Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  “The True Path demanded her death,” Devan replied. “I spent years trying to find a way to avoid it, you know it for true. And even when I exhausted every option, I didn’t block you from petitioning the full Conclave. I knew how much it meant to you.” These last words were bitter in Devan’s mouth. He had done everything, more than Val knew. But if he’d already descended this far into madness, speaking of it here would help nothing. Change nothing.

  “I’ve no interest in your efforts. It is the end that led to this, not the means. Murder is murder. My beloved is gone.”

  Devan shook his head. This was like a bad dream. They’d had this same argument dozens of times. But even in his worst nightmares Devan had never imagined Val would express his rage in this unforgivable manner.

  “That’s the risk each of us takes getting close to a Linear,” Devan said, raising his voice over the pelting of rain about them. “They are frail. Fleeting. Their greatness is built in memory and legacy, not long lives across the Ages such as our own. It is the blessing and curse of this life our people lead.” Devan grimaced, hearing Stephan in those words and remembering his ruined body that lay within the cave. “The life that our people led.”

  “Spoken like a true Angelic,” Val mocked, ignoring his accusatory glare. “You’d better be careful the rain doesn’t wash away your makeup.”

  Devan squeezed the chronometre until he thought its crown would pop off.

  “As for sending the Path into a Chaos? I don’t think it will. I’ve been telling you all for decades now, there’s no evidence that the Path must remain on its circular course. Even Stephan never expressly refuted it. The only benefit I can see is that it left the Aldur securely in power, knowing precisely how events of the Path would play out, over and over for eternity.”

  Devan couldn’t believe this. Val had never been a conformist, often making wild arguments about free will. But to dispute this? It was a fundamental truth that the Path—time itself—was circular, the past feeding into the future, the future bound to repeat itself.

  “And what’s more,” Val continued, “if the Path doesn’t need to be circular, fated to repeat itself forever, then that means there might be hope for her. If you truly cared for her at all, as you claim, then that should be enough for you. Even one who’s been annihilated can be brought back.”

  “You killed all the others, risked the very existence of time itself, based on a theory that might alter the fate of a single being?”

  “I did not—”

  “Don’t you dare deny it, Val,” Devan said, shaking a fist at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  “This is all your fault,” Val muttered. Devan had another retort ready, but demurred at the tone of conviction and regret in Val’s voice, as if he believed without reservation that what he said was the truth. They stared at each other for a time, the rain spattering onto the rocks around them as if from a mortal wound. Finally, Devan broke the silence.

  “What’s more, even after all this, it won’t work. Cannot work. The Path doesn’t allow even someone like us to just go around killing Constants. It’s been that way ever since the Cataclysm, self-correcting to prevent such catastrophe. Maybe if you had two or three of the others helping you could overcome it. But they’re all...” An unexpected sob stuck in his throat. He had to swallow hard and squint to keep the tears in his eyes. “All dead,” he finally finished.

  Val flinched as if the words had physically hurt him. But then he squared his shoulders with resolve, mouth tightening.

  “Yes. They’re all dead.” He spoke as if he weren’t the one responsible, causing disgust to coil in Devan’s stomach. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve taken certain steps to...” Val hesitated, emotion flashing in his eyes. Uncertainty?

  “I’ve taken steps to ensure that Bladesorrow’s death cannot be remedied, even by the likes of you.” He looked as if he wished to say more, but remained silent, as if he somehow didn’t know how to go on.

  But hesitancy or no, the extent of Val’s madness stunned Devan. Not since the Cataclysm had there been a rogue strand from the Path that couldn’t be resolved. Some were quite complicated, certainly. But in the end, there was always a single point from which the anomaly originated. Find that, stop it, and the strand would resolve, like filling in a tributary off the main river. Time would continue to flow down the True Path.

  There was, in theory anyway, one way to prevent a rogue strand from resolving. Paradox. Two events occurring concurrently with different outcomes. But the chances of that were so infinitesimally small that it was impossible for one to occur naturally. And to do so intentionally would require more power than even Val possessed on his own. Devan shook his head.

  “You’re delusional, Val. Even if it could save her, it isn’t worth—”

  “Have you forgotten her face?” Val spoke with feral ferocity. He flung a hand towards Devan.

  No projectile left the traitor’s hand, but Devan staggered back all the same. The drenched outcrop faded from his vision, replaced with a scene of two men and a lovely young lady with amber hair laughing. It was spring and the orchids were blooming at—

  Devan let out a grunt of anger and pushed the vision from his mind. Memory projection was a simple enough trick, but the emotional force of Val’s had hit him like a mace. His balance wavered as he tried to refocus on the traitor.

  “You cannot stop it, old friend,” Val said, that tone of regret returning to his voice. As Devan’s eyesight returned, he saw Val floating down from his perch above the Conclave. Even now, the bitter taste of betrayal still fresh in his mouth, Devan was amazed at how Val could channel the elements from so far away, linking with the ground all the way from his high position. But the feeling of revulsion quickly returned to his innards. Val landed a dozen paces in front of him. His arrival whispered through Devan with unspoken hatred.

  “The dice are already cast,” Val said.

  Devan swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat. “Perhaps you have forsaken your oaths, but I have not. I will not let this go on.”

  “And I cannot let you try to stop me,” Val replied. “It would ruin everything. More than I can say. I wish it hadn’t come to this. But this is justice for what you did. To her.”

  Devan nearly spat back an angered reply. He had tried to save her!

  Lighting flashed, reflecting in Val’s eyes. Devan saw the madness there, but also great pain. This would be harder knowing the Aldur he’d once called friend was still partly there, lost to his grief.

  Whoosh.

  A wall of flame leapt up at Devan’s feet. He lurched back, an act of pure instinct, channeling water particles from the falling rain to shield himself from the searing heat. A trickle of power seeped through his body, drawing a thin film of water around him, preventing serious injury.

  Val’s laugh was nearly a cackle. Or was it a wail? It was difficult to say.

  “I always wondered how you could be so strong in horology, yet fail to excel in any of the individual schools. You’re like a Keeper who can’t use a blade.”

  There was no need to respond. Devan knew full well Val was his superior when it came to hexes, so he’d been ready for such an attack. A jet of pressurized water, or perhaps a landslide, or a shadow purge. But even Val couldn’t raise fire from nothing. There was no flame, not even a source of heat, in this drenched landscape.

  Val chuckled, a bitter sound, seeming to recognize his bewilderment. “Falconwing’s chronometre,” he stated, holding the timepiece for Devan to see. “I took it from him after....” He let the words trail off. Devan quivered, but somehow managed to stay in control. Val looked disappointed for a moment, then gazed at the chronometre with lust.

  “It is a Link—quite a powerful one. Fire, water, earth.” His voice was barely a whisper now, like an assassin’s blade sliding from its sheath. “Three of the five elements at my fingertips whenever I desire,” he continued.

  Devan hadn’t known Stephan’s chronometre was a Link, t
hough that was hardly surprising. One rarely advertised possession of such a powerful item. The relics were rare and coveted by Linears and Aldur alike. Even a Link that provided the faintest trickle of a single element was a hallowed item, often passed down from father to son. A Link that provided a strong, constant source of multiple elements upon which to draw was virtually unheard of.

  “I’d just assumed Stephan was naturally superior.” Mocking contemplation seeped into Val’s tone as he ripped his eyes from the timepiece. He tapped a finger to his chin. “I wonder what the others would have thought if they’d known our esteemed leader was a fraud?”

  He’d finally pushed too far. Devan made to lunge. But before he could, the ground shook, throwing him from his feet. Several boulders bounded down the slope above the cave entrance, hurtling towards him. He rolled to his back and, just before impact, rose his hands towards the rocks, as if in a futile effort to catch them. But rather than crush him, they deflected away from him, one after the other. He grunted after each impact but was otherwise unscathed.

  Val cursed. “You would always wear those things,” he muttered, waving at the rings on Devan’s fingers.

  Devan rose, offering no reply. Hopefully Val would keep talking, give him time to figure a way out of this. The fate of literally everything could depend on his surviving. He was relatively certain about what he’d said about the Path’s ability to self-correct. But this was dire, the loss of a Constant. He’d never let something like that go unremedied before. No Aldur had, as far as he knew.

  “Psychic Aptitude Weapons,” the traitor snorted. “Even Stephan stopped using those things, and he held on to the traditions like no other. But no matter. Psychic defenses will be no good to you here.” He gave Devan a broad smile, like a wolf preparing for a feast. “Come. Face your death with dignity.” He let his smile linger before adding, “Do not fear. Your memory shall live forever, my brother.”

  Devan took a breath, trying to quell the pounding in his chest. In a fair contest of elemental ability he’d have stood little chance. He and Val had often sparred together, and the result had almost always been Val gloating while Devan peeled himself from the ground. And now Val also had Stephan’s chronometre. Even the arena was to his favor. If there’d been any sun, or even a sliver of moon, from which to channel some light, he might have been able to siphon some power from the chronometre and the surrounding shadows to warp time or place to his advantage. Val had replaced the timepiece within the folds of his robe, but now that Devan knew he possessed it, that was about as effective as concealing a barking dog beneath a blanket. Devan could sense the power coming from the relic as sure as he could feel the particles of water pouring down from the heavens.

  But that was the curse of his horology. Manipulating time and place was a gift of immense power, but only if one had access to all five elements at once. And on this night no light penetrated the cloud cover. And without light, he could manipulate time and place no better than a Linear, which was to say not at all.

  “Time, it seems, will not be on your side this night,” Val said. “This is goodbye; I wish it could have been different.”

  Devan caught another glimpse of the pain in Val’s eyes and almost believed him. He wondered if the skomn had said something similar before murdering the others.

  Swirling wisps of black death began to seep from Val’s fingers, snaking their way toward Devan, gaining speed as they advanced. A putrid stink like rotting flesh radiated from the dark cloud.

  The ground about Val began to grow lighter as he channeled power from the shadows that surrounded him. He was drawing so much power into the dread hex that even the clouds above began to swirl. Devan’s eyes flicked to the skies, seeing his only chance.

  He charged into the snaking spindles.

  As he hit the black death, Devan called forth another psychic shield from the weapons wrapped around his fingers, and the dark cloud parted before him. Val grunted in surprise. He wouldn’t dare risk letting Devan within striking distance. Devan could turn the psychic shield into a sword with a mere thought, one that would slice just as well as any steel.

  Val didn’t let him down. As he drew even more power from the surrounding shadows, channeling it into the tendrils streaming from his hands, a dark aura tinged with violet began to envelop him. The intensity of the hex was near unbearable, and it quickly began to overpower Devan’s shield. His charge slowed to a crawl at the effort of pushing through the onslaught, as if he were trying to shove through a stone wall. The tendrils began to penetrate his imagined defense—for psychic weapons were little more than impressive imagination projected onto reality. They wrapped around his limbs. Squeezing. Burning. Searing. He uttered a low moan, but pushed on, the urgency of survival driving him.

  Then it was there. The bleak clouds parted ever so slightly as Val drew more and more power from the darkness around them. A thin beam of moonlight trickled through the opening. It wasn’t much.

  But it was enough.

  Devan closed his eyes, ignoring the agony of Val’s assault, and felt the moonlight brush over his face like a lover’s caress. The individual particles emitted from the lunar body. As he latched on to them, he also reached out for the power emitted by Stephan’s chronometre. He weaved the particles of earth, water, and fire emitted from the Link into the moonlight, then wrapped them about the shadow that was now virtually erupting from Val’s fingers. Everything fell into place, like the click of a key opening a complex lock, and Devan felt a wave of satisfaction that momentarily overcame even the excoriation of Val’s hex.

  Move, he commanded mentally, directing the shadow of Val’s hex into Stephan’s chronometre. There wasn’t enough light to alter the time flow of the shadow spewing from Val, but he could at least take control of the shadow and divert its course, manipulate the place of it. He wasn’t sure what channeling that much shadow into the Link would do, but he knew directing that much shadow power anywhere else was sure to bring the whole plateau down.

  The hex instantly shot back towards Val, into the chronometre now buried somewhere in his robes. He shrieked, ripped the timepiece from a pocket, and cast it down as if it were a burning coal. But the damage was already done. He couldn’t see what had happened, but just as one did not need to see the leg break if they’d heard the snap, Devan did not need to see what he’d sensed. Val had drawn so much shadow power that Devan’s unexpected misdirection had ripped away not only the channel, but Val’s entire shadow attunement along with it. A burn out. He’d heard the experience compared to having a limb ripped off, never to be used again. Devan had never experienced it, but given the choice, he’d gladly part with the limb.

  As the last bit of shadow ripped from Val into the chronometre, Devan felt him draw on the light still streaming down from the moon above, as well as the power—now four elements strong—being emitted from the chronometre.

  He disappeared. Winked out of time, his cries still echoing off the surrounding mountain tops. He’d fled like a wounded animal, using the last remnants of his shadow attunement to do so. He’d be trapped in whatever time he’d gone to. Without the ability to channel all five elements, Val would never peregrinate again. Stephan’s chronometre hummed with energy, glowing purple with the shadow power it’d just wrenched from Val.

  Devan reached out to the five elements once more, desperate to follow his traitorous friend, to complete the vengeance his people deserved. He groped for the remnants of Val’s final channel, trying to latch on and follow.

  But he was too exhausted, too hurt in every possible way, to track where Val had gone. The dread hex had departed with Val, but Devan’s limbs still burned where the tendrils had wrapped about them. Purple blisters bubbled along the lengths of each of his forearms. With the shadow energy now safely trapped in Stephan’s chronometre, Devan released his hold of the five elements and collapsed, the stone ground rushing up to meet him.

  He needed to find where Val had gone. There might still be time to stop him, corr
ect whatever he’d done to Taul Bladesorrow. Save the Path. But the cold stone felt so good on his face, his burned arms. His thoughts seemed to come from somewhere far away.

  Devan slipped out of consciousness. The clouds drifted back over the moon, casting the plateau into darkness once more. Rain pattered onto Devan’s unmoving form.

  6

  Ferrin

  Stone

  To protect those in need

  River

  When balance is the deed

  Blaze

  Initiative has its place

  Smoke

  Execute without a trace

  Sun

  With a life in your hands

  These truths, they are our creed

  And these words too, pay them heed:

  The blade is our saving grace

  Wielded only to protect this place.

  -Agar’s Litany, as first recorded in Agar’s Authorities

  HE SIDESTEPPED A BLOW intended for his gut and leapt backward into Brook Over a Pebbled Bed, one of the fundamental Stone stance forms. His opponent began circling in a wide arc, feinting now and again in a fruitless effort to draw him out, while at the same time presenting an exposed weak side.

  Ferrin wasn’t fooled. Though Jeryk had never used the technique before, his inviting stance was far too obvious. Even after becoming the most reviled man in Agarian history, Taul Bladesorrow’s style served as the foundation for most modern schools of blade theory, allowing the combatant to favor his sword-hand side, increasing reach and striking power. Classical theory had eschewed this method, as it left the off-hand side exposed. But with proper training, a bracer on the off-hand wrist could be used as a small shield to make up for that disadvantage.

  Jeryk lunged once more, but Ferrin slid away with barely a thought.

  Brook Down Sloping Falls.

  Birds chirped overhead as he returned to Stone stance, staring into the face of the boy opposite him. Some clouds had moved in, causing the sky’s reddish hews to cast a ruddy pall over his opponent. He was barrel chested and tall, better built than Ferrin. But he was already breathing heavy, where Ferrin wasn’t even sweating. Jeryk was considered one of the better swordsmen amongst the students, Ferrin knew. But that was like the difference between a mosquito and an ordinary fly. One was more annoying; both were equally easy to crush.