The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  “Come on, old friend, don’t leave me now.” Linnaius knelt beside him, lifting the wouivre’s head onto his lap. “We’ve been through so much together.” His heart was still beating too fast from the terrifying flight. He and Izkael had been partnered since he was a boy.

  A sudden rushing sound made Linnaius look up; Ardarel had caught up with them and was hovering overhead, his flaming sword, blazing like a comet in the frozen night.

  “What have you done to Izkael?” Linnaius cried.

  “Take me to Khezef’s child,” Ardarel replied, “and I will spare your wouivre.”

  “Khezef’s child? I have no idea what you’re talking about .” And there’s no way I would ever betray Eugene by giving Karila into your hands—if she’s the really one you’re seeking . . .

  “Then you are of no use to me.” Ardarel came swooping down toward Linnaius, sword raised.

  If this is the end, Izkael, at least we’ll leave this world together. Linnaius tightened his hold on his wouivre and closed his eyes, waiting for the flaming sword to pierce his heart.

  The blow did not come. Instead, Linnaius heard the sound of a body falling onto the plain. He opened his eyes and saw that Ardarel had crashed to earth and was lying face-down in the snow, his wings splayed wide, like a feathered cloak across his body. The flames on his fiery sword had been extinguished, leaving only the glimmer of starlight overhead to light the scene.

  Is this some kind of trick to lure me away from Izkael? Linnaius, shaken, wary, watched the shadowy form for any hint of movement. After what seemed a very long time, he heard a groan and saw the fire-tipped wings twitch, their lustre dimmed.

  “What’s wrong?” Ardarel’s halting words were slurred. “Why . . . am I . . . so weak?” He tried to force himself to his knees, only to collapse again. “Help me, Magus.” And he began to retch, coughing up a tarry sludge that sizzled as it touched the snowy ground.

  “Me? Help you?” Linnaius could hardly believe what he was hearing. “When you just nearly killed me and my wouivre? How gullible do you think I am, Ardarel?”

  “I’ll . . . spare you . . . Just help me.” All the earlier pride and righteous fury had gone from Ardarel’s voice and another long, aching groan issued from his throat as if he was in agony.

  “ His aethyric body, ” Izkael said in a faint voice, “is not adapted for the mortal world. ”

  “Just like the Drakhaouls, when they were first summoned through the Serpent Gate?” Linnaius stroked Izkael’s head in mute gratitude. “Thank you, old friend.” He looked up and saw that Ardarel was trying to force himself up onto one knee again . At least the sword’s blade is still dull and dark; the flames seem to be linked to Ardarel’s inner strength.

  “You need to find a way to alter your physical body to survive for long in the mortal world, Ardarel,” he said. “Khezef and his kindred were driven to seek out mortal hosts and fuse with them. So unless you’re planning to fuse your body with mine—”

  “Never. I’d never commit such a sacrilegious act.”

  Linnaius almost smiled to himself. As he’d anticipated, Ardarel had rejected his suggestion outright, not even bothering to listen to the rest of what he had to say. And now I know your weakness. “Then you have no alternative,” he said, “but to return to the Ways Beyond—or cease to exist here, alone.”

  “I will not fail,” Ardarel forced the words out between gritted teeth. “I cannot fail.” And to Linnaius’s alarm, a faint flicker of fire suddenly shot along the length of his dulled blade.

  The Heavenly Guardian could still do him considerable damage, even in this weakened state. Where were Izkael’s kin? They must have heard his call for help.

  A chill, dry wind began to gust across the dark steppe. Linnaius raised his head, listening with all his wind mage skills. Izkael felt it too, for he half-opened his eyes. “Asamkis,” he whispered. “Brother.”

  Ardarel must have sensed the change in the air, for Linnaius saw him push himself to a standing position, bracing himself, struggling to lift his sword.

  “Go back, while you can, Ardarel!” Linnaius cried out. “Your body can’t take much more.”

  Ardarel slowly raised his sword, both hands gripping the hilt, until the tip was pointing up into the heavens.

  A jagged rent ripped the night sky open and blinding light poured through.

  Dazzled, Linnaius raised his arm to protect his eyes. He could just make out the outline of another Guardian, an indistinct form, etched against the searing brightness, bending down to offer his hand to Ardarel. With one tug, he pulled Ardarel through the rent which instantly closed.

  “This isn’t finished, Magus,” he heard Ardarel call back. “We’ll be back.”

  And then the steppe was plunged once more into the dark of the freezing Khitari winter. Linnaius gazed down in desperation at Izkael whose faint glimmer was fading.

  “Stay with me, Izkael,” he whispered, holding him close. “Help’s on its way.”

  They came snaking through the sky, at first thin, silvery streaks, like translucent ribbons blown on the keen wind, then, as they drew closer, Linnaius could make out their familiar forms: Izkael’s kin, the wouivres he had known since boyhood: Asamkis, Auphiel, Nahaliel and Serapiel, and his heart swelled with relief as he recognized them.

  But before the wouivres reached them, an eerie yipping barking pierced the silence of the night.

  “Wolves?” Linnaius’s head went up. Bounding toward them across the snow, eyes luminously golden, came a pack of steppe wolves. First an angel with a fiery sword, now ravening predators . . .

  The foremost wolf, a big, vigorous male with piercing orange eyes, approached and bowed his head.

  Linnaius’s reactions, slowed by exhaustion and the bitter cold, realized that the wolf looked—and felt—familiar.

  Don’t be afraid, my friend. We’ve come to help.

  “Ch-Chinua?” Linnaius stammered, teeth chattering. “Is that really you?”

  Chapter 22

  “It’s been a while, Magus.” Chinua appeared, back in his human form, smiling. He took the kettle from off the little iron stove and poured steaming water onto tea leaves, releasing a balm-like, soothing scent.

  “How did you know where to find me? Khitari is such a vast place.” Now that Linnaius was inside the shaman’s yurt and the immediate need to stay alert and on the defensive was gone, exhaustion washed through his body.

  “Lady Anagini warned me that you would need help. She must have guided your wouivres towards my yurt too.”

  “But Izkael was hurt protecting me.” They had dragged the unconscious wouivre inside, rolling him over to lie on his right side, exposing the blackened patch on his left shoulder and back where Ardarel’s fire had seared him. To Linnaius’s concern he could see that little drops of silvery ichor were oozing from the burned skin.

  “That may be part of Izkael’s self-healing process,” Chinua said. “Best to let him be for now.”

  “This has happened before.” Seeing Izkael lying insensible in his mortal form stirred up more long-forgotten memories from the murky sediment of Linnaius’s past. “My mentor nursed him back to health.” Wise, strict, yet kindly, Eliane of . . . He had not thought of her in many years, but she was the one who had first trained him and he had given her name to his only child. “But she is long dead.”

  Aromatic fumes awoke him from his reverie; he blinked, seeing the shaman holding out a bowl of fragrant tea.

  “Drink this; it’ll ease your aches and pains.”

  As Linnaius lay back on a soft straw mattress, he let his jangled senses slowly surrender to the smoky warmth. He felt safe within Chinua’s wards, with his own wouivres circling and keeping watch overhead. His body still ached from head to toes; sharp, arthritic twinges reminded him that he was far too old to go riding on a wouivre’s back. And in spite of the discomfort, sleep overwhelmed him.

  But his troubled mind would not let him rest and long-buried memories began to invade h
is dreams: elusive, beloved faces flashed in and out of sight as he chased after them through a mist-washed mountainous landscape that felt tantalizingly familiar.

  Baume . . . where I grew up? In Sapaudia?

  ***

  “Ardarel?” Chinua placed a bowl of creamy curds before Linnaius who realized—only then—that he could not remember the last time he had eaten. “I don’t recall the name.”

  “One of Galizur’s lieutenants; arrogant, young and ardent, like his name,” Linnaius said, picking up a horn spoon to eat the curds. “But the real puzzle we need to solve is the identity of this child Galizur is looking for: a little girl, it seems, gifted with aethyric powers by Khezef. A ‘Key Child’.”

  “That sounds like your young Tielen princess, Karila.”

  “Perhaps.” Linnaius considered this suggestion, wondering if he should warn Eugene to be on his guard. “Fortunately for me, at any rate, Galizur’s Warriors don’t yet seem to have discovered a way to successfully maintain their physical forms here for more than a few minutes. But once they overcome that problem, there’ll be no holding them back. So we haven’t long to find this Key Child and devise a way to protect her.”

  Chinua sat down, cross-legged, opposite Linnaius on the worn rug. “How long have you been away on your travels, Magus?”

  Linnaius blinked, not quite grasping what the shaman meant. “How long?”

  “Have you made contact recently with your old friend and patron, Eugene? Or Gavril Nagarian?”

  Linnaius shook his head. “It must be many months since I last saw them. I’ve lost track of the time.”

  “So you haven’t been able to congratulate Lord Gavril and his wife on the birth of their daughter?” Chinua asked slyly.

  “They’ve had a daughter?” Linnaius was all attention now. He set down the bowl of curds, half eaten. “The Drakhaon and the Spirit Singer?” He had been fearing for Karila’s safety, when another innocent child’s life might be at stake.

  “Born in the late summer and named Larisa; I hear she’s a precocious, lively little thing.”

  “How are we going to protect her, if she’s the one?”

  “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” Linnaius knew that the wolf shaman rarely made suggestions unless he had something of importance to say.

  “Where exactly have you been all these months, Magus?”

  Linnaius did not reply straight away, weighing up the risks of revealing—even to an old and trusted friend—exactly what he had been doing. Eventually he sighed and said, “When we sealed Prince Nagazdiel and Azilis back in the Rift, something happened to me. I don’t know whether I was affected by the timeless magic within the Rift or by the wandering, restless spirits of the dead set free when the Rift became unstable, but I regained memories that Anagini had taken from me.”

  “Memories?” Chinua echoed softly.

  “The seven-year-old daughter I gave to Anagini in payment for her rejuvenating skills. The wife I betrayed and who never forgave me for spiriting away our only child. The misery we both endured, trying to make new lives for ourselves.” Even speaking of these matters—so long ago and yet so raw and fresh now in his restored memory—made his voice tremble. I have inured myself for so long to living alone, without personal attachments, even though the original reason for doing so—to spare myself further pain—was locked away, deep in my memories.

  “So where is she? Your lost daughter?”

  “Anagini could not tell me. It turns out that Eliane ran away.” The irony of the situation was not lost on him. “Or maybe she had served her purpose and Anagini let her go. Certainly, Eliane made no effort to find me. And why would she? The father who took her away from her mother and left her with a stranger in that lonely place, hundreds of leagues from home.”

  “Eliane? Pretty name.” Chinua got up to put more sticks on the fire which was burning low.

  “She was a pretty child, with soft dark unruly hair, just like her mother’s.” Linnaius found himself smiling at the long-forgotten memory of Ilona struggling to pull a brush through their daughter’s tangled hair as the little girl wriggled free and ran off, shrieking loudly in protest.

  “And her mother had mage-blood too?”

  “Inherited from her father, another wind mage like myself.” Linnaius glanced up at Chinua. “Are you suggesting Eliane might be in danger too?”

  “She might—if she’s still alive, that is. What did Ardarel tell you? ‘All magi must be destroyed.’”

  Linnaius shuddered; the truth was brutal but he had to accept that so many years had passed since he had said farewell to little Eliane that she must be at least ninety by now. And the rare gift-curse of mage blood often skipped a generation or two. “She might have had children— my grandchildren—of her own. But how do I begin to find them? To warn them too?”

  “I take it you’ve been searching?”

  “But so much time has passed. Even the little kingdom where I was born has been swallowed up by its bigger neighbor. People move away, go to the prosperous cities in search of work . . .” Linnaius’s words trailed away into silence as he remembered standing in puzzlement in front of the house in which he had once lived with his beloved Ilona.

  “That, my friend, is one of the disadvantages of living as long as we do,” Chinua said, nodding in agreement.

  “But why has Galizur ordered this purge? That’s what I don’t understand.”

  Chinua leaned forward and said in a low voice, “They’re keeping close watch over the Ways Beyond. I’ve traveled freely there ever since my master initiated me into the shamanic rites and rarely caught sight of one of Galizur’s Warriors. But the last time I went to consult Master Oyugun, one of the Warriors appeared before me and told me to get out. And never return.”

  “Intriguing. And when was this?” Linnaius asked, although he suspected he already knew the answer.

  “After the Second Darkness. After you sealed Prince Nagazdiel and his daughter back within the Rift.”

  “Even though we magi did all we could to restore the balance between this world and the Ways Beyond.”

  “But in doing so, you reminded Galizur of your existence.”

  “We have to warn Lord Gavril. Is there any way you can reach him? Through Kiukirilya?”

  Chinua fell silent for a while, pensively stroking his broad chin. “If I try to contact her,” he said at length, “whether through the Ways Beyond, or in dreams, I risk showing Galizur exactly where to find Larisa.”

  “You’re right,” Linnaius said; he had been swiftly assessing all the information he had gathered so far. “But we have one significant advantage: the Warriors have not yet learned how to adapt their bodies to the mortal world. Until they devise a way to conserve their strength and powers, they will only be able to appear briefly.” The sight of Ardarel, crashing to earth from the sky, had been burned into his memory. “Even now, I can’t imagine that Ardarel, for all his fierce talk, is ready to return.”

  “Unless,” Chinua said, his habitually placid expression creasing into a frown, “they seek out mortal hosts, as the Drakhaouls did.”

  “Ha!” Linnaius was almost amused, remembering Ardarel’s outraged reaction to his suggestion. “There’s little danger of that; the only mortals alive with bodies strong enough to contain them are those whom the Drakhaouls used as hosts and they would never . . .” He realized that Chinua was staring at him. “You don’t think that Galizur would stoop so low?” The possibility that Eugene, the master he had sworn to protect and defend, might be in danger of being possessed against his will appalled him. “No,” he went on, partly to reassure himself, “such a bond would go against everything Galizur and his followers were created to protect. It would be sacrilege. Galizur will find others to do his will—just as he once persuaded Serzhei of Azhkendir.” Although it pained him to say so, remembering how he and his fellow magi had suffered much at the hands of the devout followers of the Blessed Serzhei in Francia.

  “I�
�ll think of a way to warn Kiukirilya,” Chinua said. “But what will you do about Izkael?”

  Linnaius rose and went to where his wouivre lay, still in human form. The black burns searing his back and shoulder were all crusted over with the silvery ichor that had oozed out.

  “I’ll consult his brother Asamkis.” He took up his coat, wrapped it around himself, and ventured outside. The keen air almost took his breath away; the white of the snow-covered steppes was so bright after the firelit yurt that his dazzled eyes ached as he scanned the skies, calling for Asamkis.

  A whistling rush of air, sharp with the glitter of frost, brought the wouivre snaking down from the high clouds to circle above Linnaius.

  “How is my brother?” Asamkis, as gentle-natured and kindly as Izkael was wild and impetuous, hovered low enough for Linnaius to reach up and pat his noble head.

  “Could you take a look at him?”

  Asamkis nodded. “Although I haven’t assumed my mortal form in a long while.” He alighted on the ground in a whirl of spinning cloud, emerging from the misty spiral as a slender, silver-skinned youth, two dragon horns protruding from his long locks of feathery hair.

  Linnaius held open the flap of the yurt for him to enter and saw Chinua—well used to extraordinary sights—blink in astonishment.

  “Chinua, this is Asamkis.”

  Asamkis bowed his head but said nothing, going directly toward where his brother was lying. A soft radiance followed him, like the rain-washed light when the sun shines through the clouds. As Linnaius and Chinua looked on, awed, he gently placed his translucent fingers on his brother’s head. Izkael let out a soft, deep sigh.

  Asamkis rose and turned to Linnaius. “He might still have a chance if we can take him back home to Sapaudia. To our mountains.”

  “Sapaudia?” Chinua echoed, as if the name were unfamiliar.

  “It’s part of Allegonde now . . . but it’s where I was born. Where I grew up,” Linnaius said. “Perhaps if I go too, I’ll be able to find out what became of my daughter.”