Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  The Andstaed rose.

  “Don’t dare dispute us, fallen Angel.” This another woman’s voice, older than the others, terse with annoyance, though it perhaps also held a suggestion of satisfaction.

  He couldn’t even contemplate a reply. It felt as if spiked chains were being run over his brain. Worse still, it was no elemental attack. If it had been, he could at least have tried to defend against it. The Seven had access to the light attunement of Bladesorrow’s former body, but this was neither hex nor enchantment. It was some device of the Elsewhere. Close as they were to the rift in time, the Seven must have retained some ability to disregard the rules of the Path.

  Somewhere beneath the writhing pain Valdin felt doubt creep into his thoughts. He’d figured to overpower the Seven with his elemental power once he’d regained the ability to peregrinate. But how could he hope to master them if their powers weren’t limited to those of the Path?

  “Yes,” said an arrogant voice that he could identify as neither male nor female. “I think he now begins to see. Treachery will get him nothing but the agony of our supremacy.”

  “Good, good.” In a heartbeat the voice switched to the insane slur of a man not fit for society. “Hurt him. Hurt him! Ruin his flesh.”

  The pain migrated from his mind to his bowels, the feeling as if his intestines were being slowly exhumed from his body through his toes. He moaned, pelvis arching towards the ceiling. A yearning to return to the endless stairwell consumed him. Casting himself over the banister into dark oblivion was far preferable to this torture. He screamed and screamed until his body lost the power to generate sound, throat so raw it must be bleeding.

  “That will be enough.” The calm of the voice swept over the hall like a cool breeze on a spring morning. With it, the pain immediately ceased. Valdin let out a sob of relief, curling in on himself. While the physical agony was gone, the terror of the prime voice brought with it the anticipation of far worse things.

  “I believe Valdin now sees the error of his ways. Isn’t that right?”

  The voice spoke as if to a child, and Valdin answered in kind.

  “Yes, sir,” he croaked, throat screaming in protest.

  “Very well. Now, you will tell us what you know, and then we will tell you the plan.” There was only the faintest suggestion of anger in the voice, but Valdin recoiled from it as if scalded. He hesitated, trying to think what best to say to salvage the situation. They knew more than he thought, but they couldn’t know all. He’d be dead already if they did.

  Instantly the pain returned, even more intense than before. His vision went red, insides ripping as if put to the rack. Words began to spew from his mouth.

  “Bladesorrow will be here soon, a few days at most. He’ll have a small force with him, likely mounted Northerners. But not too many. There’s few enough trained soldiers capable of the sort of maneuvers he’ll need to assault this place. Two dozen, maybe three. The fifth, the shadow-attuned boy, will be with him as well. I think the girl died, though I’m not certain.”

  The words gasped out of him between sobs. When he finished, silence reigned, his own cries of anguish the only sound in the vast chamber. For a moment, the pain eased. But relief was immediately replaced by new torture. Suddenly one eye, then the other, erupted in agony, his vision going dark, as if knives had been driven deep into the sockets of his skull. He began to roll about, crying out like a mad man.

  “That’s not all of it,” the first, rasping male voice demanded. “What of the Angel?”

  Devan? What did they need with him?

  “The Angel,” the voice roared. “Tell us, or what we do next will leave you begging for the kindness of what we’ve done to you thus far.”

  They feared Devan. This realization dawned on him in a far recess of his mind, hidden away from the pain. They thought Devan capable of stopping them. Valdin grasped that glimmer of hope, burying it away somewhere the Seven couldn’t reach it. But his physical body was too weak to offer further resistance. He didn’t want to say it, but couldn’t stop himself.

  “Devan will be with them.”

  Several of the voices rumbled in unison, a collective expression of anger mixed with dismay.

  “Peace, comrades, peace.” The soothing calm of the voice silenced the others, and with it Valdin’s pain eased, though his sight did not return. There was a gargled, spluttering sound coming from somewhere nearby. It took him several moments to realize that he was making the sound, sobbing, trying to breathe through snot-filled nostrils. Or was it blood?

  “I don’t believe Valdin will make the same mistake again,” the prime voice said, almost a coo in its placidity. “You’ll kill the Angel this time, yes?”

  He hesitated just for an instant, that tiny part of him clinging to the hope of salvation. But he couldn’t risk further pain. His mind was aflame with that singular purpose. Pure survival instinct. Nothing else mattered except to please the Seven, evade their wrath.

  “Yes, yes,” he cried. And when this didn’t seem to sate them, he added, “I won’t stop until he ceases to draw breath. The last of the Aldur shall fall. I’ll rip the eyes from his sockets, the tongue from his mouth, and deliver them to you on gilded platters if that’s what you desire.”

  For several moments he didn’t think even this was enough. He prepared to say more, that he’d tear Devan limb from limb, scatter the pieces across all of Agarsfar. Whatever they wished.

  “Nothing so drastic,” the voice said. “Though I don’t deny the satisfaction that such desecration of one of the Aldur would bring us. But simply killing him will be sufficient.”

  Then Valdin could suddenly see once more, the pain left him.

  “Thank you,” he choked out, a true sense of gratitude filling him. The emotion repulsed a part of his mind. But only a part. Somewhere, deep in his consciousness, he knew his worst fears were realized. He would do anything to stop the pain from coming again. The Seven had him, surely as if they’d taken his own body rather than Bladesorrow’s.

  “There,” said the calm voice. “Our dear Valdin will rid us of that problem. And once we’re rid of the Aldur, Bladesorrow will be defenseless. We’ll end this paradox.”

  “And then, freedom!” ranted the crazed voice.

  “Yes, yes,” chorused the others. The sound of their glee echoed off the towering ceiling of the hall like a dirge.

  A thought occurred to Valdin then, and this time he offered the information without consideration.

  “Devan is sly. He may try to conceal Bladesorrow from you. Or, perhaps he’ll present him in a way that he seems defenseless, but is not.”

  “The Angel will not trick us,” the calm voice said. “His powers are weakened here. The rift clouds his foresight; he cannot see what the future holds. We will use it against him. What he expects is not what he’ll get.”

  Those words held his old friend’s death sentence. Valdin ought to have felt some regret, but all that was left to him was resignation. The plans he’d harbored on his ascent up the tower were lost. Perhaps there would be a way out once Bladesorrow was gone, and the Seven truly free. Maybe he’d be able to escape their grasp then. But it would be too late for his old friend by that time.

  Devan should have taken his offer of reconciliation when he’d had the chance.

  55

  Devan

  I spent several decades studying the miento proxitory, the psychic weapons of the Aldur. After all that time, I accumulated little more than a handful of myths and several half-legible bits of parchment older than even myself. Yet I did also arrive at a curious realization. Though there is no record of one of the proxitory ever having selected a Linear as wielder, neither is there evidence that the bearer must be Aldur. Extreme mental fortitude is all that is required, and perhaps even one with less than exemplary psychic control could coax some sort of defense from them.

  - Excerpt from Stephan Falconwing’s Commentaries on The Lessons

  THE KNIFE SLIPPED AGAIN, gashing his
palm.

  “Broken wagon wheels on a stormy night,” Devan cursed, reflexively drawing his hand close, dripping blood onto his robe.

  It was around noon, and the Northern sun was hanging high in a blood-red sky, beating down through the typical haze. He sat at a table that had been setup in the same courtyard they’d met in three days prior, where Bladesorrow had finally consented to go to Ral Falar. Since then, Glofar Stronghold had been full of frantic energy. Armories emptying, supplies packed, panthers groomed. And Devan had been busier than all that, between teaching Ferrin some semblance of control over his channeling and working on these blasted rings.

  He reached out to the sunlight’s power, directing a thin channel into his sliced flesh. The limb thrummed with energy, like he’d banged his elbow on a doorframe. The wound sealed before his eyes, blood ceasing to flow. But a burning scar remained, tender to the touch. He’d never had much talent for channeling of the ordinary variety. He wiped the remaining blood on his leg and stooped back over his work.

  “I felt you do it that time,” Ferrin said, lifting his head from the task he’d been set to. “The light channel. I think I’ve always been able to sense each of the elements. Just never consciously realized it.”

  Devan gave the lad a grunt in reply, going back to whittling the ring on which he’d been working. It was the last one, and the smallest. For the girl, Jenzara. As he worked, he continued to hold the light he’d channeled, while also reaching into the depths of Stephan’s chronometre for the other four elements it held. He directed trickles of each into the wood, weaving them into a complex puzzle until he could hardly tell where one element ceased and another began.

  “That’s at least the fourth time you’ve cut yourself,” the lad went on, failing to take the hint. “Why don’t you just use those, er,” he waved at the interconnected rings Devan wore, “whatever you call those things.”

  Devan ceased his carving before he hurt himself further, looking up at Ferrin. He blinked several times, trying to transition from the precise focus of peering at the ring to staring the boy in the face. “It’s very fine work. I need to channel intricate patterns of all five elements into them if they’re to function properly. Even for me it requires too much attention to also hold the image of a blade in my mind. So I’m stuck using this.” He waved the ordinary carving knife about, causing the lad to flinch back.

  “And the wood’s delicate besides. Until I’ve strengthened it with the elements, my psychic weapons would be as likely to ruin it as to aid me.”

  “What sort of tree is it from? I’ve never seen wood with such dark grain.”

  “Willoak,” Devan replied, hoping a tone of curt finality would deter further questions.

  “Willoak? Never heard of it. Where do they grow?”

  Devan exhaled through his nose. Perhaps the lad was intentionally trying to irritate him. It would be in keeping with his general attitude towards him. “They don’t grow around here.”

  Ferrin began to ask something further, but Devan held up a hand. “Why all the questions, lad? Come the morning we’re leaving, and you’ve much to practice yet if you’re to be of use in the coming battle.”

  Ferrin seemed to consider whether that was a slight warranting a retort, but then only shrugged. “I’m still not sure I understand the use of them is all. You say that once we help Bladesorrow do whatever it is you want him to do at Ral Falar they’ll take us back to his clearing? I just don’t see the point.”

  Devan sighed. This was at least the third time he’d gone over it with the lad, and the Grand Master Keeper had asked at least that many times as well.

  “If we succeed—”

  “When we succeed,” Ferrin said.

  Devan frowned at him.

  “We will beat whatever it is at Ral Falar,” Ferrin said. “Failing isn’t an option if it’s the only way we can help Jenzara.”

  The lad’s gaze dared him to dispute the statement. Ferrin had a tendency of doing that, taunting others to anger. Devan suppressed the urge to snap back at him.

  “Fine. When we succeed, the rogue strand of time that the paradox has created will be resolved. That means you’ll all be returned to your proper places on the Path.”

  He paused. Each time he got to this part of the explanation he had to choose his words carefully.

  “But,” he continued, “a paradox is nasty business. I’m not entirely certain how annihilating the Grand Master Keeper with the Andstaed will impact the Path. There could be additional, mmmm, let’s call them ‘complications’ to deal with afterward.”

  Ferrin narrowed his eyes. “That’s just a roundabout way of saying you don’t know if your plan will work.”

  “No,” Devan said, a little too quickly. He took a deep breath. “My ‘plan,’ as you call it, isn’t so much a plan as the only option available. It will set the Path to healing. But there’s much uncertainty with paradoxes. It’s always best to have contingencies in place.”

  The lad was silent for a long time. “I’m not sure I agree. There is another option. You could kill both the Andstaed and Bladesorrow. That would rid us of the paradox too.”

  Devan took in a breath through his teeth. The boy hadn’t spoken with malice. More like a scholar considering hypotheticals. But it was a troubling thought to even contemplate. “And rid the Path of one of its Constants, boy? Have you paid any attention at all to what I’ve been teaching you of the Path these past days?”

  Ferrin shrugged. “From what I can tell, the result of killing them both would be just as uncertain as resolving the Paradox. You say the Path must move in a circle, yet another way’s never been tried.”

  The scar at the corner of Devan’s eye began to twitch. That argument was much too similar to one he’d heard another make.

  “Annihilation is the only option,” Devan said quietly.

  Ferrin shrugged again. “If you say so.” He certainly didn’t sound convinced, and Devan couldn’t have the boy faltering. Not with so much at stake. The rage the boy had initially expressed that first day after he’d performed the Motus to save the girl had subsided over the subsequent days. Ferrin even seemed to have accepted, albeit begrudgingly, that he’d much to learn if he was ever to realize the full potential of his newfound ability to channel all five elements. But the lad still remained aloof much of the time, as if he only half believed whatever Devan said.

  “It’s the only option for the girl, too,” Devan said. “Even if we were fool enough to try what you suggest, it’d mean maintaining this timeline. One in which she’s dying.”

  The lad’s face immediately hardened.

  “I want to believe that, Angel, but that sounds far too much like the manipulation you’ve been feeding Bladesorrow. Why don’t we just go back and save the other Aldur from what Valdin did to them? Stop this whole mess before its genesis.”

  Devan nearly formed a club with one of his psychic weapons to smack the lad. His throat tightened as he responded.

  “Too often you speak of things of which you know nothing. Val attacked the others at the Conclave, a place apart from the Path. What occurs there is for keeps. No going back.”

  The lad’s face showed he doubted the veracity of this as well. But he relented. He was at least smart enough to see there was no other option.

  “Fine, we’ll do it your way,” Ferrin said. “But I still don’t see the need for the rings.”

  “Entirely selfish of me, I suppose,” Devan responded, immediately lightening his tone, eminently happy to be changing topics, even if Ferrin remained skeptical. “If there’s additional cleanup to be done once we’ve ended the paradox, I’ll continue to need assistance. And without the rest of the Conclave that leaves, well, you, the Grand Master, and Jenzara to aid me. And the dwarf too, I suppose. Under ordinary circumstances, once a rogue strand is resolved you’d return to the True Path, oblivious to all that had happened in the strand. All memories you’ve formed since Val attacked the Grand Master at Riverdale supplanted by new
ones. But I can’t have that, you forgetting everything. You’ve all been submitted to peregrination, so that will help some. You’ll retain some metaphysical memory of this time.

  “But the rings will help even more. They’re made from bits of the trees I planted in the Grand Master’s clearing. Think of them like a rope tied about your waist. As the rogue strand resolves, you’ll be pulled to the clearing. A time loop apart from the Path. And you’ll bring your memories from the resolved rogue strand with you, stopping them from dying as the strand is filled in by the Path. That way, I won’t have to completely reeducate you all when you finally do return to the true timeline.”

  “That sounds like another paradox to me,” Ferrin said. “If what you’re saying is true, it means we’ll remember our lives up to this point, but will also have memories of our lives occurring in a different way. The way they’re supposed to occur on the True Path. We’ll have two sets of memories.”

  “Certainly, as you’ll have lived two lives.”

  Ferrin scrunched his forehead. “But that means the same person will have been in two different places at the exact same time having done two different things. Isn’t that the definition of a paradox?”

  “Ah,” Devan said. “The flaw in your logic is assuming you’ll be the same person.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. We don’t have time to get into that discussion. Bottom line is that these rings will return you to the clearing once we’ve dealt with the Andstaed, and once there we’ll be able to assess the relative impact our actions have had on the Path without you forgetting it all.”

  “And Jenzara will be saved.” The lad’s face turned pensive. “She speaks oddly now, as if she’s in a dream even when awake. And some of what she says, it’s just, well, odd. She knows things she ought to have no way of knowing.”

  Devan had already returned his focus to the ring he was carving but stopped again, looking up to Ferrin. That had the sound of metaphysical scarring to it. Maybe even metasense, the same disorder that had plagued Stephan. Dreams leaching into reality. Occasionally, a Linear acquired the ability to see bits of the True Path in their dreams. Often, it was brought on by some sort of traumatic incident. Torture. A near-death experience. The loss of one dear to them. A stone ceiling having collapsed on—and nearly killed—you likely qualified, he supposed.