The Strength to Serve (Echoes of Imara Book 3)

by Claire Frank

  “No,” Rogan said. Pathius drew his eyebrows down in surprise but Rogan’s gaze was steady. “I don’t think either of us are ready for that yet. You wouldn’t mean it, and I wouldn’t believe you.”

  Pathius couldn’t help but smile. “Do you always speak to people so directly?”

  “When it’s necessary,” Rogan said. “I see no point in shying away from the reality of our situation. I am King of Halthas, and you once were slated for that role. Not so long ago, the kingdom believed you to be dead. You obviously are not, and I can see with my own eyes that you are Hadran’s son. Whether that means someday you and I will face each other for the throne, I don’t know. I’d like to think there is a way we can learn to live with each other’s existence, but I’m not so naïve as to be certain that’s possible.”

  Pathius wasn’t sure what to say to that. Rogan had put into a few words what had plagued him since he’d been freed. “I suppose you are disappointed that first Daro and then the Raeswa let me live. My death would be rather convenient for you.”

  “Yes, it would probably be easier,” Rogan said. “I could also arrange to discredit all who oppose me and find reasons to order their deaths. That might also be convenient.”

  “That didn’t work out so well for my father. Is that your point?” Pathius asked.

  “Your father lost his kingdom, and ultimately his life, because that was the cornerstone of his rule. He hated that the noble families had any sort of power, so he worked very hard to make sure the right families held the most power, and he crushed the rest.”

  “You misunderstand something about my father,” Pathius said. “He didn’t do the things he did to weaken the nobility. In fact, it was the opposite. He believed Halthas had grown weak and would soon face an enemy from outside our borders. It was with the aim of ensuring our strength that he shifted the balance of power among the nobility. He didn’t think he could rely on the weaker families to defend their land, his land. So he put it in the hands of those he felt were strong enough to face the coming calamity.”

  “He put it in the hands of those he felt were strong by murdering those he felt were weak. I was there. I was at the Madrona Massacre. My own father was killed that day, as were hundreds of others,” Rogan said.

  “Are you trying to convince me that you were right to take his throne?” Pathius asked.

  “I did what I felt was right at the time. After Madrona, we were left with no choice but to act.”

  Pathius hadn’t been at Madrona, and in truth, he’d been horrified when he learned what his father had done. Fearing an uprising, Hadran had gathered many of the noble heads of household under the guise of reaching an agreement for peace. Instead, he had slaughtered most of them and burned half the city to the ground.

  “You can’t hide behind some sense of righteousness,” Pathius said. “My father killed because he thought it was what needed to be done. Is what you did any different?”

  Rogan held his gaze, unflinching. “We stopped a madman from destroying his kingdom.”

  Pathius shook his head. “That’s the story you tell yourself. When I was in Caerven, they whispered of treason. But treason didn’t begin with me. It started when you overthrew my father. Let us not forget who the real traitors are.”

  “That seemed to bother you considerably less when you were with Cecily Imaran,” Rogan said.

  Anger ripped through Pathius, and he felt the surge of heat as he instinctively Absorbed energy. Willing himself to calm down, he took a breath. “You didn’t come here to discuss her.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Rogan said. His voice sounded tired. “Your father believed an attack from the outside was coming, but it was a threat that never materialized. You now believe this threat is real. Is that true?”

  Had Rogan received Ara’s message? What had she told him? “I do.”

  “Why?” Rogan asked.

  He paused, flooded with sudden doubt. Did he trust Isley’s word? She had been the one to tell him of Attalon’s plans for invasion, claiming to have been sent to deliver him to the Emperor himself. She had appeared to defy those orders and pushed Pathius to make a move toward claiming the throne. He wasn’t entirely certain what had become of her. The Imarans had told him she had been taken from Caerven by an unknown force. Were they from Attalon? Where was she now? Could he trust her story?

  “Isley Paven was one of Nihil’s captives. When we were set free, she fled to Sahaar, where she was taken in by someone connected to Attalon. They sent her back to find me, but instead she warned me of the coming danger. The Empire of Attalon has spent years planning an invasion, and she was convinced it was coming soon.”

  “Lady Isley does not have a reputation for honesty,” Rogan said. “In fact, she is rather skilled at manipulation. Why do you believe she was telling the truth?”

  “Her fear.” Pathius rubbed his chin and looked away. “She can do things you would have to see to believe. Her power was staggering and she didn’t fear anything. Except Attalon. When she spoke of what she knew, there was no mistaking her terror. Anything that would cause a Wielder like Isley to panic is something we should all fear.”

  Rogan watched him for a long moment, silent, as if considering how to answer. “I don’t yet know if she was right. But I’m not at all certain she was wrong. As far as we know, Attalon has conquered nearly every kingdom on their continent. They have been a force for conquest for many hundreds of years, if not longer, but it has also been hundreds of years since they took any interest in Halthas.”

  “That may be true, but their lack of attention does not mean they don’t have their eyes on us,” Pathius said.

  “A fair point, and it does appear their ties to Sahaar on our southern border have grown stronger,” Rogan said. “Although the resources required to move an army over the sea would be considerable.”

  Pathius thought about what he knew of Attalon. It was like dredging memories from the depths of his mind, searching for a place he’d buried long ago. “Attalon is vast, with an army that is experienced at conquest. We should assume they have the resources to bring their forces to our shores.”

  “That may be, but the defenses of Halthas were created to prevent just such an invasion. The walls are impenetrable. The river defenses are designed to choke off any attempt to access the city from the sea. Without the river, an army would have to march hundreds of miles across open ground before reaching Halthas. We would have ample opportunity to stop them in their tracks before they get close. Besides,” Rogan continued, “we have hundreds of battle-trained Wielders. Attalon outlaws Wielding in its entirety.”

  Pathius shook his head. “If Attalon wants to attack us, they’ll have ways of negating Wielders. They know what we are and how we will fight. And it appears a group of them traveled up the river, all the way to Caerven, and brought an entire army to its knees long enough to come in and take what they wanted.”

  “You were there,” Rogan said. “Are you certain it was Attalonians who took Lady Isley?”

  “I didn’t see them myself,” Pathius said, “but she was afraid they would come for her. I think we have to assume that Attalon has Isley.”

  Rogan nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, I’ve come to the same conclusion. If Attalon truly does plan to invade Halthas, they no longer have the advantage of surprise. I have my resources checking into every possibility. They won’t be able to move an army closer to our borders without us knowing about it.”

  “I don’t think they’ll need surprise,” Pathius said.

  “Perhaps not. But the might of Halthas repelled them long ago. We will do so again.”

  “How?”

  Rogan paused and regarded Pathius for a long moment. “They know the strength of our river defenses, and there is evidence of their presence in Sahaar. There is a fortress on the main route south, controlling a bridge that leads across the Sahaaran chasm. I already have Shapers working to repair and fortify the structure, as well as men to hold it, ensuring we control acces
s to our southern border. If an army is coming, we can close the gates, and they will be forced to either take to the sea or travel hundreds of miles east, into the Deep Forest.”

  “What about north?” Pathius asked. “They could have access through Thaya.”

  “That is true, although the incident in Torra has opened up the possibility for new diplomatic relations with the Thayans. It’s something I have my councilors working on now.”

  “You seem to have everything in hand,” Pathius said. “What is it you want from me?”

  Rogan took a step forward. “I need you to stay in Imara. If Halthas is on the brink of war with Attalon, we can’t afford to weaken ourselves from the inside with another civil war. If you return and make a bid for the throne, you might be successful, but you won’t rule for long. Attalon will crush us. Stay here, and let me hold this kingdom together.”

  Pathius paused and looked at Rogan. The lines of Rogan’s jaw were set, and his eyes were hard with resolve. Rogan was right; Pathius had known it when he was in Caerven with Isley, and he knew it now. Halthas would crumble if he tried to take the throne.

  His father’s voice sprang to mind. In a rare moment of offering advice, he had once told Pathius, “There will come a time when you will be forced to make difficult decisions. Things only a king can determine.”

  He never would have guessed how right his father would be.

  “I will stay out of your way,” Pathius said. “If you will protect Halthas.”

  Rogan held out his hand. “I give you my word.”

  10. KATALIS

  The bedroom was dark when Daro awoke, with no sign of dawn showing through the window. Cecily lay sleeping beside him, her face serene. Looking up at the ceiling, he wondered what had woken him. Although he still had occasional nightmares, it didn’t seem as if he’d been dreaming. Something else had disturbed his slumber.

  After several weeks, their stay in Imara had come to a close. It had been a bittersweet parting. Daro felt the pull of his childhood home and in some ways, he longed to stay. But life at their cabin beckoned, and after saying their goodbyes, they’d joined Rogan, Alastair, and Mira on the return trip downriver.

  Stoker and Shale had decided to return with them and stay at their cabin outside Norgrost, at least through the winter. Daro had spent time with both men, talking about their experiences in Imara and sharing his own, glad of the chance to aid them further. It was a relief to know they were not beyond repair, despite the damage Nihil had done to them, and Daro hoped to help them both find permanent homes and means of making a living.

  Turning over, Daro closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. A whisper tickled the corner of his hearing and his heart beat faster. Was he hearing things again? He had managed to release the remnants of the men Nihil had poured into him through the Arcstone, freeing his thoughts from their voices. Could he be slipping back toward the same madness that had nearly consumed him? The thought was an unwelcome one.

  Rising from the bed, he scanned the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. A muffled snore drifted through the door from where Stoker and Shale slept in the other room, but nothing appeared amiss. Yet, a prickling sensation crawled up his back despite the quiet.

  He eased the door open and made his way through the cabin and out onto the front porch. He needed to get some fresh air. The sky was black, the stars hidden by clouds, and he took a deep breath. It was probably his imagination.

  The same whisper floated past and he jerked his head around. Was it coming from his workshop? He walked down the path and opened the door, poking his head in through. His vision was keen in the dark and he could make out the shapes of his work table and tools. A stack of wood stood against the wall in one corner and next to it sat a wooden chest.

  Daro walked over to the chest. Lying atop it were the two Heorun swords he had taken from the battle in Madrona. The first had belonged to a Heoru, an elite Thayan warrior. Daro had killed him in combat and claimed the sword as his own, as was the Thayan custom. The second had belonged to Katalis, the altered Wielder. Daro had felt compelled to take his large blade when he died. After the battle, he had wrapped them both in thick cloth and carried them home.

  He picked up the first weapon and unwound the covering. It was large and beautifully made, perfectly balanced in his hand. Holding it out, he tested its weight and turned it over, admiring the workmanship and the fine quality of the steel. Thayan weapons were unmatched. It had been well-cared for, which was no surprise. The Heorun was a mark of honor, among a people to whom honor meant everything.

  Setting it down with care, he eyed the other blade. There was something about Katalis’s sword that sent a shiver up his spine. He almost felt as if it called to him. Many times since coming home he had stared at the wrapped sword, wondering if the faint whisper he sometimes perceived at the edge of his hearing came from the weapon. It both worried and intrigued him but, thus far, he had left it where it lay.

  He moved it closer and unwound the leather cord that held the wrappings tight. Bits of metal peeked out as the covering fell away, and he jerked his hand back as he realized it was warm. A sword shouldn’t feel warm. Curiosity got the better of his caution, and he pulled the rest of the wrappings back, leaving the sword gleaming on the chest.

  A normal sword lacked its own flow of energy. In the hand of a swordsman, a weapon had an energy flow that Daro could see but, lying on the lid of the chest, the first Heorun appeared still. Katalis’s blade was not. A steady pulse of power rippled through the steel, almost as if the sword had a life of its own. Daro had never seen an inanimate object behave this way. Even Imaran hearthstones or sunstones, infused with energy, did not radiate their own living power.

  A strong urge to grip the sword flowed through him. It was both repulsive and tempting, this strange blade, and he argued with himself for several minutes before reaching out to clasp the hilt.

  As he held it, a surge of energy poured through him. He wrestled for control as his wells of power filled, unbidden. Not since his time in Imara had he struggled with such an onslaught of energy. Gritting his teeth against the strain, he held the sword in both hands, fighting to gain command.

  The steel shone, growing from a pale glow to a luminous brilliance. Daro squinted against the glare and bent his will against the pull of the sword. It was as if there was a life inside it, a force that demanded control, pulling power through Daro as if he were nothing but a conduit. Tiny bolts of lightning danced across the surface, stinging his arms as they flickered, leaving black streaks across his vision.

  Daro fought against the will of the blade while it drew a steady stream of energy through him. It felt hungry, jealous for the power Daro held, eager for more. It reached into Daro, trying to harness his power, but he forced its influence away. He could not let this weapon take control.

  With his breath coming fast, Daro drew a rush of energy away from the sword. It flooded through him, searing his veins, and the sword seemed to falter. It recoiled against the reversal of power, and Daro held it out as the power dissipated. The last few sparks jumped down the length of the blade. Although energy still hummed through the strange weapon, it felt still, like a smoldering coal that waits for more fuel.

  He couldn’t be certain what this sword was, or why it behaved the way it did, but he did not like the way it had drawn power through him. Grasping the hilt in one hand, he wiped the back of his arm across his forehead.

  Katalis, is a piece of you in there?

  Katalis had been impaled on an Imaran spear as he called down lightning with this blade. Was it possible that some piece of him, some remnant of his energy, remained?

  Daro had never heard of such a thing, although it did harken to the way the Imarans infused objects with their energy. He had felt the vestige of his father in his dwelling in Imara. Perhaps the sword possessed a bit of Katalis, thrust into the weapon in his final moments.

  If so, given the state Katalis had been in at the time, this swo
rd was nothing to be trifled with.

  Daro took a deep breath and put the sword back on the chest. With care, he wrapped it again, ensuring none of the metal showed through the leather, and tied it with the cord. He wished he had taken it with him on his recent visit to Imara. The Raeswa might have an understanding of this weapon. In the meantime, he resolved to keep it tucked away. He didn’t know what would happen if someone else touched it, and he wasn’t interested in finding out.

  11. ASSASSINS

  Callum tapped his fingers on the tabletop as he looked out from under the dark hair hanging in his eyes. The air in the Ale Stone was stuffy, full of smoke and the sour reek of cheap drink and whatever the innkeeper passed off as food. Despite the daylight outside, the room was dim, the handful of other patrons shrouded in a dingy haze. Situated at a table in the back corner, he leaned back in his chair and wondered whether Alastair was actually coming.

  A few men across the room caught his attention. He knew one of them, a notorious gambler and well-known cheat. Callum couldn’t figure how the man kept finding people to play dice with him. It never ended well. Judging by the stack of coins on the table and the shade of red his opponent was turning, this time would be no different. Callum let out a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes as the red-faced man stood up, knocking his chair backward and upsetting their game. A few coins clattered to the floor with a metallic clink and the rest of the patrons turned to watch the inevitable scuffle.

  Callum wasn’t in the mood for either watching or breaking up a tavern fight, so he sent a mild Projection of calm out into the room. It started out soft, just enough to unclench fists and loosen wound-up tempers. The red-faced man opened his mouth with a heaving breath, undoubtedly to begin screaming obscenities, only to stop midway and blink as if he’d forgotten what he meant to say. Callum let his soothing Projection waft around the room until the man took his seat, decidedly less red-faced, and the others turned back to their own business. The gaming men picked up their coins and went back to their dice. Callum had no doubt the drama would soon resume but, for now, he preferred a quiet tavern.