Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  Most often, those glimpses of the Path drove the subject mad. An ordinary mind simply cannot grasp the infinite complexities of time, nor cope with the realization of how small an individual is within the Path’s grand scheme. But every once in a great while, a Linear was born who could bear the strain of the metasense. The Path had even produced one or two who possessed such prophetic insight that they rivaled the Aldur for knowing what the future held. But the chances of that in Jenzara’s case were remote.

  “We’ll do what we can for her, lad. Why don’t you return to your exercises?”

  Ferrin sighed. “It’s just so boring.”

  Devan shook his head. “You must improve your control.”

  The lad opened his mouth, then shut it without a word, lips twisting into a grimace. What he’d done to the girl had accomplished that much, at least. Shown him the importance of learning how to corral his power.

  “Why don’t we practice with my shadow power, rather than this pointless task of enlarging a pebble? I do the greatest damage with shadow.”

  “No.” The word burst from Devan’s mouth with such vehemence that Ferrin actually recoiled. Devan moved towards him until their faces nearly met.

  “If you remember but one thing, remember this: One attuned to all five elements must be extra vigilant with his shadow power. And the closer you are to them, the more likely it is they can reach you. If you were to succumb to the Seven’s Call, use too much of your power and open yourself to them, the results would be disastrous. The Seven would have at their disposal a body that could channel all five elements, everything they need to release themselves, save the shadow heart. But with such power, they could easily find one. You shall not channel the shadow again until the Seven have been dealt with.”

  Ferrin tried to stand firm in the face of Devan’s vehemence. But he was no fool. Arrogant mayhaps, but not stupid. He’d seen Bladesorrow’s testimony. What Val had done. The lad gulped and glanced away.

  “Indeed,” Devan continued, “there were some members of the Conclave who’d have said I ought not train you at all. A Quintis so strong in the shadow. They’d have recommended...” he paused, not sure how explicit to be in front of the lad. “A different course of action.”

  Devan’s thoughts jumped to the vision Val had shown him. What Stephan had said. No. It had been a lie. Val had killed the others, it was the only possibility. Only another of the Aldur could have accomplished the carnage he’d seen that day at the Conclave.

  The lad’s face seemed to have lost just a bit of its color. That wouldn’t do, either. Uncertainty would only set the boy back further than he already was.

  “Besides, the pebble exercise is far from pointless. You want practical application?” Devan stepped away from Ferrin, moving to stand over the pile of small rocks with which Ferrin had been practicing. He reached into Stephan’s chronometre, drawing forth the power of earth. One of the stones lifted off the ground, hovering before him. He pictured it larger, channeling the thought into the rock. It shuddered, beginning to expand until it was nearly the size of a small melon. Then, with a flick of his hand, he sent it hurtling through the air into a nearby wall. It crashed into the barrier, sending dust flying and leaving a head-sized hole at the point of impact. Ferrin’s eyebrows rose, and Devan felt a minor surge of satisfaction at the lad’s reaction. He’d forgotten the little joys that teaching could bring.

  “There will be a small army of shades at Ral Falar when we arrive,” he said. “And you’ve far greater power in earth than I. Think what you’ll be able to do with a bit of practice.”

  Ferrin nodded thoughtfully, though his apparent compliance wasn’t what drew Devan’s attention now. The lad was gripping something beneath his shirt, and it was sending a familiar humming sensation through the air.

  “What is that?” he snapped, striding back over to Ferrin.

  “What do you—”

  Devan didn’t give him a chance to finish. He slapped Ferrin’s hand aside and pulled a necklace from under his shirt. Except it wasn’t a necklace. Dull golden links connecting a series of rings. Ten rings. Devan could only stare. He’d seen it before.

  “Where did you get this?” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. He tried to pull it towards him for close inspection, but met the resistance of the boy’s neck. The motion forced Ferrin to take a stumbling step closer before he recovered from his surprise and yanked the chain away from Devan.

  “Let go of that,” Ferrin said defensively. He glanced down at the not-necklace, as if ensuring Devan hadn’t broken it. As if that were possible. “I’ve had it all my life. It was my father’s.”

  Devan seriously doubted that. He would know if the previous owner had fathered any children. Anger was flaring in the lad’s eyes now, and Devan raised a hand in an effort to placate him. But as he did so, Ferrin’s eyes widened. He looked from Devan’s hand, to the chain about his neck, back up to Devan’s hand.

  “My necklace,” Ferrin said, “Looks an awful lot like—”

  “My psychic aptitude weapons, yes,” Devan finished. “That’s because your necklace is one. Well, a set of them.”

  For once, the boy seemed lost for words. “How is that possible?”

  Devan had no idea. If Ferrin had possessed them all his life, it wasn’t likely he’d stolen them. In fact, that wouldn’t have been likely in any case. One could not simply thieve such an object. Not unless he was slicing it from the dead fingers of an Aldur.

  “Can I use them?” Ferrin asked.

  “No,” Devan replied, shaking his head. “They’re dormant. I don’t think you’d be able to even separate them into a pair, one for each hand. Psychic aptitude weapons have, well, sort of a mind of their own. No one can just use them. It’s... well, their history is complicated. But only they select who they’ll work for. Usually they present themselves in times of great need.” Devan wiggled his fingers, bringing the sussurial song of his own weapons to their ears. “And before you ask, they’re ancient relics. I don’t really understand how they work, just that they do. Well mine do, anyway. Even Stephan knew little of them aside from old tales.”

  He tried to think back to the last time he’d seen the former owner use the weapons now hanging from Ferrin’s neck. It had been so long. But he had stopped using them before he died, Devan was certain. That meant the decision to give them away had been conscious, and almost certainly calculated.

  “However you got them, there’s a reason they were given to you. Keep them close. Keep them safe. You’ll know when the time is right.”

  He expected open skepticism from the lad, but he only nodded.

  “I will,” Ferrin said. Without another word, he tucked the weapons back into his shirt, then turned to begin working on the pile of rocks once more.

  Devan let out a sigh and turned back to his own work. Was the Path playing games with him? If so, it was certainly winning. He was accustomed to knowing just about everything. But now? Such uncertainty. What would tomorrow bring? He’d no idea, save that they’d be leaving the Stronghold, headed back to the place he dreaded most in all of Agarsfar.

  He returned to the ring, taking up the knife and beginning to whittle once more. There was hope in the wood beneath his fingers. The feeling calmed him some, though he’d trade it for a bit of certainty in a heartbeat. But for now he’d take what he could get, and trust that whatever the Path gave him would be enough.

  It would have to be.

  56

  Jenzara

  It’s well accepted that the True Path is able to make corrections on its own, curing rogue strands of its own accord. Some Aldur argue that these corrections still require action by the Conclave to fully solve the problems they seek to remedy, and thus “self” correction is an inaccurate description of this phenomenon. Of course, this position assumes that the Path is not also responsible for the acts of the Aldur. I’ve yet to discover any basis for such an assumption.

  - Excerpt from Stephan Falconwing’s Comme
ntaries on The Lessons

  A MAN IN A FIVE-COLORED robe appears. He holds a sleeping boy in one arm. The little one is probably old enough to walk but still young enough to carry. With his free hand, the man removes a chronometre from his breast pocket, inspects the dial, then snaps it shut. He looks up to the top of the wooden wall before him.

  “Sentinel. Inform Raldon that I demand his presence at once.”

  A guard at the top of the parapet peers down.

  “Where did you come from? And it’s the middle of the night. Master Raldon won’t—”

  The robed man waves a hand in the direction of the sentinel, who instantly snaps to attention.

  “Yes, sir. Right away.” The sentinel disappears from view.

  A time later—for the Path no time is short or long, it just is—the main gate cracks open, whining on its hinges. A man strides out, dressed in a robe of much simpler cut than the man of the five-colored robe. This one’s hair is more brown than gray, more full than thin, though not too far down the Path those appearances will reverse. A young girl peaks after him through the opening in the gates. Her purple eyes are wide and curious. But when she sees the man in the colored robe she lets out a small yelp and scampers from view.

  “Virtuo af Virtuo.” The plain-robed man speaks with a formal tone as he bows. Then, with less formality, he says, “Stephan, this is an unexpected but not unwelcome surprise. Won’t you come in?”

  Stephan looks around, eyeing the gates, upper lip rising slightly. “I think not, Raldon. I find these outlands... unappealing. You really ought to do better.”

  Raldon bows again. “As you say, Virtuo Stephan,” a slight edge of formality returning to his voice. “But I have my reasons, as you know.”

  “Yes.” Stephan glances to the gate where the girl had been. “She’ll be something special one day. You’ll do well to watch over her with care. The stakes are high.”

  “I knew the stakes the moment he asked,” Raldon replies.

  Stephan gives a non-committal grunt, but nods all the same, seemingly eager to move on from the subject.

  “That’s why I’m here. You’re the only one outside the Conclave I can trust with matters of any import.” He thrusts the boy in his arms towards Raldon. Raldon is surprised, but doesn’t question, lifting the boy into his own arms. A shock of reddish hair brushes his cheek as the boy snuggles his head into the crook of Raldon’s neck, still asleep.

  “That one is even more important than the girl,” Stephan says. “His potential is, well, such that only one of your abilities will be able to handle him.”

  Raldon smiles as the boy wraps his arms around his neck, then looks up to Stephan, face growing solemn.

  “Stephan, I’m flattered. But surely one of the Conclave is better equipped than I for such a responsibility. I know I needn’t remind you there’s a reason I am where I am.”

  “My memory is perfectly clear.” Stephan frowns, though the expression quickly grows troubled. “But no. This is not a task I can entrust to an Aldur. They may not...” Stephan clears his throat. “It just cannot be one of them.”

  “Trouble?” Raldon whispers.

  “Perhaps.”

  “How can I help?”

  “By doing as I ask, warding for the boy.”

  Raldon is silent for a time, then nods.

  “Good. Give him this, when the time is right.” Stephan holds out a necklace of linked rings. Golden and well worn.

  Raldon’s eyes widen, but he accepts the necklace as Stephan drapes it about his neck. He takes a deep breath as the object leaves his grip, shoulders rising, then dropping as he heaves the breath out.

  “One last thing. Don’t tell Devan.”

  “The new horologer?”

  Stephan gives a terse nod.

  “But why not trust him with this boy? You’ve spoken so highly of him to me that—”

  “No. Listen well, Raldon. I trust Devan with the Path itself. And you know how I feel about him...” Stephan’s voice trails into the night for several moments. Raldon clears his throat, color coming to his cheeks. Then Stephan shakes his head, expression stern as ever. “But none of my brothers or sisters at the Conclave can be assigned this task. And even if they could, it could not be Devan. He’s lost—” a muscle in Stephan’s face twitches, “—objectivity when it comes to Linears like that babe.” He stares into Raldon’s face. “It might be best if you keep that girl away from this lad as well.” He waves a hand towards the gate. “The lad is vital, but that doesn’t mean he’s one others ought to be around. Particularly ones as important as that girl. There’s darkness on his path.”

  Raldon looks down to the boy. He seems an ordinary child. But as he reaches his elemental sense out to him, he suppresses a gasp.

  “What do you mean? Darkness?”

  Stephan shakes his head, frustration showing in the set of his shoulders. “I can’t say for certain. His place on the Path is... clouded for me. But he is pivotal, that much I can see. Great change swirls about him.”

  Raldon inspects the child’s face and begins to ask another question, but seems to swallow it. “Whatever you say, Stephan. It shall be done.”

  A silence stretches between the two, the space between them full of regrets and unasked questions.

  “I must be leaving,” Stephan says. “I’ve a meeting of the Conclave to oversee.”

  “The entire Conclave?”

  He gives a curt nod.

  “Trouble indeed,” Raldon murmurs. Then louder, “Path be with you, Stephan. Until I see you again.”

  Stephan looks about to say something, lips thinning. But in the end he merely gives Raldon another nod, then is gone. Raldon places a hand on the back of the still-sleeping boy’s head. The sally port in Ral Mok’s main gate springs open behind him and the purple-eyed girl rushes out, hugging Raldon’s leg. He smiles down at her, though his gaze quickly returns to the boy in his arms, face growing troubled.

  IT WAS A STRANGE THING, remembering your own death.

  Panthers growled and men shouted from below her window as she awoke from yet another dream. At least, she thought she was awake. It was growing increasingly difficult to tell. Some part of her mind told her that she ought to be concerned, mixing up the waking and sleeping worlds. But she couldn’t bring herself to care overly much.

  Despite such apathy becoming increasingly common, she had wanted to get up to see the fabled mounts of the Northern dwarfs, the majestic shadow panthers. But she remained too weak to leave bed. The healers who came and went from her room, somewhere high up in Glofar Stronghold’s main keep, continued to tell her that it was just the aftereffects of her injury. That she’d regain strength soon. But their words seemed to have lost conviction as of late.

  So instead Ferrin was serving as her eyes, standing at the window describing the scene to her as she stared up at the room’s stone ceiling through half-closed lids. Sweet of him to spend so much time with her. A smile played at her lips. It was mid-morning and the room was plenty bright, but a pair of shadow torches were nonetheless lit, standing to either side of the room’s door. Not long ago she’d have felt uncomfortable with them. But she’d come to appreciate their soothing glow, especially when the day’s light began to fade.

  “They’re massive,” Ferrin was saying. “Bigger than horses, though lower to the ground of course. All lean muscle. Most of them are black as night, though a few are lighter, closer to gray. I’m surprised the dwarfs amongst the Northerners are able to mount them so easily. They’re nimbler than they look.”

  She grinned faintly, picturing through closed eyes the stout inhabitants of Glofar Stronghold leaping onto the backs of the giant cats. Under different circumstances she would have laughed. But since the ordeal at the Temple a few days prior she’d felt little strong emotion over anything, as if her feelings had gone into hibernation and couldn’t be troubled to wake. The healers had dealt with her physical injuries admirably. She was in no pain. But she’d surmised enough to understand
that her problems ran deeper than a few lacerations and broken bones. Little had been explained to her. Neither the Angel nor the Grand Master had even come to visit. But sometimes what people didn’t say held more truth than the spoken word.

  She heard Ferrin return to the chair at her bedside. He took up her hand and gave it a squeeze, then began rubbing it between both of his. He’d hardly left the room since they’d arrived, other than to attend his lessons with the Angel. It was touching.

  And sad.

  “You’re so cold,” he said, a frown in his voice. She still had her eyes closed, near the precipice of sleep. Each time she drifted off it seemed harder to wake again.

  Still, she waved away his concern with her free hand. The motion at once caused her chest to burn with great agony, yet also not to hurt at all. It was an odd sensation, as if she was two people in one body. At least, that’s what the half of her brain not crying out in pain thought.

  She’d told Ferrin of this duology of experience within her, how it sometimes felt as if Shinzar had actually landed his killing thrust with that spear. His reaction had been more telling than his words, how quick he was to remind her that he’d pushed her free of the spear’s path, that she was simply recovering from the trauma of the stone that had fallen upon her. And she knew what he said was true, remembered how impossibly fast he’d reached her, seeming to come from her right side, even though he’d been kneeling to her left. But she knew that was not the only truth of what had happened, either, for she also remembered the spear slicing through her, the horror of seeing it protruding from her chest. Her heart stopping. Dying.

  Her head spun when she tried to reconcile the contradictory memories. It was much easier just to sleep.