The Gift of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 7)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “Help me?” Scottan started to turn away.

  He spun back, unsheathing his sword.

  The motion was fast—faster than Scottan would have managed before.

  Had Scottan started like that, Jakob might not have been able to react in time, but with him acting strangely, Jakob had been on edge, ready to react if needed.

  He unsheathed, swinging Neamiin toward the teralin sword his brother carried.

  They clanged off each other, a muted sound.

  Scottan smiled at Jakob, and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “You might regret bringing me here to work with your pet.”

  Jakob shook his head. How was this possible? How was he facing his brother with a sword, and forced to make a decision about whether he would use it for real to stop him? It was an impossible choice.

  “You don’t understand, Scottan. I don’t know what you’ve seen, but I can tell that you don’t understand.”

  “I understand far more than you realize.”

  He darted through a series of movements, a catah that he could only have learned from Roelle. It was one she would have learned from Endric.

  Jakob blocked it.

  “No,” Jakob said sadly. “You don’t.”

  Scottan lunged at him before spinning and sweeping the sword at Anda.

  Jakob pressed out his connection to ahmaean.

  Everything froze.

  Except for Scottan.

  His brother continued through a series of movements, but Jakob had slowed him enough. His form was weakened, and Jakob blocked, spinning through an attack Scottan did not know—one he could not know. It was one Jakob had learned from Brohmin, having never seen Endric used the same pattern.

  Scottan had been skilled, but Jakob had long ago exceeded his brother’s ability. It was a strange thing for him to admit, but there wasn’t a swordsman alive who could compete with Jakob—not with him connected to his ahmaean as he was.

  He brought his sword around in a series of movements and caught Scottan on the back of the neck with the hilt of his sword. His brother crumpled.

  Jakob stared down at him, uncertainty and sadness filling him. Why had it come to this? Why had he been forced to attack his brother? What had happened to him?

  Anda took his hand, and he turned to her.

  “That’s not my brother,” Jakob said.

  “Perhaps that man is still in there.”

  “If he is, I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  He reached for his brother’s sword and pressed ahmaean through it, shifting the polarity. With a flash, it changed to positively charged teralin. Would it even matter? Not if the teralin wasn’t responsible for what happened to Scottan. If it wasn’t, there might not be anything he could do to help restore his brother. His brother might truly be lost.

  “You will keep trying,” Anda said.

  “What choice do I have?”

  “You have always had a choice, Jakob Nialsen. Much as he had a choice.”

  He sighed and tossed the sword off to the side. Lifting his brother, he shifted him back to the Tower, bringing Anda with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Brohmin opened his eyes to a gray sky. His body ached, and his back hurt, probably from the position he lay in. He was drenched, rain sluicing down around him, a steady hammering of thunder pounding against him. Hands pressed on his sides, and he felt ahmaean pressed within him, healing him.

  He coughed and tried to sit up, but Salindra held him down. She positioned herself so that she could look down at him, worry creasing her brow. Rock pressed beneath his back, digging into him painfully.

  “You nearly drowned. Let me help you recover before you attempt to get up, you stubborn man.”

  “You healed me. I can tell what you’re doing.”

  Her brow furrowed more for a moment, before softening. She sighed, and her posture relaxed a hint. She kept her hands on his chest, and he welcomed the contact. “I’m not used to people being aware of a healing.”

  “Most of the Magi can’t see the ahmaean.”

  “We can see the manehlin.”

  “Can you?” He coughed again. Water came up as he did, and he tipped his head to the side, spitting out a salty froth. Maybe he had almost drowned. “What happened?”

  Salindra reached beneath him and helped ease him to a seated position before pointing out to the sea. Brohmin wiped the water out of his eyes and followed the direction that she indicated. “Do you see that?” she asked.

  Brohmin frowned. “What am I supposed to see? It looks like there’s a branch or something floating out there…”

  “That’s not a branch. That the remains of the dinghy we took to shore. That’s what was supposed to take us back to the ship.”

  Brohmin blinked and wiped water from his eyes again. He attempted to peer through the sleeting rain but could see nothing but gray out on the water. If the captain had remained near the shore, he couldn’t see him.

  They were trapped. There would be a way to leave, but doing so would force a significant detour unless someone of the Conclave had a dinghy—or ship—and he doubted the likelihood of that.

  Even if they discovered what he needed to know, what use would it be?

  He lay back down, breathing deeply. More and more, he began to question his usefulness in general. Maybe there was nothing more for him. It was possible that his time had passed, that the tasks he’d been assigned needed to move on to someone else. Perhaps that was for the best, especially as his abilities continued to wane.

  Only, he didn’t think his time was over. If he stopped now without being a part of capturing Raime, it would mean he failed at the mission he’d been given. The Conclave had entrusted him with the task of finding and stopping Raime. He’d sacrificed much over the years, including losing his family. The years of fighting, of sacrificing, could not end with his failure.

  “Where now?” Salindra asked.

  Brohmin sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. Everything matters. You’ve shown me so much that I never imagined was possible. Don’t you go giving up on this now.”

  “I’m not giving up. I am thinking through the reality of where we are and what still must happen,” he said, looking over to her.

  She knelt next to him, the rain soaking her hair and running down her cheeks, collecting along her cloak before dripping off. She was lovely, even with the rain sleeting around them. Maybe that was what made her even more lovely. She refused to acknowledge even the rain and the discomfort that she must be in.

  How could he be weak when she still needed him to be strong? She was strong, and she needed him to have the same strength. She needed that partnership, especially with what they were still to face.

  Brohmin laughed to himself.

  Salindra arched a brow. “What is it?”

  “Only that I’ve lived nearly five hundred years and this is the closest I’ve ever come to giving up.”

  “I’m not going to let you give up,” she said to him.

  Brohmin slowly stood and stretched. He noted sharp, stabbing pains in his back, but there was nothing that seemed permanently injured. Salindra’s healing had restored him. That was not altogether surprising. She was a Mage, and many of the Magi were skilled with healing, but often that required the recipient’s ahmaean to contribute to healing. Considering how weakened he had become, and how little of his ahmaean remained, he was surprised that she had managed to heal him so quickly. More than anything else, he suspected that showed how much her connection to her abilities had changed since the daneamiin had healed her.

  “What now?”

  Brohmin gathered himself. He still had his sword, and he was dressed in his cloak. He lost nothing in the tumble through the sea, nothing other than a brief moment of hope. Even that had been restored by Salindra.

  “Now it’s time for us to start walking.”

  Rain continued to pound on them, a torrentia
l downpour that was punctuated periodically by loud booms of thunder. Lightning streaked at times, blinding him briefly with bright afterimage. He made his way along the rock, making certain to place his feet carefully before going onward. These rocks could be dangerous even when dry, and when wet, he feared slipping and cracking his head open or breaking something. Likely as not, Salindra could heal him again were it necessary, but he didn’t want it to be necessary.

  As they made their way inland, Salindra grabbed his hand and held on to it as they walked. There was a certain reassurance to holding her hand, a comfort that he felt, and he hung on to it, refusing to let go.

  “It’s so bleak here,” Salindra said.

  “Do you know the story about Salvat Island?” Brohmin asked.

  “I suppose you intend to tell me that they believed something other than the gods created their island.”

  Brohmin glanced over and smiled. “The people of Salvat are incredibly devout. Many of them would rival the most devoted priest in Thealon with their commitment to the gods.”

  “So this story has nothing to do with whatever connection to the gods the people of Salvat have?”

  Brohmin chuckled. “I didn’t say that. The people of Salvat believe their island was born after the rest of the world. There is a volcano near the center of the island that rises high above the land. They consider the lava flowing from this volcano the lifeblood of the gods. They feel that Salvat has been particularly blessed and that they were given the gift of knowing the gods in ways that others were not.”

  Salindra slipped, and Brohmin held on to her, preventing her from falling. When she righted herself, she looked up. “If this is the gods’ blessing, I’m not sure I want to know what it would be like not to know their favor.”

  Brohmin smiled. “The earliest people of Salvat worshiped at the volcano. There is a temple built there, carved into the stone of the mountain, where they bored deep into the rock, until a trail of lava was found. With this lava, they believed anything could be created. They would cool it and craft idols in the shape of the gods and worship these.”

  “Why the volcano rather than some remnant of the gods?”

  “They believe the volcano is a remnant of the gods. There is a particular sect that believes the volcano is a god, though there are few members anymore.” They walked for a while longer. “In most of the cities, you’ll find a more traditional temple, those that are designed to look more like the Tower of the Gods, though in some of the more rural sites, they still have their ancient temples, and those temples have a much different appearance.”

  The rain began to lighten, and wind picked up, whipping up from the sea, lifting his cloak. He welcomed the wind, ready for it to dry them out. They still had a significant walk before reaching the Conclave, and the longer he was drenched, the more miserable he would remain.

  Salindra had seemed more relaxed since he’d awakened on the shore. No longer did she clench her jaw quite as aggressively as she had been, and the tension she’d carried in her shoulders and arms during the crossing seemed to have eased. Despite the rain, she managed to stand tall and walk with a confidence that had become typical for her, especially since her healing. Even before that, she had managed to carry herself with confidence, something Brohmin appreciated about her.

  “What will you do if the Conclave is unable to provide the answers you need?” Salindra asked.

  They had arrived at a narrow trail that offered easier footing, and they started to make faster time. “Then we travel to Thealon or to Vasha.”

  “Why Vasha?”

  “The priests celebrated the Lashiin ruins. I’m not sure what they knew about the ruins, but there had to have been something they recognized there, especially if what they described of their connection to the ruins was accurate.”

  “It could be they misinterpreted,” Salindra said.

  Brohmin nodded. That was his hope. If it was simply a misinterpretation, something that was not uncommon with many of the ancient texts, especially when written in a language that few spoke, it was possible that they had not accurately translated what had been written there.

  More disturbing was the possibility that it was accurate. If that were the case, there was more for him to be concerned about. A division among the damahne was something to fear. For the most part, they had been united in their service, but Brohmin had heard of times when they had not been. The last had been during the War of Faiths, a time when people no longer believed in the power of the gods.

  There was reason to be concerned about the possibility that the damahne had fractured. If they had, and if there was something more than the War of Faiths that had created challenges, then what the Lashiin priests said might have actually been true.

  If the Lashiin priests spoke the truth, if there was a division between the damahne, one where some felt that there was an impurity with the way the damahne had mingled with men, then there might be more to what the priest had said. It might even have been something the Conclave had known about.

  But why had none spoken of it?

  Salindra watched him, and there was nothing he could say.

  The rain had tapered off to a drizzle, the thick blankets of dark clouds still blotting the sky, but there was not the same intensity to the lightning, nor was there the same violence to the steady rumble of thunder.

  The narrow path continued to snake through the jagged rocks, and Brohmin guided Salindra. It was becoming increasingly familiar to him. The longer he went, the more he recognized where he was going, and he saw how they were getting nearer to where he expected to find an entrance to the Conclave.

  As he walked, the ground sloped upward, a mountainous climb that continued to rise, almost as if it intended to climb all the way to the peak of the distant mountain. They had walked for hours, and the sea grew distant, far enough that he couldn’t even hear the crashing of the waves along the shore. The only sound was that of their steady breathing.

  “How much farther?” Salindra asked.

  “It shouldn’t be much beyond that rise,” Brohmin said.

  They reached the rise, and the ground leveled off. In the distance, he noted a circle of boulders and pointed to them. “There.”

  Salindra frowned at him. “There? Was this meant to depict something like the heart of the Great Forest?”

  Brohmin hadn’t made the connection before, but with the way the rocks were arranged in a circle as they were, he could see that it was similar to the boulders in the Great Forest. Those had been arranged haphazardly, though Brohmin had heard rumors that the boulders had once been placed in a pattern, made into a circle that marked the heart of the Forest, and served as a marker for the power of the damahne.

  Something similar could be said about the way the boulders were arranged here. They served as a marker, designed to signal the entrance to the Conclave, marking the first corridor to enter a place of great understanding.

  “I don’t see anything there other than those rocks.”

  “Those rocks serve as a marker for the entrance to the Conclave.”

  “How does one gain entrance?”

  “Without the Conclave to grant it, you don’t.”

  “That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense,” Salindra said.

  “It’s not really supposed to.”

  They walked the open expanse of the plain before finally coming to the massive boulders. Brohmin stood there and pushed out with his ahmaean, sending the signal that should grant him access. The problem was that his connection to his ahmaean was not what it once had been.

  “I might need your help,” he said to Salindra.

  She regarded him with a sharp expression. “You’re not able to signal?”

  Brohmin offered a half smile. “Not the way I once could,” he said. Signaling the Conclave required a certain level of strength, and he hadn’t realized how weakened he was until he had reached it. He hadn’t thought the time spent on the ship had weakened him as much as it had, but there was
no question that he didn’t have nearly the strength he once did.

  “You can help with this,” he said to her.

  “How do you need me to help?”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “Press your ahmaean through me, and I will help guide it.”

  Salindra shook her head. “The Magi don’t share their connections in such a way.”

  “And the Magi don’t have the same command of healing as you demonstrated.”

  She arched a brow at him. “What are you trying to say?”

  He put his other hand on her shoulder and gave her an encouraging squeeze. “I’m saying that the abilities you possess now are different from what they had been before. Your time in the house of the Cala maah restored you, but I think it also connected you to a different potential for your ahmaean.” He squeezed her hand. “Press it through me. I’ll control the direction of your ahmaean and use that to signal.”

  Her connection built slowly, but it did manage to build. She pressed through him as he requested, and Brohmin was able to add to it, to augment the way she lent her power, and with it, he pressed the signal through the stone, deep into the earth.

  It had been quite a while since he’d made the signal and never before had he done it without his own gifts, however he’d acquired them, but there was a rightness to the way he felt when he had Salindra’s power going through him and the way he felt when he controlled it.

  “Is it working?” she asked.

  He couldn’t tell. When he had his own connection to the ahmaean, and when he was able to control it with greater success, there hadn’t been a doubt that he was successful, but with this he remained uncertain.

  “How will we know?”

  “We’ll know.”

  Nothing happened for a long stretch of time. Would he have to attempt to signal again? It was unusual to have that need, but much had changed for him over the last few weeks, making it more likely that he might need to send the signal again. It was possible that allowing Salindra to assist with the signaling made it so that his wasn’t recognized.