The Gift of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 7)

by D. K. Holmberg

  He glanced at the High Desh. That was what he’d been doing. He had been attempting to seal the ahmaean from Jakob, but the effect wouldn’t be enough.

  “You have made a mistake,” he said in a low voice and unsheathed his sword.

  One side of Neamiin blazed with light, burning with ahmaean given to it during its making. The other side—the one he’d always thought absorbed light—now drew in ahmaean from the walls, tearing it from the priest, filling with the power of the temple.

  It was an unexpected effect, but the sword exploded with power.

  He slammed it into the door.

  The door shattered.

  There was no other way for him to describe what had happened. The door had been there and had been intact, but when he slammed his sword into it, the metal splintered, falling to the ground in countless pieces.

  The High Desh gasped.

  Jakob strode forward.

  Once inside, he hesitated.

  The room was simply decorated. There was a bed and a chest at the end of it. A basin of water sat on a table against the wall, now with splinters of teralin sinking to the bottom of it. A gleaming silver teralin sword rested on the top of the chest. Roelle sat on the bed.

  She eyed Jakob as he appeared.

  Her dark hair was pulled back in a ribbon, and she was dressed in silks reminiscent of what he’d seen others in the city dressed in, and there wasn’t anything else about her that seemed injured.

  Using his ahmaean, he surged it toward her, swirling around her, and searching for signs of injury. There were none.

  That wasn’t entirely true. There had been something, but it was gone. There was a memory of it, nothing more than that, of a weakness that she’d suffered with.

  “Jakob?” she whispered.

  She stood and bowed toward him slightly, keeping her eyes on him. He’d seen her in the days since he’d healed her—at least, since he thought he’d healed her. Had he not? Jakob hadn’t understood his abilities all that well—still didn’t, not the way that some did. He was gaining in skill, and each time he walked back along the fibers, he thought he understood more than he had the time before, but he still had much to learn and didn’t think he had nearly as much time as he needed to understand what was necessary.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked. It was an unnecessary question. He could see that she was not, and could detect that there wasn’t anything else about her that was injured.

  Roelle shook her head, looking past Jakob and to the High Desh. “I’m… fine. They’ve treated me as well as they can.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Brohmin brought me here.”

  Brohmin? Why would Brohmin have brought Roelle to the Deshmahne? Unless he had recognized that she’d still been sick. Brohmin had a connection to ahmaean he’d been gifted by a dying damahne, which would make his connection similar to Jakob’s. With his centuries of experience, he might have seen what had happened to her, and unlike Jakob, he might have known how to help her.

  But Brohmin hated the Deshmahne. He’d lost much to them.

  Jakob didn’t know Brohmin quite as well as he knew some, but he understood his anger when it came to the Deshmahne. He wanted to destroy them—and destroy Raime. He’d lost something to them. Considering how long he’d lived, and everything that he might have seen over the years, it was possible that he’d lost to them many times over.

  “You healed me,” she said, still looking over his should, staring at the High Desh. Was she talking to him or to Jakob? “But there was a remnant of the sickness still within me. That was why I remained so weakened. Brohmin recognized it and said the groeliin used certain weapons that could only be cured in a specific way. The club with which I was struck…”

  Jakob almost argued that the groeliin didn’t use weapons, but stopped himself. It was new for them, something they shouldn’t be doing, but he knew from his own experience there were now groeliin who fought with swords. And those that fought with clubs were dangerous in their own way. Often the clubs were barbed, tipped with dark metal… teralin.

  That was what had happened. Roelle suffered the effects of dark teralin.

  “The priests healed you?” he asked, turning to the man.

  “It’s not complete, Great One,” the High Desh answered. “If you would?”

  He waited until Jakob stepped to the side, then took Roelle’s hands, turning her palms upward and gripping her fingers. As he did, he sent ahmaean flowing through her.

  This time, there was no questioning that the priest was in full control as he used his ahmaean. When he sent it through Roelle and then withdrew, he took traces of darkness with it and sent that surging into the walls around them.

  Roelle stood motionless. Her face wore a flat expression, but there was tension at the corners of her eyes. Was what he did to her painful?

  Then the priest stopped, releasing her hands. “You are clear of the influence,” he said.

  “You helped her.”

  Jakob couldn’t help but feel surprised that the Deshmahne would help a Mage, especially after what he’d seen of the Deshmahne attacks in the north, but then, those had been instigated by Raime. Would there be the same anger and urgency without him? Would the Deshmahne still follow without Raime urging violence?

  Not from what he’d seen in this city. Everyone within it had been… normal.

  That was the only way Jakob could describe it. There wasn’t anything that seemed to indicate any suffering. He thought he would be able to detect if there were. And if that were the case, was there a reason to instigate trouble? Why start violence if there wasn’t any already? Did it matter if the people here had different beliefs than those in the north?

  Not to him. After what he’d seen, neither belief structure was accurate. The damahne believed in the power of the Maker, but it was possible even that wasn’t accurate. There had to be a higher power—he now felt that more strongly than ever.

  He thought that would please his father. That had been all he’d wanted for Jakob. No—that wasn’t quite right. His father had wanted him to serve the gods and wanted him to find the Urmahne faith. What would his father say if he were here now and Jakob shared what he had learned?

  He would probably accept it as another sign of the gods.

  That had been his father’s greatest strength—acceptance.

  As much as Jakob had struggled with his own beliefs, his father had allowed him to question and hadn’t been angry that he had. He had welcomed the questioning, thinking that it would bring him to a place of greater enlightenment.

  Jakob smiled to himself thinking of his father. All these years he’d struggled against what his father had wanted for him, but hadn’t his father been the one who had brought him to Novan? Hadn’t his father been the one to help him find the path that was meant for him? Without Novan, Jakob wouldn’t have borrowed the family sword and stopped the Deshmahne. He would never have left the city, and would never have learned of his potential.

  Perhaps his father had known more than Jakob had ever realized.

  When he had more time, he would need to walk the fibers and see what he could learn of his father. Maybe Jakob could find a sense of peace in doing that.

  “I did what I could to help,” the priest said. He didn’t seem to notice that Jakob’s mind had wandered. “The Hunter requested the help. There was something he thought we could offer.”

  Jakob frowned to himself. The priest had referred to Brohmin by his title.

  “You know Brohmin as the Hunter.”

  The priest nodded carefully.

  “How is it that you know the title?”

  The High Desh pulled a necklace from beneath his robes. Suspended on the necklace was a plain band of metal, one that Jakob had seen before.

  It was a marker of the Conclave.

  “How?”

  “I was asked to serve,” he said. “I have done what I can.”

  “But you’re Deshmahne!”

  “Do
my beliefs matter if I serve willingly? All seek knowledge, even the priests of the Deshmahne.”

  Jakob couldn’t hide his shock. He hadn’t expected that the Conclave would have welcomed in one of the Deshmahne, but then, why wouldn’t they? There wasn’t a particular reason for them to avoid the Deshmahne. And as the priest said, they could seek knowledge in the same way as any other scholar.

  What was more surprising to him was that Brohmin wouldn’t have mentioned that the Deshmahne also served the Conclave—unless it was a recent development. Had he known?

  Maybe that was something Brohmin had discovered while in Paliis. The other possibility was that Brohmin had recruited him to the Conclave, but that seemed unlike Brohmin. He didn’t say much about his experience with the Conclave, but what he had shared made it seem as if Brohmin wasn’t the one likely to offer others entrance.

  “What about Raime?” he asked.

  The High Desh looked up at him, his head still bowed slightly. “The Highest made a mistake. There was no need to attack the disbelievers in the north.”

  “He did more than attack. He used creatures to destroy men who had no way of defending themselves against them.” Jakob paused. “If you serve the Conclave, then you would understand the need to serve the ideals of peace.” That had been his understanding of the purpose of the Conclave. They existed to serve peace, to preserve that which the earliest damahne had sought to protect. Could one of the Deshmahne serve in the same way?

  More than that—would the Deshmahne allow Jakob to find Raime and prevent him from attacking again? If that was part of the reason Brohmin brought the Deshmahne into the Conclave, that would be worthwhile.

  “As I said, the Highest made a mistake.”

  “Do the others of the Deshmahne feel the same?” Jakob asked.

  The priest looked up and finally held his gaze. “The question you ask is difficult, Great One.”

  “There’s nothing difficult about it. Either they side with you, or they don’t. Which is it?”

  “There are many servants of the Deshmahne. To understand requires that one would understand the purpose of the Deshmahne.”

  “You serve violence.”

  “As a means of demonstrating our worth to the gods.”

  “Do you think the gods have needed you to demonstrate your worth to them?”

  The High Desh leaned back, his face coloring as if Jakob had slapped him. “There have been no sightings of the gods in hundreds of years, Great One. We only thought…” He licked his lips and swallowed without finishing.

  Jakob sighed, thinking he might now understand how the Deshmahne came to the belief that they had to prove themselves to honor the gods. The gods had been gone for centuries, and somehow, the Deshmahne believed they needed to present themselves as powerful to compel the gods to return. But they chose to exhibit their power through violence, which then meant many others would suffer.

  There was another danger to such suffering, beyond the Deshmahne’s misguided belief, that Jakob didn’t fully understand. Shoren had tried explaining to him that the damahne served a different purpose and that they were necessary to maintain the balance. Without that balance, there would be a greater destruction. Jakob wasn’t certain what to make of that. Shoren—and the damahne of those earlier times—seemed to know something more than Jakob did about the balance and the need for it. Raime understood it, having spent time on the Conclave. Somehow Jakob needed to learn more about it.

  The Deshmahne believed that claiming power somehow demonstrated their strength to the gods and that their actions proved they were meant for more. The Deshmahne claimed they honored the gods in this way—and now that Jakob was damahne, that meant they thought they honored him. He’d now exposed himself to the High Desh. Did he dare trust this priest to help him?

  He thought of the tale the storyman had shared, the murder of a god. Was that what Raime wanted the people of these lands to believe? That they would grow stronger by attacking the gods? That wasn’t what he thought the Deshmahne served, but if that was what Raime had wanted—had he convinced enough Deshmahne of the same? Jakob could not take action based on what he did not know to be true. He had this priest before him and the evidence of the peaceful town of Paliis. He sensed they were different here. He wanted to find a way for the Deshmahne to help.

  “Where is the Highest?” Jakob asked.

  The priest blinked again. “The Highest?”

  Jakob nodded. “If you serve the Conclave, you will share with me what you know about his location.”

  The High Desh glanced from Jakob to Roelle, who had remained silent. He worried about her. Had she been harmed? He didn’t think that she had, but then, he didn’t know all that had been done to her by the Deshmahne. They claimed they attempted to heal her, but what if they had done something else? What if they had attempted to convert her?

  Worse, what if they had actually converted her? Would that mean she followed this priest or was under the influence of Raime’s dark ahmaean?

  If she followed Raime, would Jakob be able to stop her? She was skilled with her sword, and she led dozens of Magi warriors. Losing her would weaken the defenses against the groeliin. Losing any of the Magi would be dangerous. He had seen what a single Mage with Deshmahne power could do. What would an entire army of them be capable of?

  The other Magi wouldn’t be able to stop them. The Antrilii wouldn’t be able to stop them. It would be left to Jakob, and he doubted that he would be able to overcome so many—and certainly not someone he had considered a friend.

  “The Highest has been absent since he led others of the Desh to the north for conversions.”

  “Conversions. Is that what you think he did?”

  “I understand now that he attempted more, but the intent had only been for him to lead conversions. The Deshmahne seek only to honor the gods.”

  There was that term again. It troubled Jakob, but he wasn’t certain why.

  The Deshmahne wanted to honor the gods. The Urmahne sought to worship them. Both believed in the gods, unlike those he had seen in the visions. At that time, there had been a War of Faiths, one that had divided men, setting those who saw the damahne as gods against those who didn’t. The fighting that had taken place recently hadn’t been one of faiths. Both sides claimed they served the gods.

  Was there a way that he could use that common claim to establish stability and peace once again?

  He would need the Deshmahne.

  He needed them to keep peace in the south lands. And Jakob might need to pretend to be a god.

  It would be easy enough to do, but perhaps not to maintain. He didn’t have the experience, though he knew where he could go to get some advice on how to fake it. Shoren had pretended to be one of the gods for years, and from the vision, Jakob knew that he had done so out of necessity, thinking that if they didn’t, there would be more instability.

  “I will show you how to honor me,” Jakob said. “It is not forcing conversion.”

  “Of course, Great One.”

  “Come. There is much we will discuss.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The mountain peak of Vasha loomed in front of her. Isandra knew that she should feel excitement, and that she should be eager to return to her home, but all she felt was weariness. In the days since they’d left the Antrilii lands, she had ridden hard, but the journey had been uneventful. Endric guided them with confidence, knowing the path that would deliver them safely to their destination. They rode from sunup to sundown and often beyond that. Any belief that Endric would take it easier on them because he traveled with the Magi was quickly dispelled.

  Jassan reached over and gripped her hand. They had been allowed one night of marital happiness before they and the others started out on the long trek to Vasha. That night—and others since then—had been joyous for her. Still, she couldn’t help but feel as if something was going to change. There was a sense of unease, despite the happiness that she felt. Was it only because she feared ano
ther attack? The groeliin had not harassed them as they passed through the mountains, and there had been no sign of any other attackers, either.

  The merahl followed them until they were through the mountain passes, and now only her merahl companion traveled with them. He managed to keep a steady pace, not bothered by the rate Endric set.

  “You look troubled,” he said.

  “Only because I worry about leaving the young groeliin behind.”

  “The Yahinv have promised to care for it.”

  Isandra knew that they would, and knew that their commitment, and their word, meant more than a similar commitment would from the Magi Council. Yet she worried because the Yahinv saw the groeliin as creatures deserving of death. The groeliin she had helped save had fought alongside her.

  The closer they came to Vasha, the more she began to question whether she should have come at all. She was the one who had discovered a way to help the groeliin. Shouldn’t she be the one to continue that work and do all that was necessary to rescue more of them?

  Endric had convinced her otherwise. He had convinced her that she had another purpose and that she would be much more useful serving those who sought scholarship and understanding so that she could use that knowledge to assist others. She could serve the Conclave, though she did not know what it was.

  “They will care for him, but…”

  “The Yahinv will search for understanding. They are not as heartless as you must believe.”

  She smiled at her husband. It felt strange for her to think that way, but that was what he was. “I would never call the Antrilii heartless. Dedicated. Driven. Committed to the gods. That is the reason I have some concern.”

  “You have sat among the Yahinv more than any outlander ever has. You have seen the way they search for knowledge and understanding. With that connection, they would be intrigued by what you’ve shown. Do not fear for that creature. The Yahinv will use him, and will study him, and help the Antrilii find a new purpose.”

  It was difficult for him to admit, and she was appreciative of the fact that he had shown a willingness to not try to destroy the groeliin. That compassion—and understanding—was what appealed to her most.