“Then I will!” cried Jadlis.
Ghash held up his hand. “But what care has the king if he commands you to do this? Should he not love you as a subject, seek to keep you from harm if there is a better way? True—if you obey, then your king will have succeeded, and you will have died with honor.” He paused. “But if you refuse his command, I will give to you these lands. I will make you king in your own right. Your wife will be your queen, your children your heirs. You can make peace with the Shining Lands, which I wish only to destroy. Men will honor you for your life, not your death.” Ghash placed a hand on Jadlis’s shoulder. “You fight to uphold the ideals of your king, and that is a fine lot. But you could be so much more. Do so much more. Your king chose you because of your worthiness, your honor. That is how I know there would be no better man as king of this realm.”
Then Ghash turned to Alarais. “Now he knows what is at stake. Command him to kill himself.”
Alarais shook his head. “I will not.”
Ghash frowned. “There is no other way to fulfill this task. You are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for your subjects. One worthy of your kingship must be willing to do the same.”
Alarais’s heart was heavy now, but he knew Ghash spoke truly. “Jadlis,” he said quietly. “You are a true and loyal subject. I would ask that you take your life for this cause, for the sake of your king and the Shining Lands.”
Jadlis thought for a long time, then shook his head. “I am sorry, my king, but he is right. I can do more for the Shining Lands by living,” he said to Alarais. Then he turned to Ghash. “I accept your offer.”
At those words he fell dead to the floor.
“The first task is failed,” intoned Ghash. “The most loyal of your subjects refused your command, and so was unworthy of your kingship.”
Alarais left without a word, disappointment and sorrow mixing a bitter taste in his mouth.
A hundred years passed, and eventually the pain of Alarais’s first defeat faded. He met a young man named Diadan, a noble of the Shining Lands who came into his inheritance early through tragic circumstances. With no family, Diadan had come to Alarais for advice on how to manage his affairs.
Alarais was first a mentor to Diadan, then, after a few years, a true friend. Despite Alarais’s many years his body had never aged, so he rarely found someone young enough to stay with him on the hunt and in dueling, but intelligent and wise enough to hold his interest in conversation. Yet Diadan excelled in all these areas, and proved himself many times over to be a loyal and trustworthy friend, never seeking to betray Alarais’s trust for his own ends. Alarais presided at Diadan’s wedding, and Diadan became the king’s right hand.
Time passed. After thirty years of unwavering friendship, Alarais decided that Diadan was the man to fulfill the second task. The two men journeyed to Kyste and came before Ghash.
“Mighty Ghash,” said Alarais, “I bring before you a man with whom I have a bond stronger than stone. A man to whom I would entrust my life, and who I know would do the same to me. A man my equal in honor, in courage. My friend. This is Diadan.”
Ghash considered Diadan silently. “This is the one you would put forward to fulfill your second task?”
“Yes,” replied Alarais.
Ghash turned to Diadan. “Your friendship with Alarais is strong.”
Diadan nodded. “He is my brother in all but blood.”
“And yet,” pointed out Ghash, “not by blood. He ages not. You do.”
“That is true,” acceded Diadan. “I cannot keep pace with him as once I did. But that is our lot. I no more resent him his eternal youth than he resents me my looks.” He gave Alarais a grin.
“I speak not of resentment,” said Ghash softly. “I speak of something a man, any man, may wish for. The chance to be young again, to be forever in the prime of his life. To attain knowledge and wisdom but never have his body fail. To have the vitality and strength that an aging body can never summon. If I offered you this gift, freely and without condition, would you take it?”
Diadan did not pause. “I would,” he said.
Ghash nodded, then turned to Alarais. “I know your heart, Alarais. Advise him as a friend, and see if he trusts you as a friend.”
Alarais groaned inwardly. Long had Diadan yearned for just this thing, and many times they had talked of what it meant. It was, perhaps, the one thing they had never truly agreed on. “Diadan, my friend,” Alarais said earnestly, “we have often talked of my long youth. You know the pain it has wrought me. I see those I love wither and die; you would see the same for your wife Siana, your children, your grandchildren. There are some pains and failures I still remember from a thousand years ago, clear as if they were yesterday. I beg of you, though I know your heart and how tempting it must be. Do not accept this gift.”
Diadan heard the words of his friend, yet, as before, they made little sense to him. “But Alarais, think of it! We could ride as when I was young. We could adventure together once again. The deaths of those I love would hurt, yet we would still have the chance to spend the entire span of their lives together. That alone is worth the price!”
Alarais saw which way his friend was deciding, and thought to warn him. He made to cry out, but Ghash raised his hand, and all words fled from Alarais’s lips.
Diadan turned to Ghash, his face glowing with excitement. “I accept your offer,” he said.
At those words he fell dead to the floor.
“The second task is failed,” intoned Ghash. “The greatest of your friends refused your advice, and so was unworthy of your friendship.”
Alarais dropped to his knees and wept for his dead friend. Then he left Kyste without saying another word, the burden on his heart almost too heavy to bear.
For generations Alarais mourned the death of his friend. The final task weighed on him, and yet he knew that Ghash would know if he simply stopped trying to fulfill it. So he searched, but was never satisfied. A thousand beautiful, intelligent, interesting, honorable women passed through his court each year, but he found none of them more special than the others. The price of immortality on love was too high, the pain too great. Only for a great love would he take such a risk. Alarais had never wed for exactly this reason.
Five hundred years passed, and Alarais met Teravia, the Shard Princess. Few women Alarais had ever seen could match her beauty, and yet it was her wit that drew him to her, and her warmth and kindness that slowly turned his heart. She was wise with the purity of innocence, witty but never mean-spirited, charming but never ingratiating. And beyond all that, above all, she loved Alarais. Not just as a powerful king, an honorable warrior, an intelligent strategist. She loved him as a man, with all his faults and failings. And he loved her in return.
Their wedding was celebrated throughout all the Shining Lands.
Their marriage was the stuff of legend. Teravia was beloved by the people of the Shining Lands; as queen she was as wise as her husband, and a time of unprecedented peace lay across the realm. Alarais had never been happier than when he was with Teravia.
It was a great love, a true love, and yet Alarais did not tell Teravia about the third task. He did not ask her to accompany him to Kyste to see Ghash. Diadan’s death—and Jadlis’s before him—still weighed on his mind, and the thought of losing Teravia was more than he could bear. And so he waited, telling himself each year that he would try the next.
Sixty years passed, and Teravia became gravely ill. The country ground to a halt as word spread of the queen’s sickness, with every man, woman, and child hoping against hope that she would be miraculously healed.
Her time drawing to a close, Teravia met with her friends, then her children, to bid them farewell. Finally the only one left was Alarais, who knelt by her bed holding her hand. Even aged, even on her deathbed, she was beautiful.
Teravia smiled when she saw him. “Husband,” she whispered, “why do you look so sad?”
And so he told her. About Ghash and the three tasks. About Diadan and
his failure. As Alarais spoke, Teravia’s smile turned to a look of pain and sorrow.
“Why did you not take me to see Ghash, all these years?” she asked. “Do you not think our love is true?”
“Our love is more than true. It is a great love,” said Alarais, tears in his eyes. “But I was afraid. Afraid of losing you before your time, as I lost my friend Diadan.” He closed his eyes. “This burden I could not have borne.”
Teravia looked on her husband sadly, squeezing his hand. “You should have trusted me,” she whispered. “I would not have failed you, my love.”
Her grip loosened and her gaze faded. With those words Teravia, Last Queen of the Shining Lands, passed on.
Alarais looked on her and wept bitter tears, for he knew in his selfishness he had not only lost his chance to prove Ghash wrong, but left Teravia believing she had not had his trust.
When his eyes cleared, he was before Ghash in Kyste once again. How he had come to be there, he did not know.
“You have broken our agreement, Alarais. You spoke of our accord to another.”
Alarais nodded. “I did.”
Ghash leaned back. “Yet she is dead. I will overlook your mistake, should you wish it.”
Alarais shook his head. “I finally found a woman worthy of my love,” he said softly, “only to discover I was not worthy of hers.” He straightened. “I concede to you, mighty Ghash. You spoke the truth; the tasks you set me were impossible. I will serve you as you see fit. The Shining Lands are yours.” He spoke truly, for his spirit, and his heart, were broken.
Ghash rose from his throne, eyes burning. “It is done!” he proclaimed joyfully. He fitted Alarais in the black armor of Telesthaesia and charged him to lead his army against the Shining Lands.
Alarais did as he was commanded, slaughtering those he had once sworn to protect. The Shining Lands, without a king and facing a force unlike any they had ever seen, fell swiftly into chaos and destruction.
So ends the story of the Impossible Tasks of Alarais Shar.
Davian stared at the book thoughtfully for several minutes.
It had made no mention of Aarkein Devaed; if it had not been for the picture at the beginning, he would not have thought this story had anything to do with Devaed at all. Was Alarais Shar actually Aarkein Devaed? Or was Ghash? Or had he made a mistake by picturing the symbol when using the Adviser, leading himself to a book that held no useful information at all? He gritted his teeth in frustration.
He read the story again, but gleaned no more from it than the first time. Finally, reluctantly, he snapped the book shut, drew some Essence from the lamp, and got to his feet.
He’d probably have time to examine it again, and read the remainder of the stories in the book, once he reached Ilin Illan.
For now, though, he needed to keep moving.
Chapter 46
Asha gaped a little as she entered the ballroom.
She’d never been in this part of the palace before. A vaulted ceiling held thousands of tiny crystal lanterns that reflected softly off the polished black marble floor, highlighting the dazzling designs of inlaid white marble and gold. Tables lined the enormous room, each filled with gleaming silver platters and goblets. Arched stained-glass windows let in the last of dusk’s light; these depicted various scenes—battles, moments from legend—in stunning color and detail.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” murmured Michal from next to her.
Asha nodded. “It is, but… they still shouldn’t be going ahead with this. Not now,” she said quietly as they were ushered to their seats. She rubbed her forehead, trying not to sound bitter. “I just don’t understand why everyone is trying to hide from what’s happening.”
Michal was silent for a few seconds, then glanced at her sideways. “You’re not just talking about tonight, are you?”
“No.” They’d had a meeting at Tol Athian earlier that day, in which Elder Eilinar had informed them that if the Tenets were not changed, they would not be joining in the defense of the city. “The Gifted could make a real difference healing the wounded in a battle. I understand that they’re angry, that they feel like they’re being asked to go out and fight without any way to defend themselves. But to hide in Tol Athian while the city gets attacked is just…” She shook her head in frustration.
Michal gave her a reassuring smile. “I actually agree, but it’s not going to come to that. General Jash’tar and his forces will have dealt with the Blind soon enough. And if for some reason they do not, I’m sure the king will reconsider.” He shrugged. “As for tonight, the Northwarden is perfectly within his rights to celebrate the return of his only son.”
Michal glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Besides, I suspect the king will use it as an excuse to show himself in public. Quiet all these rumors that have been swirling about him.”
Asha sighed, but didn’t argue further. She gazed around at the people already filling the room, every one clad in finery that made her new red dress look almost shabby by comparison. She recognized many of them; some she’d met in her role as Representative, and others Michal had previously pointed out. There were plenty of minor Houses, as always—si’Bandin, si’Dres, and si’Kal were all near her table, laughing and drinking. The Great Houses—Tel’Rath, Tel’Shan, Tel’An, and Tel’Esh—were all well represented, too, but their lords seemed less jovial.
She took a deep breath, letting some of her frustration fade into the background as she focused on her surroundings. “The Great Houses,” she said softly to Michal. “They don’t usually speak together so publicly, do they?”
Michal followed her gaze. “No,” he said, frowning. “They don’t usually speak together at all.”
Asha watched for a moment longer, then glanced over with interest at the king’s table. Princess Karaliene was already there, as were a couple of others she did not recognize. As she watched, Dras Lothlar, the Gifted adviser from Shen, came and sat only two seats away from Karaliene. The princess shot him an angry look, but Lothlar ignored it.
“We’ve done better than I expected, being seated here,” murmured Michal. They had people seated either side of them, but the chatter of the crowd was loud enough that no one would be able to overhear. He shot a dark look at the king’s table. “Though I could say the same for Shen. Something odd is going on there, mark my words.”
“The princess wasn’t too happy to see Representative Lothlar sitting there,” said Asha.
“I saw that. Ionis didn’t look pleased, either. Though that’s not really a surprise.” Michal made a discreet gesture to where the tall, severe-looking Administrator was sitting.
At that moment a horn sounded and the room quickly fell silent, all eyes turning to the king’s table. Introductions were made by a herald and everyone rose as King Andras himself entered; though Asha didn’t think the king looked as sick as some people had claimed, he did seem pallid, almost fragile as he walked. As if he were much older than his fifty years.
Behind him came the duke, regal in his formal attire, even his fine blue cloak for once looking far more for show than practical. He was followed by Wirr—or Torin, as she now had to think of him. Even after their afternoon together a few days earlier, she almost didn’t recognize her friend; he was as finely attired as his father and looked self-assured as he came to a stop at the seat of honor, to the right of the king.
“You and everyone else,” whispered a voice in her ear.
She started, turning to see the young woman sitting next to her giving her a conspiratorial grin.
“Sorry?” said Asha.
The girl gestured toward the king’s table. “Our young prince. All grown up,” she said. “Every unmarried girl in the room is having the same thought right now.” She glanced around. “Some of the married ones, too, I’ll wager.”
Asha flushed. “I wasn’t…” She trailed off; the young woman had already twisted away again, staring hungrily at Wirr. Asha restrained the urge to snicker.
The first co
urse was served and Asha ate absentmindedly, barely responding to attempts at conversation by Michal and the others around her. She knew she was being somewhat impolite—Michal even shot her a few irritated glares—but every time she caught a glimpse of Wirr, her mind wandered.
She wished again that she could tell her friend about Davian. When she and Wirr had spent the afternoon swapping stories, that had been the hardest part—watching his face as he’d hesitantly, despondently described their flight from Deilannis. The moment that Taeris had told him the connection had been broken. There had been such pain there that Asha had almost spoken up, despite Davian’s warning not to.
But she’d kept silent, and the moment had passed. The rest of that afternoon had been the happiest she could remember in months. Wirr, for his part, had been thrilled to discover Asha was living in the palace—and suitably astonished by the reasons why. If Elocien hadn’t returned after a while to confirm he was working with the Augurs, Asha didn’t think Wirr would have believed it.
She couldn’t help but smile now as she watched her friend. As dinner progressed, small groups of people—usually in twos or threes—were brought up to be formally introduced to the prince. Everyone bowed, many brought gifts. All looked vaguely intimidated by him.
Time passed, and soon there was an usher touching Michal on the shoulder. The Athian Representative rose, gesturing for her to do the same.
“Try to be a little more attentive than you have been so far,” Michal whispered to her as they made their way between the tables toward Wirr, a hint of irritation in his tone. “We have this one chance to make an impression—and the prince is going to notice that you’re a Shadow. Regardless of whether he already knows, it’s going to be a point of conversation. So be prepared to do some talking.”
Asha didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or to laugh. In the end she did neither, instead inclining her head in acquiescence.
Asha kept her eyes firmly on Wirr, who was deep in conversation with the young woman sitting between him and Princess Karaliene—the king’s ward, from what Michal had said—and didn’t notice who was approaching. When he looked up, his eyes flashed with amusement as introductions were made.
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