The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  "I think I need another drink," said Kayne. "With that plan of yours, it may be the last I'll ever have before the hangman slips his noose around my throat."

  Nicolas could not argue otherwise. For in truth, the plan he had in mind was even more tenuous than the bard could imagine. The chances were slim to none that the guards would think twice about what happened to the healer's boy, regardless of how many fits he threw, or cries of pain he howled. But that is just what Nicolas would most likely be doing if his initial plan failed, for he was going to try compelling the minds of the guards.

  What scared Nicolas the most was that he was actually excited to try it. For days he had felt the energy building up inside of him, making him skittish and uncomfortable. He remembered the feeling of forcing the energy out of himself and onto the woodland rabbit, and the sweet relief that flooded his body as he released all of the unwelcome weight within him. He wanted to help Diyasa, to save Jorj and himself from the Baron's wrath. But Nicolas also knew that he wanted to experience that feeling again, and, for that, he almost welcomed the coming trial ahead.

  Just before dawn, the outside of the keep was as quiet as Nicolas had come to expect. Two token guards stood at the main entrance. They might have been scarecrows for all the protection they provided. Nicolas doubted the Baron worried at all about unwelcome visitors, for it seemed that everyone in the village knew that all they would find within the walls of the old keep was decay, sorrow, and madness. It was therefore easy enough for two slim figures to slip unnoticed into the keep by way of a crack a full three hands wide where the roots of a massive tree had, over the course of centuries, burrowed their way clear through the ancient stone. Once inside, Nicolas and Kayne kept to the shadows, choosing the rooms in which the fewest torches flickered on brackets in the wall.

  They did not move quickly, for Kayne, frail at the best of times, was further crippled by his relative sobriety, and the knowledge that a single misstep might cost him his life. So, inch by inch, room by room, the two crept along the passageways of the old keep, freezing when they heard the ring of footsteps nearby, and breathing quiet sighs of relief when the echoes of the step finally faded from hearing.

  Nicolas guessed that daylight had come to the surrounding village by the time they had made it to the core of the keep, though the complete lack of windows provided no way of knowing for sure. Nicolas could only pray, therefore, that the Baron had left his daughter and was now knee-deep in river water, repenting for the many crimes which weighed upon his soul. When only a corner and a long hallway separated them from the door to Diyasa's chamber, Nicolas put a hand on Kayne's shoulder.

  "I am not sure what will happen next," he whispered into the Bard's ear. "But, regardless of what you see, regardless of whatever else I may do, if I tell you to go, you must go to Diyasa's chamber and play your song."

  Nicolas could feel a tremor run through the man's body, but he nodded his head all the same.

  "If I tell you to flee, however," continued Nicolas, "run from here, and do not look back."

  Not knowing exactly what to do next, Nicolas shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to remember what he had done that first night many weeks ago, when he had successfully overcome his seizure. It was different this time, however, for the säel had not yet reached the point at which he could no longer contain it. He could feel it inside him, heavy and uncomfortable, but he needed some way to release it. Gritting his teeth, Nicolas tensed his muscles and tried to force the säel out from inside him. But though he tried his best to physically force it out of him, he only succeeded in making himself woozy and red in the face.

  "What are you doing?" hissed Kayne.

  "Hold on," said Nicolas, once again contorting his body in an effort to expel the energy from him.

  "Lad this is no time for games," protested the bard, reaching for Nicolas' shoulder and giving him a small shake.

  Nicolas' hackles rose. Couldn't the bard see he was trying his hardest? Annoyance and frustration flooded through him, and all of a sudden Nicolas felt the säel surge inside him like the roar of a lion, pulsing through him momentarily. But then, as quickly as it came, it receded, becoming once more the heavy and uncomfortable sensation it had been moments before.

  Now however, Nicolas had an idea. Turning quickly to the bard, he raised his chin and pointed to his face.

  "Quick, hit me!" he whispered.

  "What!?" whispered the bard, incredulous.

  Nicolas once again felt his frustration trigger a rise in the energy. Not wanting to waste this chance, he threw caution to the wind and, putting his face directly in front of Kayne's, screamed at the bard.

  "HIT ME!"

  Kayne flinched as the unexpected noise hit his ears. He threw up his hands protectively and his right fist connected with Nicolas' jaw. The strike was weak, but it sent a flare of energy through Nicolas' body that did not subside. Nicolas was about to demand the bard strike him again, when the unmistakable noise of a man's footsteps came crashing from the direction of Diyasa's room. Panic gripped Nicolas' heart, and the säel exploded within him.

  The world went black, and Nicolas felt his control over his body begin to slide away. As waves of energy began to crash down upon him, he frantically searched his awareness looking for someone, or somewhere else he could send the energy. Slowly, faint glimmers of life began to appear around him, but not just one or two—dozens of lives swirled around him, like a swarm of amorphous fireflies pulsing in the night. Which ones were the guards? What if one was Kayne, Jorj, or Diyasa? Some of the glimmers were stronger now, were they those minds closest to him? Nicolas reached out for one such glimmer, and was swiftly flooded with feelings; cold, boredom, loneliness, and others…this was not the mind of one of the nearby guards. But it was too late, Nicolas could feel his mind slipping away, and he needed an outlet. He willed the energy through him, and into this new consciousness, and felt a fleeting jolt of surprise as the other consciousness felt the säel flow into them. The transfer made Nicolas ache with relief and pleasure, but he knew he could not unload the whole of his burden, for then he would endanger the life of the recipient and be powerless to influence the approaching guards. Slowly, agonizingly, Nicolas broke contact with the other consciousness, and once again felt the energy pour into him, filling him until he felt he would burst. Again and again he reached out to the glimmers around him, tearing himself away when the feelings he perceived were all wrong. Finally, he sensed a strong wave of urgency, fear, anger, and confusion, and once again opened himself to the new presence at let the säel flow through.

  This time, he could not pull back. His will was spent, and the säel seemed endless as it crashed through him and into what he hoped was the nearby guard. Exhausted, but relieved, Nicolas lost consciousness.

  When Nicolas awoke, it was to the faint sounds of a plucked lute, and the breathy rasp of Kayne's voice as he sang an old and familiar tune. Opening his eyes and sitting up, Nicolas found himself in the Baron's daughter's room, surrounded by the eerie emblems and oddities he had seen there before. When Kayne noticed Nicolas had awoken, he stopped singing, and looked towards Nicolas but continued to pluck out a series of pleasant chords on his lute. To Nicolas' surprise, the bard was smiling.

  "I think it's working," the bard whispered. "Some color has returned to her face, and she actually took a deep breath and sighed a moment ago."

  "Really?" asked Nicolas, amazed.

  "Lad, I don't know who or what you are, and you well as near made my heart stop with those guards, but if this works and we save little Diyasa, I really don't care."

  "The guards!" Nicolas remembered, "How did you, how did we get past—"

  "Shh!" said Kayne, "Look, her hand is moving."

  Sure enough, Nicolas could see Diyasa's hand slowly start to move. Nicolas was not sure he could believe his eyes, but it looked as if the girl's finger began to faintly tap in time to the bard's lute.

  Kayne saw it too, and immediately began to sing again.
His broken voice airy and coarse, but not unpleasant.

  Carefully coming to his feet, Nicolas walked over to where the girl lay on her bed. As he gazed down upon her face, he saw the unmistakable signs of color the bard had mentioned, and a surge of joyous excitement shot through his heart. To his horror, the burst of energy did not fade, and his vision began to dim once again. This time however, the world did not go completely black, and no torrent of energy began to pour into him. Rather, it was if the world was in a darkened haze, the glimmers of life around him superimposed upon their physical hosts. If fact, it was if he could actually perceive Diyasa's consciousness, the faintest pulse of light amidst the surrounding darkness. Unthinking, he reached for her, and felt a delicate trickle of emotions merge with his. Fatigue and sadness dominated her mind, but there was a new happiness too, and a tiny point of hope. As the bard played on Nicolas could feel the balance begin to shift, her grief and exhaustion gradually becoming displaced by joy and hope.

  Suddenly, Nicolas heard the sound of a door crashing open, and the unmistakable voice of the Baron roaring in rage.

  "You! How dare you come here? I told you that if I ever saw your face again, I would kill you."

  Frozen to the spot, Nicolas heard the sound of strings twanging and wood splintering as Kayne's lute fell to the floor. In the dim haze, he saw the figure of the Baron leap at the bard, the two of them falling to the ground in a struggle.

  When the music stopped, Nicolas felt the strength of Diyasa's will begin to ebb, and with each angry shout from the Baron, her presence seemed to fade from existence.

  "No! Stop!" cried Nicolas, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. "Stop it, you are killing her!"

  "Get away from my daughter!" screamed the Baron. "Get away from my Diyasa!"

  Then, without warning, Nicolas felt Diyasa's glimmer go out, and an icy chill went through his spine.

  "No," he said, in disbelief. "No. She can't have…"

  But though he frantically searched, the glimmer…the frail trickle of emotion that had been there a second before, was gone. As the truth of Diyasa's death hit him, a wail of pulsing energy rose out of Nicolas, materializing out of nowhere, larger and stronger than anything he had ever felt before. He knew that he would not be able to contain such a force, but he did not care, for he had no intention of trying. Fixing his hazy vision and awareness on the Baron, he reached for the man, closed his eyes, and let the säel rush through him.

  Chapter 45: Xasho

  The Heart of Sand seemed different. It was as if a layer of dust had been lifted from the city and everything around him looked sharper and more vibrant than it had just months before. Small, well-kept gardens bloomed outside some of the buildings Xasho passed, and here and there he could see linens drying in the breeze. Yet, for all the trappings of habitation the city was silent, and as Xasho made his way through the narrow streets, he saw no one. Not a man, not a woman, not a child seemed to be out.

  Perplexed, Xasho made his way to the center of the city, towards the arena that had so altered the course of his life. As he drew near, it became obvious that a great crowd was gathered there, for people spilled out of the entrances and into the streets beyond. Many stood on their toes, craning their necks over the heads of those before them to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. Others had hands cupped to their ears and anxious expressions upon their faces as they waited for some announcement from within. Yet, scattered throughout the crowd Xasho saw men, stone-faced and battle-scarred, standing with their backs toward the commotion and their eyes flicking quickly amongst the members of the crowd. Whereas in most places the onlookers were crammed together with barely enough space to breathe, they kept well clear of the stoic warriors, allowing each a large berth. Guards, Xasho surmised, though they were not here to protect the crowd.

  When he reached the crowd, Xasho too tried in vain to catch a glimpse of the goings on inside, but he could see nothing through the forest of people before him. He reached out to tap on the shoulder of a woman nearby, to ask why so many had gathered there, but to his surprise his hand seemed to pass right through her body. It was another dream, he realized, and he now had a good idea of what, or rather who, was inside the arena.

  Perhaps it was a foolish precaution, but Xasho held his breath before making his way forward, gliding through the maze of bodies that occupied the arena. Visually it was like moving through a colorful mist, though he could feel nothing on his skin as he passed through body after body. Not until he was on the sands of the central arena did he feel he could breathe normally, and glancing back at the mass of people who still appeared as substantial as ever, Xasho could not suppress a small shudder.

  It was not hard to find Halor, for the eyes all around Xasho were riveted on the spot where the white-haired warrior stood, his gaze fixed on the sands before him. Halor seemed to be waiting for something, for he did not move or acknowledge the crowd in any way. Soon, however, the sound of a single drum broke the silence, and Halor looked up, his gaze directed towards the eastern archways of the arena. Xasho followed his gaze and caught sight of a man slowly emerging from the archway, stepping in time to the beat of the drum. Even from a distance, Xasho could tell that the approaching man was exceptionally tall, his long arms and legs moving with a willowy grace as he made his way toward Halor. The man was clad in the garb of a warrior, though he bore no weapons that Xasho could see. When he reached Halor, the tall figure fell to his knees and inclined his head.

  "Nomek Yhavah," Halor said, his voice loud and purposeful. "Son of Khamo, brother of Khet, slayer of lions, milker of vipers, sworn protector of our people's Heart, have you come before me today to speak the oath?"

  "I have, my Johalid," replied Nomek, his deep voice so quiet that Xasho had to strain to hear it. "Will you hear it?"

  "You have won the right, with strength and with honor, with courage, and with obedience. Yes, I will hear you. We shall all hear you," he added as he gestured to the surrounding crowd.

  Nomek, still on his knees, turned away from the Johalid, so that he was gazing out at the crowd around him. Halor stood behind him, watching the man's back expectantly.

  "I was Nomek Yhavah," began the warrior, his voice now loud and full, "but I am no longer. My self, my honor, my blood, and my life I now offer to another. Hakh Halor, Johalid of the sands and its people, do you hear and accept my offer?"

  "I hear and accept," intoned Halor. "Speak the oath."

  "I was once a man," began Nomek. "I am now less and more. I am bound to my Johalid by bonds only death can break. I am at once his shadow and his shield. A shadow never leaves, and a shield ever protects. So shall I never leave my Johalid's side, and so shall I always protect him."

  "Rise then, my shield and shadow," responded Halor as he draped a sparkling zharata around the kneeling man's neck, "and assume your duties."

  As the champion rose to his full height, a cheer went up among the crowd. It was not the deafening roar Xasho had been expecting. As he looked around he could see that perhaps only one man in three was cheering, and even then some of the cheers were lifeless and insincere. Instead, what Xasho saw was fear on the faces of those in the crowd—fear and uncertainty as their features slowly faded away into nothingness.

  Xasho awoke, and to his surprise he felt the weight of a warm body pressed against his left side. He was even more surprised when he looked over to find that it was the mountain girl, Jeina, still lost in a deep sleep. The morning air was chilly and, to his amazement, Xasho felt the temptation to stay where he was a little while longer, snugly yet awkwardly enmeshed with the little foreigner. Banishing such foolishness from his mind he rolled away, hoping the girl would wake up, but though she gave a quiet moan of disappointment, and drew her knees to her chest to ward off the cold, she remained asleep. As Xasho stood groggily contemplating her peaceful form, the events of yesterday came back to him in a flood.

  His hand went to his belt, to the pouch in which he kept the artist's portrait
of the Prince. He drew it out and stared at it for a few seconds. Was this truly the man who now lay before him? The man in the small portrait was meticulously groomed, his dark hair cut short and neatly parted to one side. His cheeks were flushed with life, a color echoed by the elegant velvet cloak thrown around his shoulders. In contrast, the only red on the man sleeping before him lay in stained bandages, covering skin and hair that were each unsettling shades of gray. The only thing remotely similar between the portrait and the man in front of him was the eyes. Whether smiling or asleep, the eyes had an odd haunted quality to them, as if their owner had not slept for weeks.

  What was Xasho to do? It was quite possible that not more than four paces away lay the man whom he had sworn to find and kill. Yet, things were not playing out as they always had in Xasho's mind. There would be no confrontation, no hard-fought combat, no hatred in Kazick's eyes as Xasho gained the upper hand and fulfilled his promise to Johalid Sidhir. Instead, his sworn enemy lay completely vulnerable, perhaps only a few heartbeats from Hesa's chilly embrace. What was more, Kazick looked not one bit like the powerful warrior Xasho had always envisioned, but rather a gaunt, half-starved wreck of a man—more a beggar than a prince.

  For a moment Xasho toyed with the idea of ending the man's misery right then and there. It would be easy, just a quick cut to his throat and in his weakened condition the man's life would flow from him in seconds. He would barely even make a sound, and should his dying gasps go unnoticed, Xasho could slip away in silence before anyone was the wiser. But though the scenario flitted through Xasho's thoughts, he knew he would not act. Not now. There was no honor in the killing of an invalid. That had been Kazick's crime, after all. The Prince's army had ravished the Curahshena lands when the warriors of Vraqish had been decimated by illness. Should Xasho kill the man now, he would prove himself no better than his enemy. If Kazick died of his wounds then so be it, and Xasho would return to the Heart of Sand with the news of the Prince's death. But it would not be Xasho's hand that struck down the Prince of Mud, not in his current condition.