Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  After what seemed hours, but probably wasn’t more than a minute or two, they arrived. Father liked to hold classes outdoors when he could. Today, they were gathered under one of the massive willow trees that stood in the main courtyard. She’s always thought the tree odd, bark much darker than any other willow she’d ever seen. She was somewhat relieved to hear that father was already lecturing as they approached.

  “The Ebon Affair occurred in the year 550 A.A.,” he was saying as they approached, apparently having switched from politics to history when she hadn’t returned quickly enough. For a moment she thought they might just be able to sit at the back of the group without father noticing.

  She ought to have known better.

  “Ah, Jenzara. I see you’ve located our missing comrade.”

  Two dozen heads turned in unison to consider them. Students ranging from age ten to as old as eighteen or nineteen. There weren’t enough teachers in Ral Mok to break the students into smaller classes. Once children were of sufficient age that they didn’t require constant supervision, they were trained primarily by father, old Nolan Mapleaxe, the town’s Master at Arms, and Robertin Windstorm, the Master at Elements, though the latter was currently away on business at Tragnè City. Any students who showed promise with blade or channeling would be sent north to Port Lustin around their 18th birthday to join in the war effort. Many of those would go on to Doom’s Keep to guard the land crossing from North to South. Those who lacked military talents generally remained in Ral Mok, taking up a useful trade or given small plots to farm. Once in a great while, one who showed particular promise would be sent off to Tragnè City for further training, though father always discouraged such. Any love he’d once had for the City of Light was long lost.

  Those who looked at them now were not amused. Many offered Ferrin cold glares that would have brought color to the face of even the most confident students. Ferrin, however, had already gone back to reading his book and didn’t seem to notice. This resulted in many turning their stares to her, as if she had any control over Ferrin. She frowned back at them, but felt her face reddening all the same. Mercifully, father motioned for her to sit, which she did all too eagerly. This left Ferrin standing alone under the glares of those gathered. For a moment she felt guilty at having abandoned him. But he just went right on reading, seemingly oblivious to all the eyes on him, including father’s.

  “Ferrin,” father said. His tone hadn’t altered from the one he’d used while lecturing, but his eyes narrowed. For father, this was practically the equivalent of screaming.

  Ferrin actually had the ripe apples to glance up from the page he was reading, frown at father, and then look back down before reluctantly marking his spot with a finger and giving over his full attention. Jenzara could barely watch. Why did he have to be so difficult?

  “Since you apparently don’t feel you need to attend class,” father went on once Ferrin was looking at him, “I assume that means you understand all the material already. Why don’t you explain to us the historical underpinnings leading up to the Ebon Affair?”

  Ferrin glanced around at the other students, as if to ask whether one of them couldn’t handle such a mundanity. Some continued to leer at him, but most averted their gazes. That was part of the problem—they knew Ferrin was smarter, and better at fighting, and better at channeling than them. And everyone assumed he was father’s favorite, what with the private training he supplied Ferrin. Jenzara almost couldn’t blame Ferrin for the high opinion he held of himself. She suppressed a sigh.

  Finally, Ferrin shrugged and let out a sigh of his own, as if he’d just been asked to clean the latrines and couldn’t think of a good excuse to get out of it. His gray-blue eyes shone in the morning light as he spoke.

  “Thank you, Master Raldon. I’d be happy to.” He spoke as if father had just done him a great favor and looked around with staged enthusiasm. The students’ angered looks grew, but Ferrin launched into his explanation, either not noticing or not caring. Likely it was the latter.

  “As we learned last week,” he pitched his voice in such a way that he might as well have added you dolts at the end, “the end of the Great Shadow War marked the beginning of the modern age, what we now commonly refer to as the years ‘After Agar’ or ‘A.A.,’ since his death coincided with the War’s end.” He spoke with the slow emphasis an adult might use with a child. A dumb child, Jenzara thought, though she now found herself suppressing a smile at Ferrin’s antics, despite his arrogance. His aloofness mixed with the growing ire of those around him was just the right combination of ridiculous.

  “Before the War,” Ferrin drawled on, “Agarsfar had hardly been explored at all by the Leveande, the founding refugees who escaped from Sykt and the persecution of the Mad King. During that time, Agarsfar was little more than a loose grouping of outposts along the southern and western coasts, held together largely by the will of the founding quartet: Agar, Tragnè, Trimale, and Ral. But after the War, Agarsfar began to take the shape that is familiar to us today.”

  Father gave Ferrin a subtle motion to move on, indicating he hadn’t intended for an oratory on the entire history of Agarsfar. Ferrin gave him an irritated look that bordered on insubordinate. Probably would have been insubordinate coming from anyone else. She could just hear him saying, “But I’m just giving the class a sound foundational understanding as you asked.” And he was almost brazen enough to say something like that aloud.

  But father knew how to handle Ferrin. After a moment of receiving only his silent, graceful demeanor in reply to his impish glare, Ferrin sighed an apology and continued on. He might be cavalier, even indifferent at times. But he had respect for father too. Some, at least.

  “In any event, with some exceptions, the North was ultimately settled by Lady Trimale’s followers, adherents to the Alduric Church, or the Angelic faith as its more commonly known now. They established Mount Trimale as the northern capital and to this day it remains as the only true city in the North.

  “Lady Tragnè’s followers, meanwhile, remained largely in the south, where they had already begun to build what would become Tragnè City prior to the War. It’s widely believed that, before the war’s end, Tragnè adhered to the Angelic faith, just like those in the North. But after Agar was killed during the War’s final battle, she decried the Alduric Church, a sentiment quickly taken up by her followers. And after a series of miracles that could not be explained by Tragnè’s elemental prowess with the light—not even her ability to call upon the power of one of the five great Invocations—the Senate declared her a living deity.” After a pause, during which Jenzara thought Ferrin smartly stopped himself from either laughing or rolling his eyes, he added with a bow of his head, “Light’s Will be blessed.”

  The class murmured the words back, as was proper under the Temple’s teachings.

  “Jump forward several hundred years,” Ferrin continued, a bit too quickly after the ritual words, “The Angelic Church was entrenched as the main belief system in the North, whereas the teachings according to Tragnè, as espoused by the Temple in her Oral Histories, were the South’s. So even before the Ebon Affair, there was already a distinct division between North and South. Add to that the fact that certain elements fared better in one region than the other, and the division deepened. Light and earth were generally of more use in the temperate climate of the South, while fire, water, and—” Ferrin paused, then shrugging, finished the thought, “and shadow proved better fits for the much harsher environs of the North.”

  The faces of some of the students grew troubled at the mention of the fifth element. These days, it was ill-advised to speak of shadow too loudly, if at all, what with the war against the North and the Shadow Edicts. Father ignored the students’ troubled looks, though she wished he wouldn’t be so passive about the Edicts. They’d been handed down by the Parents of Tragnè after all. And sometimes he acted as if he’d forgotten that the shadow was responsible for mother’s death.

  “Very good,
Ferrin. A very,” father paused, smiling with an undertone of sarcasm that matched Ferrin’s own, “thorough summary.”

  Ferrin nodded as if to an equal and took a seat just close enough from the other students that it could be said he remained a part of the group. He immediately opened his book and began reading once more. Several of the students glowered at him when they thought he wouldn’t see.

  “As it turned out,” father continued lecturing, “the North was plentiful in a rare ore that the Leveande had never encountered. It was easy to smelt and craft, incredibly strong, yet light weight. Northerners called it ebon, due to its brilliant black shine. For a short time after the material’s discovery, the land’s most desirable blades, arrow heads, cookware, and other tools came from the foundries of Trimale and Glofar, and southerners paid a high price for the North’s ebon merchandise.

  “But, as we all now know, ebon has some rather unfortunate side effects when used by those not attuned to the fifth element.”

  Jenzara noted with approval father’s tactful avoidance of “shadow.” At least he didn’t try to force his distaste for the Parents’ policies on others.

  “Once exposed to the ebon, many southerners fell victim to an unknown illness, what we now call the shadow sickness. The pandemic resulted in a rash of deaths; some histories put the estimate as high as 25,000 to 30,000. Such a toll would be high even by today’s standards in the year 1030, with our population of around one million. Back in 550, when the land’s population was only half that, it was devastating.

  “Eventually, the South realized the sickness was caused by exposure to ebon. The leadership in Tragnè blamed the North for profiting at their expense and instituted an embargo on all trade between the North and South that lasted for decades. And in some ways, it’s never been lifted.”

  That didn’t sound quite fair, Jenzara thought. It seemed to her that the South had been just as excited over the super material as the North. Then again, the North’s reputation for deception was well known. It was part of every child’s basic education, as required by the Edicts. Northerners could not be trusted.

  “Of course,” father went on, “trade never truly ceased between the North and South. Each has too many resources upon which the other depends. But while culture clashes can never be boiled down to a single event, much of the tension between the South and North can be traced back to the Ebon Affair. Amazing, when one considers there’s little credible evidence of malicious intent on the North’s part.”

  Jenzara winced. She was no historian. Didn’t care for it at all if she was honest. But even she knew that last remark was unnecessary subjective commentary. Whether conscious or not on father’s part she wasn’t sure.

  “What about the North’s murder of Grand Master Keeper Bladesong?” a student shouted without raising a hand. Several others murmured angry assent.

  “And the fact that those attuned to the shadow are naturally prone to treachery?” yelled another.

  Jenzara covered her face with a hand to hide her embarrassment.

  “Yeah,” the first shouted in reply. “Everyone knows that. If there’s Northerners about, best hide your bits, silvs, and gilts. That’s what my ma always says.”

  This garnered a few laughs. Through her fingers she saw father’s face darken.

  “You shouldn’t speak of things you know not,” he said.

  Without missing a beat, one of the older male students retorted, “Sounds like something a shadow friend would say.”

  Gasps from some of the other students. Criticizing the North in the abstract was one thing. Implying that father, the Master of Ral Mok, sympathized with those attuned to the fifth element was something else altogether. Even so, some of the older students nodded along with the accusation.

  Without thinking, Jenzara jumped to her feet, jabbing a finger at the boy who’d spoken. “Take that back, you rock pusher.”

  She wasn’t a lithe wisp like so many of the other girls at Ral Mok. And she was taller than average. But as the boy rose to face her, she gulped at his broad shoulders.

  “Sounds like daddy’s little girl is just as much of a shadow hugger as he is. No wonder they kicked you both out of—”

  A blur out of the corner of her eye. Then the sickening crack of the boy’s jaw as a fist connected right below his temple, immediately followed by a swift left and a squishy snap as the boy’s nose broke. He swayed for a moment, like a rope twisting in a gentle breeze. Then his eyes rolled back and he dropped to his knees. His face was a scarlet mess as he fell to the ground, a whoosh of air escaping his lungs.

  Jenzara felt her mouth hanging open as she realized it was Ferrin towering over the boy, fists clenched, his book abandoned on the ground where he’d sat just moments before. For an instant, the area around him seemed to grow lighter, though the courtyard’s trees still shaded them. Then Jenzara shook her head and the illusion was gone.

  He made to kick the fallen boy, but then Ferrin too was dropping to the earth, father’s staff sweeping his legs out from under him. Before slamming to the ground, Ferrin caught himself and shot an angry glare at father, holding the plank position he’d dropped to. But father had already turned to face the injured boy.

  He was sitting there in the dirt, blood streaming from both nostrils, over his lips, and dripping from his chin. He was at once blubbering like a child and spluttering like a crazed man.

  “Did you—” Sharp inhalation. “He attacked—” Racked sob. “I’ll kill—”

  “That’s enough, Jeremyck,” father said evenly. Without further pretense he walked up to the boy, knelt, and placed a palm over his bleeding face. Jeremyck tried to mumble out a protest. Then a flash of light blinded Jenzara.

  Crack. Thrump. Jeremyck let out a muffled cry from behind father’s outstretched hand.

  When her vision cleared, the blood was gone from the boy’s face and the left side of his jaw was once more level with the right, his nose straight. All that remained of the injuries were tear-reddened eyes and moist cheeks. A trickle of blood stained the collar of his tunic.

  Without so much as another glance at Jeremyck, father turned to Ferrin, eyes glaring with reproach. But before he could speak, a shout came from the ramparts.

  “Master Raldon, a caravan approaches from the South. Twenty, maybe thirty horse. And a couple wagons.”

  A caravan? As far as Jenzara knew there was no arrival scheduled for today. Ral Mok was a convenient halfway point between Bristine Port in the South and Port Lustin, so traveling merchants weren’t uncommon. On occasion, fresh battalions of troops headed north to Doom’s Keep would also camp beyond the town’s walls for a night, while she and father entertained the commanders. But in either event, notice was always sent well in advance so preparations could be made. She looked to father. His cocked eyebrow indicated that a similar thought was crossing his mind.

  “Thank you, sentinel,” father replied. He regarded Ferrin with narrowed eyes for an instant more, then turned away from him. “Class is dismissed. For next time, please read the tome section discussing the early conflicts between the Parents and the Angelic Church. Prepare a scroll comparing and contrasting those conflicts with the North-South conflicts that arose after the Ebon Affair.”

  Several students groaned. Jeremyck spluttered something about punishing Ferrin. But father was already striding away to join the watch on the walls. With him gone, Ferrin rose and walked up to Jeremyck. He bent down, murmured in his ear, then continued on to retrieve the tome he’d been reading. Jeremyck’s face went white as the healing channel father had just used on him. He pushed himself to his feet and hurried off, casting furtive glances over his shoulder as he went.

  Through all this, Jenzara had remained planted to the spot where she’d risen to point an accusing finger at Jeremyck. Now she hurried off after Ferrin as the students began to disperse.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked once she’d caught up to him.

  He gave her a sidelong glance and shrugged. �
�Just that if he ever spoke to you like that again I’d make sure the next time we sparred my sword wouldn’t be a practice one.”

  Jenzara grimaced, though she couldn’t deny an inkling of satisfaction at his reply as well. But it wouldn’t do to admit such things.

  “You didn’t need to do that. I could have handled him myself.”

  “No, you couldn’t have,” Ferrin responded immediately, not looking at her.

  She grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to stop, and narrowed her eyes at him. She might not be very good when it came to fighting, but did he have to be so blunt about it? As if he could hear her thoughts, Ferrin sighed.

  “What I meant was you couldn’t have handled him properly. You’ve a reputation to maintain. Master’s daughter and all. You’ll be replacing your father before too long, I expect. But everyone hates me already. What’s one more reason atop the heap of others they’ve already concocted?”

  He gave her a grin, which she returned despite herself. She had no interest at all in staying here to live out her days as Ral Mok’s master, but the conviction in Ferrin’s voice was flattering nonetheless. Their eyes locked for a moment, though his darted back to the book in his hand after just a second or two. She squeezed his shoulder and was about to say more, but at that instant father returned.

  “Jenzara.” She turned to find him standing before her. Outwardly he seemed calm as ever. But had that been a hint of trepidation in his voice?

  “We’ve visitors,” he said. “You’ll accompany me beyond the wall to greet them.”

  Go out to greet the approaching party? That was odd. Highly irregular, in fact. Father never rode out to greet visitors. She looked for Ferrin’s reaction. He’d returned to his book, but she had the distinct impression that the look of concentration on his face was directed at her father’s words, not the pages.

  “Yes father, of course. I’ll have the grooms prepare my horse.”