Tharadis picked up with one of the narrow splinters, about as long as his forearm, from the wreckage of the portcullis and crossed to the where the shed burned. He cast his gaze to the gaps between the buildings, the broken windows, the rooftops. He saw nothing. He was alone—for now, at least.
He held the splinter in the fire until it caught, then, careful not to let the flame go out, headed back out the gate and towards the Runeway.
Halfway there, the small flame went out as if smothered.
Tharadis frowned at it. The stick was dry and there was no breeze. The grasses hadn't stirred at all. What had blown it out?
He jogged back to the portcullis, sheathed Shoreseeker, and picked up another stick that looked like it would catch flame. At least if one went out, he would have the other. He lit both sticks on the fire, which had spread to the inn, and walked back towards the Runeway, even more carefully this time.
First one stick, then the other, went out.
Something was wrong.
He dropped both sticks and drew Shoreseeker.
Amid the grasses grew a single short, gnarled tree, not twenty steps from where he was. Tharadis blinked. Had that tree always been there? He could have sworn it hadn’t been there a few moments ago. But how could a tree be invisible and then suddenly appear?
A man leaned against the tree, a man Tharadis didn’t know. He was older, gray streaked at his temples, and dressed like a beggar. But there was an arrogance in his posture that set the alarm bells in Tharadis’s head off. The man lifted his gaze and met Tharadis’s eyes. A venomous smile spread across the man’s lips.
“So you’re the Warden.” He gave a slight bow of the head. “My name is Tirfaun.” He held a long stick in his hand, likely a branch from the tree he leaned against. There was a wide patch of dirt at his feet. It was almost too dark to tell, but Tharadis thought he could see small ridges in the dirt, as if this man, this Tirfaun, had been drawing in it.
He did so again now, lowering the tip of his stick until it touched the dirt. Then he gave it a little sweep to the side.
Something seized Tharadis’s ankles, then yanked one of them forward. Tharadis spun, then landed flat on his back. The wind burst out of his lungs. He tried to climb to his feet, but he couldn’t move his hands.
Blades of grass wrapped around his wrists like manacles, slowly squeezing tighter.
Then, as if before their master, the blades of glass between Tharadis and Tirfaun bowed out of the way, providing Tharadis a clear view of Tirfaun as he etched in the dirt. More and more of the grass bent over Tharadis’s arms and legs, wrapping around them, binding them.
Tirfaun smiled. “Finding it hard to move, are you?”
Tharadis fought against the grass, but he may as well have struggled against steel chains. He couldn’t imagine how mere grass was holding him so tightly.
Tirfaun stood with one foot on the bent trunk of the tree, seemingly idle as he drew designs in the dirt near the base of the tree with the stick. Only his eyes seemed intent; the rest of him was utterly at ease. He kept his gaze trained on whatever design he was drawing in the dirt even as he spoke.
“I never thought of myself as a hero.” A corner of Tirfaun’s mouth rose in a half-smile as he worked. “I doubt anyone has. Yet here I am, putting an end to a threat greater than the world has ever known. Greater,” he said, pausing in his etching to wave the stick around in an encompassing gesture, “than the sheggam are now or have ever been.”
Seemingly of their own accord, the grasses near his neck and head began to twine together, as if some unseen weaver were braiding them. As they started to drape themselves over Tharadis’s neck, he panicked and began thrashing, but it was no more effective than the flopping of a fish caught in a net. He felt them tightening around his neck and then his forehead, pinning him so tightly that the most he could do was clench his fists.
“Stop that,” said Tirfaun. “The more you struggle, the tighter they get.” He chuckled. “Though I suppose you need to die sometime. Perhaps sooner is better, eh?” He paused a moment, staring down at his handiwork, before continuing again, his voice softer. “The others are all fools. They stopped listening to me years ago. Lora Bale and her lust for control, Penellia with her silly obsession—she’s dead now, you know. Perhaps they both are. I’m sure your Larril could have stopped you, but even he couldn’t see the menace that you are, the horrors that you leave in your wake. Which leaves only me.”
A slow smile spread across Tirfaun’s face. “A hero deserves rewards, wouldn’t you say?” He turned to meet Tharadis’s eyes. “You have a niece—no, she’s your daughter, isn’t she?” The smile widened as he focused on his Patterning again. “Yes, the Warden’s daughter. A prize like none other.”
Tharadis could barely make sense of the other man’s words. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. He felt more than saw his belt unbuckled by blades of grass like a hundred tiny hands working in concert. Shoreseeker was then passed along them. Tirfaun bent down to pick it up without ceasing his slow etching of the dirt or breaking his attention from it. “Let’s not give you any further reason to hope, shall we?” He hefted Shoreseeker in his hand and smiled.
Tears stung Tharadis’s eyes. Despair flooded through him. Taking away his sword hadn’t changed his situation at all; Tharadis wouldn’t have been able to reach it anyway. There was nothing he could do now. He would die and no one would stop the sheggam. Ashes drifted from the night sky like flakes of snow. He could hear the crackling of the fires burning across Garoshmir, and visions of those who had died flickered across his vision. The sheggam had finally come to the Accord, and now they were headed for the Rift. The last pocket of human civilization left in the world was coming to an end, and this madman was smiling and drawing in the dirt while it burned.
Tharadis finally relaxed his muscles and quit struggling. What difference would it make if he lived a few moments or a few minutes, tied up like this? He would still be dead, and nothing would change. The throbbing in his hand was worse than before, and he could feel an echo of its pain in his head. Tharadis could feel the tips of his toes and fingers beginning to tingle.
A parade of faces marched through his mind. They were the faces of the dead. His father, his brother, and even—Shores take me, Serena—all the faces of those he had loved and lost. Then he saw the faces of the men he had killed, starting with Forrigan and Trandsull. Even more faces flashed in his mind, belonging to people he didn’t know. Faces belonging to the corpses in the streets of Garoshmir.
He had failed them all. He had lost them all.
And now I go to the land of the dead. To find what was lost.
The faces continued to cycle in his mind, though one he didn’t recognize at all drew his focus. This face wasn’t like the others, which were frozen in memory. This one, a man’s face framed by long wavy hair, was getting closer.
Then it smiled.
“Don’t look so surprised,” this face said, though its lips didn’t move. “I’m not dead yet.”
The face vanished.
A strange sound, like the cracking of a massive boulder, split the air, louder than anything Tharadis had ever heard, making him wince in pain. It forced the very earth beneath him to shudder. Yet when the echoes of that sound faded, it took with it all the other sounds of the world: the crackling fires of the burning city, the subtle breath of wind over the grasses, even the sound of Tharadis’s own breathing. What little he could see from where he lay looked different. All was still, frozen in time. All the color had washed out, too, as if the world were drained of hue.
Yet one hue remained: red, bleeding out of Aylia, the red moon that now dominated the sky, as if begging for Tharadis’s attention. It was massive, larger than should have been possible. It was now more than double its normal size, and it grew, grew, grew, until it filled half the sky. Details resolved, dark patches becoming canyons, lighter spots becoming mountains. Tharadis had no idea what he was seeing, or how it was possible.
Perhaps death had finally come for him, and this was the vision it took.
“No,” said the voice from before. “You’re not dead yet, either.”
The face faded back into view. Tharadis couldn’t quite tell the color, ghostly as this face was, but there was a hint of amber in the shoulder-length locks that framed it. Tharadis realized that it wasn’t merely a face—he could see shoulders and arms, clothed in fine fabrics so white they glowed. The tall man—or hallucination, Tharadis couldn’t quite tell—stood next to where he lay, smiling down at him.
Tharadis tried to pull air into his lungs but found that even he was completely immobile. He tried to struggle but had no more luck with that than breathing. All he could move were his eyes.
He could faintly see through the man. Behind him, Tirfaun was frozen in the act of drawing his Pattern, his stick pinched between his fingers.
The apparition turned to briefly regard Tirfaun and looked back down into Tharadis’s eyes. “Do not worry,” he said. “Our conversation will be private.” His smile widened, flashing teeth. “We do not have much time. I have come to offer you two things, each dependent on the other. You may refuse them, but I doubt you will. You see, I know what you want, and I know you have wanted it for a very, very long time.”
Tharadis stared up at him, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what was going on, but he imagined that whatever he was seeing and hearing had something to do with the lack of air and the pain in his head.
The man shook his head. “Tsk, tsk. I am real, my friend, not imaginary. Just like my offer. Many people do not trust me, but that is because I am one of the few people in this world who is actually honest. I am a man of my word. I do not make many promises, but those I do, I keep.”
The man bent down, close to Tharadis’s face, his voice dropping to a whisper even though no one could possibly hear him. “First, I will give you the means to save yourself. I know what you were trying to do with the fires. That was brilliant, something I would have done myself. But you cannot really pull off that trick now, can you? At least, not unless you have the power to summon a light with nothing more than the effort of your mind.”
Tharadis struggled to make sense of the words. Was the man offering him … magic?
“Yes, true magic. Not that silly Patterning business that requires your hands.”
Tharadis matched the man’s intent gaze. What else?
The man chuckled softly and hooked a loose lock of his hair behind his ear. He took a knee and crouched down even lower. “Do you remember what you asked for in the place you called the Wishing Well? Do you remember your wish, the one wish you have kept with you all this time, even though no one in all of time and space had the power to grant it?”
Tharadis’s eyes widened.
“That is right, Tharadis. You can see her again. And there is only one place in the world where you can do so. You know where that place is, do you not?”
The name of that place came to his mind as clearly as the memory of his wish: Farshores.
“That is right. Farshores is real, my friend. Here, in this world. Head north, through the lands now called Sheggamur, and you will find the Astral Sea. If you can cross it, you may make it to Farshores. Do this, and you will find her waiting.”
No. That’s impossible. She’s dead. The World Pattern took her from me.
The man stood. “Do your people not believe that the spirits of the dead go to Farshores? While that place is no afterlife, there is more truth to your belief than you realize. The spirits of the dead can go to Farshores—and so can the living,” he said. “You can see her again. You can bring her back.”
Impossible.
True, Tharadis had kept that wish in the back of his mind, constantly hoping that someday, somehow it would be granted—but he knew the truth. It was beyond the ability of anyone short of an apoth to grant.
The man sighed. “Why does everyone feel so inclined to compare me to gods? I have something the apoth do not.” He tapped his temple and smiled. “Free will. A power they will never have. You have that power, too, Tharadis. Though if you do not accept my offer, you will not have it for long. It is a privilege reserved only for the living.”
I don’t trust you.
The man shrugged. “I am not asking you to. Whether or not you believe me is irrelevant. But you will go there, because there is a shadow of a hope that I am right. I felt the wish that you made. It nearly shattered my bones with its power.” He smiled, briefly glanced up at the sky, where the red moon hung. “That was quite a feat, considering where I currently reside.”
What do I have to do?
A faint smile spread across his ghostly lips. “It is easy. Accept my first gift, and search for my second. That is all I want from you. And I promise that I will not take anything from you, either.”
What’s to stop me from taking your gift and staying put?
“Then you are not really accepting my gifts, are you? I will know if you are lying. Besides, I am certain you will accept.”
There’s a catch. There has to be.
He shrugged again. “Maybe. But whatever it is would be worth enduring just to find out if I am right, would it not?”
Tharadis closed his eyes. The hope that he might see Serena alive again was tantalizing. He feared that he was walking into some trap, but there was one thing the man was right about: if there was a trap with Serena in the middle, Tharadis would walk into it without hesitation.
What do I need to do?
“I will do the hard part. All you need to do to accept my terms is speak my name aloud, and then everything you want will be yours.”
Your name?
The man bent down and whispered it into Tharadis’s ear, then stood. He waved farewell and his form began to fade like smoke pulled away by a gently blowing wind.
Time and color and sound returned with a crash, and the moon, so large just a moment before, was back to its normal size. Out of reflex, Tharadis shifted his body to see if he could move again. As he did, the grasses tightened sharply.
Panic returned as he struggled to breathe.
Tirfaun abruptly stood. “What was that? I felt … Something is wrong. Something happened.”
Tharadis struggled to suck in air, anything to salve the agony in his lungs. Soon the darkness at the edges of his vision swallowed even the sight of Tirfaun. There was only the red moon above him. Tharadis felt parts of him go numb as other parts of him screamed in pain. His lungs felt like they would burst.
But then he noticed through the haze that Tirfaun stood over him, a frown creasing his forehead. “You know, don’t you? Tell me what you saw. Now.”
The pressure on Tharadis’s throat eased slightly, just enough to let him pull in breath. He coughed as tears ran down his cheeks “I … saw …” Another fit of coughing seized him.
“Well?”
The man’s name echoed in Tharadis’s mind before it crossed his lips: “Noredren.”
Tirfaun stared down at him with eyes full of terror. “Where did you hear that name?”
Tharadis didn’t respond. He felt something growing deep within him, like a new muscle in his mind. He didn’t know what to do with it at first, but then he suddenly flexed it. And he knew, without a doubt, the tiny point of light that appeared in his vision was his to control.
Tharadis stared at the tiny point of light he had created, and he moved it.
Chapter 80: Light
The tiny point of light floating above Tharadis’s head danced to the rhythm of his need.
He needed to escape.
He needed to keep his daughter safe.
He needed to see Serena again.
Serena. Her name was the trigger, bringing to mind exactly what he needed to create: a hearthsflame. Or rather, the essence of a hearthsflame. Its Pattern.
The point of light spun and twirled, racing about to first create the encapsulating oval, then the leaves opening up from the stem. It was a hearthsflame as he’d never dra
wn it, in full-bloom. The same, yet different in small ways. The old design wouldn’t work here. This was what he needed now.
It hurt to keep his eyes open as the point of light traced the Pattern, but that, too, was what he needed now. The image burned itself into his eyes. It wasn’t enough for a Pattern to be held in the mind, he’d once heard. A Pattern needed a physical medium to affect the physical world.
His eyes would have to do.
Once the light finished its final stroke, completing the Pattern, Tharadis extinguished it. The afterimage hung there in front of him, something only he could see. Something triumphant. Something that was a part of him. Serena.
The grasses relaxed, freeing Tharadis from his bonds. He sucked in breath and rolled to the side just as the edge of a blade flashed above him. The knife nicked his shoulder before plunging into the ground.
Tharadis scrambled to his feet, still partially blinded by the image of the hearthsflame. He tried to blink it away, but it didn’t help.
He heard Tirfaun yank the knife out of the ground. “How did you do it?” the man growled. “How did you summon that light? How did you untangle my Pattern?”
The rustle of cloth alerted Tharadis. He jumped back, feeling the blade cut through the air just in front of him. He continued backing away. He could see Tirfaun now, but he was little more than a vague shadow. He couldn’t see the knife at all.
“Answer me! Where did you hear that name?”
When the knife came this time, Tharadis sidestepped—straight into the gnarled tree. Startled, he didn’t have time to defend himself. A line of fiery pain erupted across his chest as the blade slashed into him.
Tharadis gritted his teeth, clutching the wound and taking another step back.
His heel bumped into something.
“Answer me!”
Shoreseeker Page 50
