“Like you really care about my father’s wishes,” Gavin accused.
“Tennay was my friend, boy. You may not trust me, but he did.”
“Of course he did,” Gavin shook his head, “But now my father’s dead, so if you’re looking for my trust, Pip, you’re dangling the wrong bait.”
The assassin loosed an impatient groan. “Do not try to burden me with guilt. I told Tennay to keep his mouth shut. I said to him many times the relic wasn’t worth his life. But you said he spilled the beans, and so his enemy silenced him. They’d come for me, too, if I opened my trap, but I don’t. So point your fingers another way.”
“If it’s all my father’s fault then why are you so concerned with me?” Gavin yanked his arm free.
“I’ve known you since you were a yearling. I can’t in good conscience let you walk into this alone.”
“Fine. You want to help? Take your band of misfits and lead the way. But I’m not risking the chance of losing Jaspur’s—”
“Jaycent’s,” Pip corrected.
“Whoever he is,” Gavin snapped. “I refuse to lose him and his companions’ trail. The relic is your concern, not mine. I’ve fulfilled my end of the deal. Now I intend to find my father’s killer and avenge his death, and I won’t let your selfish hunt stand in my way.”
It was a limiting demand, but it still provided all the control the assassin needed. Pip tightened his scabbard belt and nodded discreetly to a rahee resting casually against one of the book cases. In turn, that rahee held up a finger, and Gavin noted how several others inside the cathedral set aside their books and scrolls.
“We are ready when you are,” the assassin relented, much to Gavin’s surprise.
With a tight smirk, the young soldier nodded for Pip to lead. The assassin turned on his heels and strode into the hall that would take them to the catacombs. One by one, in subtle intervals, eight leather clad rahee followed.
INTO THE CATACOMBS
Jaycent stumbled through the seal, his first steps into the catacombs lifting up clouds of settled dust from the floor. A deep chill instantly greeted him, and he yanked his cloak tight around his frame to fend off its touch as his teeth began to chatter.
He moved to grab a torch from the wall, thinking to use its warmth as well as its light, but he paused, his brow furrowed in confusion as his hand lingered near its flame. The fire crackled and danced, but no heat emanated from it.
He swept his hand through the flame. Nothing. Not a thread of warmth or sting.
“After two years of apathy, I thought you would be used to not feeling anything around you.”
The prince recognized that voice. It familiarity nearly stopped his heart. The world became still, his senses numb, and for a moment not even the frigid air prying through his winter garb seemed to faze him. His hand lingered in the burning flame, his eyes fixated on the unfeeling fire, too afraid to glance behind him.
“Father?” Jaycent could barely form the word.
“Turn around, boy.”
Jaycent slowly turned, his breath held prisoner inside his lungs. He thought perhaps his travel through the seal had somehow shaken his senses. That it couldn’t be…
But it was. The spirit of King Donovan Connor stood before the prince, matching his 6’4” stature. Jaycent clinched his chattering jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed back the emotions that tried to break through.
“Father,” he said again.
“My son,” a subtle smile curved at the corners of the late king’s translucent lips. His spirit, emanating a faint white glow, reflected against Jaycent’s skin. “I fear our meeting must be brief. The Hall of the Dead is no place for the living. It is a spiritual realm, existing off of an eternal exchange of energy. The heat produced by your body is being pulled from you as we speak. For your own sake we must get you to Connor’s tomb, and quickly.”
“Father, I seek—”
“I know what you seek,” said Donovan. He motioned for the prince to walk in front of him. “Connor told me you would try to find his blade in order to help you defeat Shadow.”
“You have spoken to him?” Jaycent stumbled over his words as his lips grew numb.
“Aye, and so will you, but you must move swiftly,” the apparition picked up the pace, herding his son onward.
They drew deeper into the catacomb’s claustrophobic halls, though Jaycent kept looking back, drawn to his father’s visage. He looked the same as the day of his funeral, the front tufts of his hair tied neatly back in a braid that sank into his thick black mane.
Donovan’s face was broader than his son’s, though they shared the same pair of high set cheeks and angled eyes. The silver crown of kingship still sat upon his brow, just as the prince remembered.
“I have missed you,” Jaycent murmured.
Donovan glanced at his son, the faint lines at the edge of his eyes crinkling together. “I know, my son. With great sorrow I watched you sink into solitude, your birthright forgotten beneath your anger and mourning.”
“No, father. Not anymore,” Jaycent insisted. “I have seen the error of my ways, and I have changed them.” His whole body was beginning to shake now, the chill reaching his core and feeding off its energy.
“Yet still like a child you desperately seek my approval,” the late king sighed. “You have grown much, Jaycent. I do not doubt your strength or your courage.
“But now you must learn to make decisions for yourself.” They trotted down a spiral staircase barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through. “Forget the expectations the royal court has placed upon you. Forget all that you have been taught. From now on, you must follow your gut instincts, for you must prove yourself worthy of Connor’s blade.”
The stairs opened up into another narrow hall that widened Jaycent’s eyes. Along the walls, long cubbies served as stone beds for centuries-old corpses, their tattered clothes half-disintegrated to reveal thin layers of dried skin over stark white skeletons.
The prince couldn’t help but stare when he noticed the soft blue outlines of slumbering spirits overlapping the still, emaciated bones. A couple stirred as the king walked by, the glow of his skin disturbing their sleep.
“B-by the gods,” the prince breathed.
“Nay, not the gods,” his father corrected. “This place has nothing to do with them.”
Jaycent considered his father’s words, the nature of the catacombs and its unnatural cold coming into focus. “The s-s-seal… over the p-passageway... It wasn’t really a s-seal after all?” he asked through rattling teeth.
“Not a seal, but a dimensional door. Connor was a powerful dreamer and cleric within his tribe. Days before the Great Tragedy, Tennakawa sent him a series of visions revealing the war against Shadow, his own death, and the prophecy of another that would redeem what was lost.
In response, Connor carved the runes inside the doorway so that the seal spell would activate when the door was opened by a key of his choosing. That way if he could not change his fate, he would at least be prepared for yours.”
Jaycent patted the coin around his neck. “D-d-did y-you know all of t-this?”
Donovan shook his head. “I knew only that the pendant I gave you was an heirloom of great importance. I had no inkling of its purpose until in death I met Connor. He revealed these things to me.”
Jaycent nodded. He was starting to feel more like the dead than the living as the heat within his core was sapped from his body. Only the sheer force of will kept his stiff legs moving until they finally reached the end of the hall.
There stood another stone door, identical to the one at the catacomb’s entrance. With fingers that could hardly bend, Jaycent pulled the pendant from his neck.
Donovan came up beside his son. “Before you enter those doors, know this: the power to ‘dream’ is born from a unique strand of magic. Innate by nature, it is the only kind that can unlock the power of Connor’s blade.
“His sword is sentient, Jaycent. It will u
se your gift to test you. If you succeed, the blade will relinquish itself to you along with its power. But if you fail, it will destroy you.
“Remember my advice. Forget the peril that brought you here and what you’ve been taught. You’ll know in your heart what you must do in this test. Trust in your instincts. It is the only way to succeed.”
“Yes, father,” Jaycent whispered through gritted teeth. He used his palm to slide the pendant into the slot. The door rumbled open.
Donovan reluctantly let his son go, his gray eyes watching as Jaycent pressed onward through the second gate. “I am proud of you, my son.”
Jaycent paused and turned back just long enough to smile. Then, with the impenetrable courage that had borne heroes from the Clovenhoof line, he entered Connor’s tomb.
* * * * *
“He’s been gone a long time,” Levee stared at the shimmering blue door from her spot on the ground, her pack serving as a seat beneath her. “Maybe we should go look for him.”
“Patience,” Tobi bid in the common tongue, for the old monk’s sake. The re’shahna, too, had settled on the ground, reclining against the rock wall adjacent to the door as he watched Hikshu’s servant pace nervously. “His is a hard task. Takes time.”
“Yes, but time is not a thing we have in abundance,” the monk replied.
Tobi and Levee’s ears tilted in the old man’s direction.
“What are you saying?” Levee asked.
“There are others searching for the relic.”
“So?” Levee pressed. “Are you saying they will intervene?”
“They already have,” Tobi assumed. He smirked at the monk. “In the cathedral. The rahee with the patch over his eye.”
The monk quickened his pace. “Yes, Pip. He is the leader of the group. There are eight in all. Nine once, though Tennay abandoned the search many years ago.”
“Tennay Rallargo?” Levee glanced at her companion. “Did Gavin’s father mention anything about companions?”
A door creak, too faint for the monk to hear, had Tobi’s ears at high alert. He calmly stood, bow in hand. “Nay. Poor companions, I should guess.”
Levee rose to her feet, and Tobi tossed her his bow and quiver. In the same motion, he unsheathed his sword.
“Please, my friends,” begged the monk. “You do not want to fight these rahee.”
“Never do I want to fight,” replied the re’shahna. “But I will if I must.” He motioned to the glowing portal. “Can you shut it?”
The monk shook his head. “From my understanding, the door only opens from the outside, and your friend still has the key. Shutting the door would seal him inside.”
Levee notched an arrow. “Tobi.”
The re’shahna glanced at her, and she jerked her head toward the door, then to the shadows skirting the open room. Tobiano nodded his head in consent and the gypsy slipped into the darkness.
“You don’t understand. These are not typical civilians,” the monk protested. Tobi held up a hand to silence him, his eyes fixed on the cavern’s entrance. No more than a minute passed before eight strangers fanned into the room, accompanied by a familiar young face.
“Gavin,” Tobi greeted. “Who is this you bring with you?”
A black-haired rahee with a leather eye patch strode forward, his arms spread wide. “You mean Brother Jebediah didn’t mention us?” He clicked his tongue in disappointment. “I am hurt, monk. We’ve put a lot of years into this hunt. Now a group of strangers come along to open Clovenhoof’s tomb and you don’t even bother to invite us?”
“It is only right that a descendant of Connor should enter his tomb first,” Brother Jebediah defended. “Certainly you can understand that?”
“I’m afraid I do not,” Pip strode ever closer, his hand poised casually in front of his face as he admired the serpent head tattooed to the back of his hand.
Tobi lifted his sword and slid into a defensive stance, his green eyes narrowed.
“Oh, settle down re’shahna,” the one-eyed rahee scolded. “Not everything has to end in blood.”
Tobi’s mottled ears fell back against his skull. “If those words be true then halt your step.”
“Is that a threat?” Pip’s eyebrows arched in mock surprise.
“I am no dealer of threats,” Tobi corrected, “but I will draw the line. If you truly come in peace, you will walk no closer.”
The assassin sighed. “I heard the re’shahna were a skeptical lot.”
“So is any prey when circled by wolves.”
Pip lowered his chin toward his collar, his red eyes seeming to smile in the dim light as he swapped deadly stares with the old re’shahna. “So there will be no negotiations over entry into the catacombs?”
“Correct,” said Tobi.
“What about the ownership of the Clovenhoof relic?”
“You will take nothing borne of these tombs,” the re’shahna firmly replied.
“A pity. I was planning to let you live, but if this is how you would like to play,” Pip snapped his fingers, a black flame flaring from his fingertips. His posse took their cue, closing in on the re'shahna warrior. “Woof, woof.”
* * * * *
Locked inside the catacombs with no way out, Jaycent scanned his surroundings, his breath still rising like fog from his lips. Most of the inside was cloaked in darkness except for four burning torches set at the corners of an elevated dais in the center of the room. Magical flames illuminated the gray slab that served as the dead cleric’s bed, blanketing Connor’s body in an unnatural blue glow.
No coffin housed the fabled Connor Clovenhoof; no sheet or box leafed in expensive gold. The cleric lay atop a flat stone bed that rose as high as Jaycent’s sternum, his dead black hair draped over the ledge.
Like all the other soldiers in the catacombs, Connor’s bony fingers lay crossed against his chest, his eyeless sockets staring up at the ceiling with a gaping jaw.
Beneath his palms sat a pearlescent sword unlike any Jaycent had ever seen. The prince gawked at its beauty when his eyes fell upon it.
He climbed the steps of the dais, ignoring the pain in his joints as the cold seeped ever deeper into his bones. His eyes reflected the torches’ flames as he stared, shivering, at the blade’s ivory grip.
Its guard was shaped like the head of a unicorn whose long mane plumed over the top of the grip and up the base of the blade. The equine’s eyes were empty sockets carved to hold whatever augments its owner chose while its handle curved to fit the palm of its wielder like a glove.
Then there was the pommel, to which Jaycent sensed held the soul of the blade. In its center was set a cerulean sapphire that held the glow of a magical core. Jaycent reached out and wrapped his hand around the grip, flinching as he waited for something to happen.
Seconds passed by, and he heard and saw nothing except for the eternal sway of the strange blue torches. He peeked with one eye at the corpse but it didn’t break its deathly stillness.
“I suppose you don’t mind if I borrow this for a while?” He slid the fabled blade from Connor’s skeletal grip. The sword warmed at his touch, the sapphire humming with life.
Jaycent jumped back when the torches flared, aroused by the sword’s awakening. Warmth sprang up Jaycent’s arm and spread into his chest, chasing away the cold and revitalizing his body.
The prince sucked in a breath as the hairs on his arms stood on end. Through his heart the sword’s magic pumped, spreading from his core to the rest of his limbs.
Pure. It was the only word that described the sensation coursing through him. Blue magic identical to the catacomb’s seal and Connor’s burning torches began to glow in the veins beneath his skin, and with it, an awareness that Connor’s sentient sword had somehow become a part of him.
The prince clinched his free hand into a fist, feeling energy gather there. But just as Jaycent began to believe the blade had accepted him, the room started to shift. Whispers filled his ears, and the walls began to turn until his
surroundings were nothing more than a blur of color, spinning around and around like a tornado.
The voices grew into shouts mingled with shrieks of horror. Jaycent staggered and fell to his knees, the sword still in hand as he covered his ears and head with his arms. A draft blew past him and suddenly the air changed, its scent thick with smoke and fire and death.
Jaycent coughed as the tainted air filled his lungs, and he felt the swirl of his surroundings slow to a halt. He lifted his head and opened his eyes. It appeared as though the prince was back in Bresan T’ahnya, though not as he, Tobi, and Levee had left it.
The sword had taken him far into the past, to a time when the city’s mighty walls still stood guard. They lined the valley’s entire perimeter, though it appeared their security had been compromised. Jaycent could see the sentries with longbows running along its walks as they took shots at unseen enemies on the other side.
Smoke filled the streets around him and many of the houses burned like kindling against the night’s starless backdrop. Shadows flickered in the corner of his eyes; figures that appeared to be soldiers but were truly Abysmal monsters chased civilians like rabbits through the streets.
Jaycent thrust himself to his feet, Clovenhoof’s bright white sword gripped tightly in his left hand.
“Connor!” a voice shouted. Jaycent turned to see a young soldier running toward him, his right arm streaked with blood. “The king is dead,” the stranger lamented. “He was struck down by Shadow and his minions. The illusionist now makes for the palace entrance. He intends to kill the princes. We need your magic, brother!”
Am I Connor? Jaycent thought to himself.
“Lead on,” he commanded as if he were. The soldier nodded and kicked into a run, the prince following on his heels. Night mares, mimics, and other monsters from the Abyss littered the streets, their bodies mangled beside the re’shahna and rahee they murdered. Blood ran like water through the cobblestones, staining them crimson.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 36
