Aaron yawned. “The fate of the world always hangs in the balance.”
“Perhaps,” the voice answered. “And Adina? What of her?”
Aaron snapped fully awake at that, the events of the last few days crashing down on him in rapid succession. He remembered flames dancing in the darkness, the silver streak of blades in the night. He remembered Kevlane’s creatures and their captives, his friends, staked to the ground in a clearing as if waiting for their execution. He sat up in bed, glancing around the small room. “My sword,” he said. “Where’s my sword?”
“It is safe. Now, please,” the man said, “you may relax here. You are in no immediate danger.”
“Relax?” Aaron demanded. “Are you out of your damned mind? Look,” he said, remembering the Akalians carrying him away from the battle, “I don’t know why you took me or what your plans are, but if you get in the way of me helping my friends—”
“Your friends are safe,” the man assured him.
“Safe?” Aaron said. “What in the name of the gods do you mean? I don’t even know where Adina is, and the last I saw of the others they were staked to a clearing—”
“Not any longer,” the Speaker of the Akalians interrupted. “They are as safe as any can be in these times. They are here, in the barracks, where they have been for the past three days. As is Princess Adina.”
Aaron breathed a heavy sigh of relief at that, but then something the man had said struck him. “Three days? What are you talking about?”
The Speaker sighed, nodding. “I’m afraid that you have slept for three days, Aaron. The fault of the herbal mixture in the darts which struck you. Normally, we do not use so much, but you were particularly resistant to the effects, and we were forced to take drastic measures. In truth, I was not sure when you would wake, or if you would wake at all.”
Aaron studied the man, frowning. “Particularly resistant. Yeah, not the first time I’ve been drugged. But that means…my dream…it was real.”
“Yes.”
“Then there really are eight Virtues,” Aaron said, “not seven as everyone believed.”
“Yes.”
The sellsword grunted. “I think it best you show me to Adina and the others—then I’ll have some questions for you that need answering.”
Co? he asked silently, are you there? There was no answer, and his frown deepened.
“If you are wondering at your Virtue’s absence,” the Speaker said as if reading his thoughts, “then I can assure you that she is, at least, safe. Once assured of your well-being, she has spent these three days with her father, Lord Caltriss. It is a reunion that has been thousands of years in the making, and one that I dared not begrudge them.”
Aaron nodded, rising from the bed. “Adina and the others—show me.”
***
The Speaker led Aaron past rooms appointed similarly to his own, eventually stopping in front of a doorway with a small window built into it. On the other side of the door, he could see Adina, Leomin, Gryle, Caleb, and Wendell. They were all eating, save for Adina herself, who was speaking to one of the black-garbed figures standing at the side of the room. Aaron couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he knew that expression well enough—it was the face she got when she thought he was being particularly stupid and had it in mind to educate him. Though Aaron felt a great surge of relief at seeing her and the others safe, he didn’t much begrudge the Akalian the tongue-lashing he was no doubt getting. But if Adina’s anger bothered the black-garbed man he gave no sign, only standing and weathering the princess’s tirade without comment or reaction.
Aaron reached for the door, but the Speaker grabbed his arm, forestalling him. The sellsword turned with a frown. “Look, I appreciate what you did, saving them, but if you don’t let go of my arm right now, we’re going to put that legendary skill of you Akalians to the test.”
“I understand your desire to see her and the others, to speak to them,” the Speaker said, his voice calm, “but on the blood of my brothers who gave their lives to rescue you and your companions, I ask that you allow me to show you something first.”
“The blood of your brothers,” Aaron said, remembering the black-garbed figures that had appeared in the torchlight, striking down several of Kevlane’s creatures before they had a chance to react and then staying and battling it out with them. Despite their impressive skill, the Akalians had stood no real chance of victory. But, then, he realized, they never meant to win. They hadn’t fought the creatures with the hopes of defeating them, but only so Aaron and the others might be rescued. They had fought, and they had died, for him and the others. “How many?” he asked, his voice low and harsh.
The Speaker took a moment to answer, and Aaron thought he saw some great emotion pass through the man’s eyes, but it was gone in another instant. “Sixty of my brothers began their journey to the long dark in the forest clearing.”
Aaron nodded slowly, feeling numb. “And how many of you are there left?”
“Less than two dozen of us remain,” the Speaker said, and though his expression did not change, Aaron thought he could hear some of the pain, some indication of the true loss the man had experienced beneath the surface of his words.
“Why?” It was the only thing Aaron could think to ask, for he found that he needed some explanation, some reason why those men might have thrown their lives away.
“For you,” the Speaker said. “And for the others.”
“A bad deal you made for me, at least, Speaker,” the sellsword said, his voice nearly too low to hear. “But I thank you for saving the others.”
“You are wrong, you know,” the speaker said. “You still do not understand the role that you will play. How important you are.”
Aaron grunted. “I’m not worth this—maybe there are those who are, but I’m not one of them.” He couldn’t resist glancing back through the window then, watching Adina. As angry as she clearly was, he had never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect. There, he thought, there is a woman worth fighting for, worth dying for. “You should go back to wherever you came from, Speaker,” he said, still watching Adina. “I thank you for what you did, but you should take yourself and the rest and go back to the others.”
“The others?”
Aaron turned then. “The rest of you. The other Akalians.”
The Speaker frowned, and there was a profound sadness there of which that frown was only the barest glimpse. “You misunderstand, Aaron Envelar. There are no others, no home to which we might go. We, here, are the last of the Akalians.”
Aaron stared at the man in shock. “Gods, you can’t be serious. Well, then you have to go! Get out while you still can, while there are any of you left to escape.”
The man gave a slow smile at that, and he shook his head. “Forgive me, Aaron Envelar, but the mission of the Akalians is not to survive—it never has been. And not even you might tell us where we will go, for we are not finished here—not yet.”
“Not even me?” Aaron said. “What does that mean?”
The Speaker nodded. “Come,” he said, beckoning Aaron to follow. “I will show you.”
The sellsword hesitated, glancing through the window once more at Adina and the others. May was not with them, he saw, and that was something, at least. She, it seemed, had been smart enough to stay away. Anyway, it was clear that whatever the Akalians wanted from Aaron and the others, they didn’t mean them any harm. Sixty men. “Okay,” he said, turning back to the Speaker. “Show me.”
***
The Speaker led Aaron past empty room after empty room, each identical to the one in which he’d awoken. “What is this place, anyway? Where are we?”
The Speaker glanced at him, continuing to walk down the hallway. “As for where we are, we are still within the forest outside of Perennia, though, admittedly, some distance from where you fought the Lifeless.”
Aaron frowned. “The Lifeless?”
“It is what we call the magi’s creatures. In truth, the
re is some little life left, but only enough that one might gaze upon them and feel the absence of what is missing. The magi, in his incredible power, shapes them, ripping out those things that make them human and leaving, in their place, an ever-hungry void.”
Aaron grunted. “Lifeless, huh? Well, as good a name as any for them. Still, if this Boyce Kevlane is as all-powerful as you say, it seems to me that he would be better off sending the dead at us. These things aren’t easy to kill, sure, but they do die.”
“You speak of reanimation,” the Speaker said, his voice dark, “of creating perversions that are the antithesis to life itself. Boyce Kevlane is a magi of the ancient order, the most powerful of his kind in the history of the world…yet, Shadow be praised, such workings of the Art are beyond even such as he.”
“Are you sure?” Aaron asked. “Because it seems to me that he’s been learning some new tricks. There was one in the forest, one that was different from the others—”
“Yes,” the Speaker said, the slightest bit of worry entering into his normally placid tone, “the abomination. He is unique, but he will not be for long. You see, the magi is, in some ways, like an artist. A sculptor, perhaps, or a painter—”
“I think you might have Kevlane all wrong,” Aaron interrupted. “As far as I know, paintings rarely come to life and start killing everyone around them, and sculptures don’t move faster than a galloping horse.”
The Speaker nodded his head as if to concede the point. “Yes, but, like Kevlane, a sculptor or a painter’s work only has as much potential as the materials he uses. A man cannot build a house from sand, nor can a sword be fashioned from water. In this, they are the same, for though Kevlane’s Art is powerful, his workings cannot exceed the materials upon which he uses them.”
“People,” Aaron said. “You mean people.”
“Yes.”
Aaron considered that, thinking back to the creature in the clearing, the one who had been stronger than the others and, with a shock, realized that, despite the scarring that had covered its face, something about it struck him as familiar. It took him a moment, but finally the face—and the name—crashed into his mind. Savrin. The man who he had left at the gate when they escaped the city, the man who he had told to go back to his sister. Apparently, the man had not listened. The poor bastard.
He rubbed at his eyes, feeling suddenly very weary. “So you’re saying that he hasn’t been able to create more like Savrin because, what? The people he has to experiment on haven’t been good enough?”
The Speaker shrugged. “Good or bad—how may one man judge the worth of another in such a way? Say only that water has its uses—to a man in the far reaches of the desert, there is nothing of more value and, to such a man, water is a savior. It is water that gives life to plants, to the animals of the forest and plain and, in the end, to us. Yet, a carpenter who chooses to fashion a house from it is a fool, for there are other mediums he might use, ones better suited to the task. Say, then, that the people on which the magi has been working his Art aren’t ‘bad’—only that they are ill-suited for his purposes.”
“Shit,” Aaron said, freezing in the hallway. “Kevlane is planning a tournament—if what you’re saying is true—”
“Yes,” the Speaker agreed. “Very soon, the magi will have all of the warriors he needs to create an army of creatures greater even than those which we now face.”
“Exactly,” Aaron said, feeling impatience rise in him. “That’s exactly why I and the others have to leave. Now. Don’t you understand that with each moment we delay, Kevlane grows stronger? The tournament is set to start any day now, and if we don’t make it to Baresh before that—”
“The tournament has started already,” the Speaker said. “Yet still warriors flock to Baresh by the score in search of fame and fortune.”
“Damnit man,” Aaron said, “then don’t you get it? You have to let us go.”
The Speaker shook his head. “It does a man no good to rush to the battle only to find that he has no weapons with which to fight, to realize that he doesn’t even know how to fight.”
“And what?” Aaron said, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “You’re going to give us weapons?”
The Speaker shook his head again. “You already have the weapons—I’m going to show you how to use them.”
Aaron sighed. “I don’t want to sound like an asshole here, but if I don’t know how to use weapons after all this time, I never will.”
The Speaker stopped walking and turned to him. He reached out with a speed that was shocking and grabbed Aaron’s wrists. He pulled upward so that Aaron was looking at his own hands. “You know how to use these,” the Speaker said. “With them, you might slay many men, many of the Lifeless but, in the end, you will fall.” He let Aaron’s hands drop and pointed at his mouth. “This weapon, too, you know well the use of. With it, you would command thousands of blades, would bring the full force of them to bear on Baresh, on the magi and his armies. Those soldiers would follow you willingly, conquered by the power of your speech, and they would follow you to their deaths.”
Aaron frowned, forcing himself to remain calm. “Well, if what you’re saying is true, then we’re all fucked anyway—but know this, Speaker, if I’m going to die, I mean to do it with a blade in my hand.”
“Spoken like a true warrior,” the Speaker said in a voice which held no emotion. “A true fool.”
Aaron grunted at that, and opened his mouth to retort, but the Speaker went on. “Whether you die with a sword in your hand or without, you and those who believe in you would be dead just the same. No,” he said, slamming his open hand on Aaron’s chest hard enough to make the sellsword take an involuntary step back. “This is the weapon you must use—this is the one for which you have no understanding. You are like a child swinging naked steel—you like the feel of it in your hands, but you have no understanding of what it means when the blade cuts.”
“My heart? Is that what you mean?” Aaron said. “Because, in my experience, a sword is more use in a fight any day.”
“Yes,” the Speaker said, a slight smile rising on his face. “In your experience. Still, there is time, if only a little. And do not believe yours is a unique problem, for many men go through life never understanding what power lies inside them, hordes of children each swinging their own swords and then acting surprised when someone is hurt. You, though…” He leaned close, meeting Aaron’s eyes. “You are different. If other men carry swords, then you have an army of thousands of them. You cannot afford to continue as you have, cannot afford to ignore the best weapon you have, for while other men might, in their ignorance and lack of understanding, leave one or two wounded and bleeding from the passage of their life, you, if you do not learn, will leave thousands, not wounded, but dead.”
“No pressure then,” Aaron said sardonically. “Anyway, you were going to show me something?”
The Speaker studied him for a moment then nodded. “Yes. This way.”
They continued deeper into the barracks, passing one empty room after another. They saw a few other black-garbed men as they walked, but not many, and the truth of their sacrifice was brought home to Aaron anew. He was still walking after the Speaker when a form lying in the bed of one of the rooms they passed caught his eye, and he stopped, staring. “That woman…” he said, remembering when he’d entered the clearing. “I’ve seen her before.”
“Yes,” the Speaker said, and though his voice was still calm and collected on the surface, Aaron thought he detected a hint of what might have been impatience underlying his tone. “What I want to show you is this way. If you’ll follow—”
“Hold on a minute,” Aaron said, casting his mind back to the clearing, remembering the woman on her hands and knees, bloody but not quite unconscious. Nor, he recalled, had she been staked to the ground like Leomin and the others. He turned to the Speaker. “Who is she?”
There was a definite tenseness to the Akalian’s posture now, but when he
spoke his voice was calm enough. “Only another that was saved from the Lifeless; she need not concern you. Now, if you will—”
Aaron frowned. He’d grown up in the Downs, had spent his life dealing with criminals, and he’d grown proficient in detecting lies or half-truths. The Speaker was hiding something. “Just wait. From what you’ve told me, I think I can understand why you saved me and my friends, and maybe I am a bumbling child swinging a sword around, but I know deceit when I see it.” He pointed a finger at the sleeping figure, his gaze never leaving the Akalian. “In the clearing, the night the others were taken, she was there.”
The Speaker’s expression was, as usual, unreadable, but there was a stiffness to his jaw that Aaron thought hadn’t been there before. “Yes.”
“’Yes?’” Aaron repeated. “That’s it? A minute ago, you couldn’t seem to talk enough, but now all of a sudden you’ve nothing to say?” He shook his head. “Look, I appreciate what you and your men did—the sacrifice you made to save us—but people I care about have suffered, some have even died, because I didn’t know enough of what was going on. Now, I’m not following you anywhere before you tell me who she is and why she’s here.”
The Speaker sighed. “Will you not take my word that she is of no danger to you or your friends, and that she will in no way impede your fight with the magi and his minions?”
Aaron considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but no. I’ve had enough of secrets in the past few months to last me a lifetime. I know you helped us, and I’m grateful, but I’m not taking another step without some answers. All I know is that she was in the clearing with the others and that she looked as if someone had struck her over the head. I may not understand as much about Kevlane and his followers as you seem to, but I know enough to know that he loves treachery and betrayal. I’ve nearly lost count of the number of assassination attempts I’ve witnessed since I came to Perennia, and it seems to me that a clever bastard like Kevlane might just place a wounded ‘innocent’ with the others, on the off-chance that she gets into a position where she can betray us or kill one of those people I want to protect.”
A Sellsword's Mercy Page 4
