’ve been too cowardly to do. Finding a way to help Jenzara.”

  The response he received wasn’t what he expected. Or from whom he’d expected. Westcott’s questioning gaze turned to twin arrows of burning anger.

  “You watch who you call a coward, boy,” the alchemist said. “If you knew anything about this man you’d be thanking him for even bothering to busy his mind with the fact of your existence.”

  Ferrin could only stare open mouthed at him. He considered retorting that he didn’t know the first thing about Erem because he’d refused to disclose anything of his past. But the heat coming off Westcott’s words seared his lips closed.

  “I thought you’d have headed to the Quadrangle,” Erem said after the silence had stretched on for a time. “I’m at least happy you’re not quite as much a fool as your past actions have suggested. Though you’re fortunate we heard the commotion in here from the street.”

  Ferrin’s faced burned at that. But folded into that unintended insult, Ferrin thought there actually might have been a complement. He felt a small surge of pride despite himself.

  “I’ll go check for others,” Westcott said. He turned and left the row of shelves without waiting for confirmation from either him or Erem.

  Once Westcott turned the corner, Erem exhaled and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. As always, the solar specs made him hard to read, but for the first time he saw the man was tired. Maybe not physically, but mentally exhausted.

  “You’ve been a handful, Ferrin,” Erem said, still rubbing at his face. “I’m trying my best. I don’t have a book full of answers like you seem to think.”

  Ferrin leered at him. That had nearly sounded like an admission of fault. Something he’d never expected to hear from the man. He searched for a reply.

  “Perhaps you’re more right than you know,” Erem continued. “I’ve been running from much for far too long. I can’t change the past, but perhaps I can begin by helping you find Jenzara. Westcott has some—”

  “Ferrin, Orphaned of Ral Mok,” an all-too-familiar voice boomed around the room.

  Ferrin’s stomach had already been at his boots. Now it dropped into the library’s basement. Of course, if those two men had thought they’d found the one Valdin was seeking they wouldn’t have come alone. They’d merely been the advance guard.

  “This game is pointless, Ferrin,” the voice continued. “I’ve a whole coven with me. Come out now and perhaps I’ll let Jenzara live.”

  Like a hypnotized man who’d just heard the trigger, he barreled towards the source of Valdin’s voice without conscious thought. Erem grabbed him by the shoulder—the bad one—and yanked him back.

  “There’s enchantment in those words, boy.”

  Ferrin shook his head as if to clear it but felt no less inclined to obey Valdin’s words. “Maybe. But there’s truth too.”

  Erem considered him. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ve waited too long to take action.” He paused, giving him a long look. “Alright,” he finally said. “We go to Valdin. But we do it my way.”

  Ferrin frowned. “No killing you mean? That’s ridiculous.”

  “No. What’s ridiculous is thinking we can fight our way through the Temple. Even if we did kill the ones out there, we’ll never get to Jenzara and escape with our lives.”

  He hated to admit it, but he knew Erem was right. “What’s your plan?”

  “Secrets. Revealing them, I mean. Both his and mine.”

  Ferrin dropped his brows.

  “I can put together Valdin’s secret easily enough. But what secret do you hold that could save us?”

  “There’s no time for that. You’ll see soon enough. You must trust me.”

  Ferrin tried to stare into the man’s eyes. He still didn’t entirely trust Erem. Not after what he’d led Jenzara into wit
hout warning. But they couldn’t expect to just defeat the whole Temple with force.

  “Alright, Erem. We do it your way. I just hope your past is as stunning as Westcott seems to think it is.”

  Ferrin wasn’t certain, but Erem might have smiled as he turned to the sound of Valdin’s voice.

  40

  Erem

  A manticore cornered will kill its assailant at the expense of its own life. A lion knows better.

  -Excerpt from Agar’s Authorities

  HE STEPPED OUT FROM behind the row of shelves, ebon blade drawn, the boy following close behind. A clarity of resolve that had escaped him for over a decade flowed through his blood. Perhaps he was walking right into the Angel’s game. But he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen, the downfall of Tragnè City. And it’d been fifteen years. If no one had done anything about it by now, perhaps Devan was right. He was the only one who could fix it.

  Immediately, however, he saw events would not unfold as he’d envisioned. “No plan ever survives contact with the enemy,” he muttered. Rikar had always been saying that.

  Standing in a semi-circle not twenty paces away stood twelve Parents and Valdin. Several held torches aloft, mortal flames gleaming off the golden suns emblazoned on their white robes. Two others had water skins slung over their shoulders, a few pouches of soil at their belts. Plenty of material from which to channel. A pair of the men held Westcott restrained between them.

  “Ah, Ferrin,” Valdin said. “You brought your friend with you, I see. I hardly believed it when a Parent reported you’d been spotted on the Quadrangle. You got here rather quickly from the Crossing.”

  Valdin was no different. A few more wrinkles and white hairs than he’d had at Riverdale, perhaps. But he stood and spoke with the same self-assured pomposity that had boiled Erem’s blood even in the days before Riverdale. Erem had spent more days than he could count—too many—envisioning what he’d do to the man if he ever got close enough. And yet, he’d now been within a blade’s reach of the man twice in a week and done nothing to him. Funny how such things could work out, for now he thanked Agar for his restraint. If he was going to step out of this room, this City, alive, he’d need the Grand Father to live. For now, at least.