Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  Jenzara gaped. Erem nodded.

  “We cannot,” she said. “You worry of getting past Will’s Hold, yet speak of fording the Justices? Impossible. Even in ruins, Riverdale South is garrisoned with thousands of troops. And even if we got across? The North? I’ve heard it said a man can’t last two days on foot there. It will take weeks to walk to Mount Trimale.”

  “Walking away from the Temple is better than walking into it,” Erem replied. “And the Symposium carries on in the North. I spent some...” His voice trailed off. “There are Keepers there who could help Ferrin, just as well as anybody we might coerce into assisting us in Tragnè City.”

  “It’s a good plan,” Ferrin said before Jenzara could argue further. She spun on him, face livid. But she had to listen now.

  “So long as the Grand Father carries on with this war, there’s nothing for me in the South, Jenzara.” He took one of her hands in his own, gazing into her eyes, wishing Erem weren’t still there.

  “They will hunt me no matter where I go in the South. And likely you too, thinking you’ve aided me.” He grimaced at that, partly because the thought of anyone seeking to hurt Jenzara angered him nearly to blind fury, but also because he wasn’t entirely certain it was true. Yet he knew saying it would push her to stay with him. He wanted to believe she’d come freely, but he’d take her acquiescence however he could get it. His grip on her hand tightened.

  Anger evaporated from her features and she pulled him into an embrace.

  “You’re right,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I’m just afraid.”

  Her hair smelled of the woods, and for a short time they remained wrapped in an embrace. After too short a time she pushed back from him. Despite expressing fear, there was only resolution in her face.

  “I’ve gone my whole life hearing how terrible the North is. But since I arrived here,” she motioned at the house around them, “I’ve also realized I don’t know as much of the world as I thought. Experience trumps mere words, it seems.”

  This brought a genuine smile to Ferrin’s lips. He wanted to hug her again.

  “You’ve been to the North before?” she asked Erem.

  He nodded.

  “You can get us to Trimale safely?”

  “Safely? No trip through the North is safe. But I’ve more confidence navigating its arid plains than a whole City bent on killing your friend and I.”

  She pursed her lips, but seemed to accept it. Then her brow furrowed. “And what of the crossing?”

  Erem shrugged, an altogether odd gesture coming from him.

  “It’s easier to get past a thousand men with no reason to be looking for you than a handful set on finding you. No one will expect you to cross the Justices, the Grand Father least of all. Not with the lies he knows you’ve grown up learning. And I’ve some tricks to conceal us from casual observers.”

  Jenzara considered and finally gave a reluctant nod. But hearing the Grand Father’s name suddenly sparked a doubt in Ferrin’s mind.

  “What about the Grand Father? Am I the only one who thinks it can’t be a coincidence that those shades showed up here only hours after we escaped him?”

  Jenzara sighed with exasperation. “I’ve accepted a lot in the past day. But are you suggesting the Grand Father is working with those monsters?”

  Ferrin only shrugged in reply, but her eyes showed that she caught his meaning. He killed your father. What else could he be capable of?

  “If what I know of Valdin is true,” Erem said, “then I wouldn’t put it past him to resort to such tactics to get what he wants.”

  Jenzara’s mouth was a thin line, but at least she didn’t leap to the Grand Father’s defense this time.

  “How are we going to beat him, then?” Ferrin asked.

  “We won’t need to,” Erem said. “He’s days behind us at Ral Mok. We’ll be across the West River and halfway to the Dales before he’s even through Falume.”

  “Well, if he’s working with shades, he can slow us down. And there’s always the barges at the West River Crossing. He could bring his whole covenant upstream with him.”

  “I can deal with Valdin if it comes to that,” Erem said. The man’s tone spoke of a deep-seated hate, louder than any words could have expressed. But Ferrin wasn’t concerned about the man’s personal struggles.

  “Like you handled the shades last night?” A muscle in the man’s jaw twitched and Ferrin couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile. Erem might think highly of himself, but Ferrin saw through his rocky exterior.

  “That’s enough,” Jenzara said. “We’ve already agreed every option is fraught with peril. Father used to tell me to deal with obstacles as they come; don’t invent ones that may not exist.”

  “Raldon always was the wise one,” Erem muttered.

  For his part, Ferrin was far from convinced. But a jolt of pain in his shoulder reminded him of the price of doing nothing. He remained silent.

  “So you settled things with Autumn?” Jenzara asked.

  “Yes,” Erem said, face turning to granite. “I found her this morning. She practically insisted I go. I think she must have been talking to... Well never mind. At least she can tend the crops while I’m away.”

  “What’s with you and those crops?” Ferrin said, not really intending for anyone to hear.

  “Nothing you need concern yourself with, boy.”

  “That doesn’t matter now anyway,” Jenzara said before Ferrin could respond. “The important thing now is that we have a plan, and an all-knowing guide to help us carry it out.” She gave Erem a sarcastic smile.

  Erem snorted and busied himself loading a veritable armory into a well-oiled leather sack he’d produced from beneath his cot near the fire. In addition to his ebon blade and dagger and the lion-emblem shield he’d used against the shades, Erem had slung a broad sword across his back, in addition to what seemed dozens of lesser weapons.

  Stabbing pain.

  It was all Ferrin could do to hide his reaction from Jenzara. The all-too-physical reminder of the urgency of the situation. And Jenzara was risking her life to help him. He couldn’t care less what happened to Erem. Ferrin still thought it’d be safer to leave him completely. But if anything were to happen to Jenzara...

  He found his thoughts drawn to the theory of peregrination he’d read about in Master Raldon’s book. That had only been two days ago, but it seemed a lifetime past. If only he had the power to change things.

  Well, he might not be able to reach the extreme heights of changing time, but he had power a plenty. Between his blade skill and newfound shadow power he’d ensure that any Parent who tried to hurt Jenzara paid dearly.

  Whatever the cost.

  28

  Devan

  Would that it be I had thought to construct Noktus Tor before I’d battled the Seven. That stone tower jutting from the sea like a lone dagger. A single door, locked from the outside, no windows. Stone impervious to channeling. I pray we never have cause to use it. But it remains should ever another Aldur take the Seven’s path, though the mere threat of imprisonment there ought to deter one from even entertaining such thoughts.

  -From Stephan Falconwing’s Commentaries on The Lessons

  TIME WASN’T RIGHT HERE. Almost like swimming in water that wasn’t wet. Nonsensical, but no less true. Devan scratched at the ritual face paint he’d applied before peregrinating here, that scar at the edge of his eye rough under his fingertips. He’d cut his hair after he’d found the others dead, but if he was right about what he’d find here, it seemed appropriate to follow the old traditions as best he could.

  Ral Falar. Or the inexplicable ruins of it anyway. The skeleton of a thriving city that had never existed. Stephan’s one great mistake. It had saved time, but nearly destroyed it too. Stephan had battled Messorem here, the greatest of the Seven, the Aldur who’d tried to break the Path’s cycle for their own, greed-filled reasons. Some said Messorem had been stronger than Stephan himself, though Devan couldn’t fathom that
. He hated when Linears compared the Aldur to gods, found it preposterous. But Stephan had come close. Devan had seen entire armies bow to a few whispered words from Stephan’s lips; a dozen Symposium blademasters trained in samruna fail to lay a finger on him; countless Grand Fathers quake in his presence. How any could hold more power than that was beyond Devan.

  Then again, Val had killed him. With treachery, certainly. But strength and power don’t exempt anyone from death’s inevitable march.

  It mattered not. Whether stronger or no, in the end Stephan had prevailed, casting Messorem from the Path into the Elsewhere, through a gash in time of Stephan’s own making.

  Stephan had never told how he’d managed it. Probably for the best, what with all the fallout it’d caused. A war in which the Seven had sent armies from the Elsewhere against the Aldur while they themselves were trapped there, turning their prison into an impregnable fortress. Entering the Elsewhere was very nearly the same as suicide. Only a handful had ever crossed over and returned. And Devan knew of only two who had returned with their minds intact. Yet the Seven had reached from it onto the Path easily enough, wreaking havoc so great it was said events had begun to melt into multiple points in time, the same battle simultaneously occurring a thousand years apart from itself. Even the Conclave’s Master Horologer, Devan’s predecessor, had been lost to the struggle. That much was remembered, but his (or, for that matter, her) name had been lost in the temporal chaos.

  Finally, Stephan had devised the Constants to plug the most serious damage to the Path, but even then the Path had never fully recovered. Before the Cataclysm, the Path had been a docile, country brook. After, it was at best a raging river, requiring the Aldur’s never-ceasing attention to stay on course.

  Still, it had rankled Devan that Stephan had never entrusted him with the knowledge of how he’d ripped open a hole to the Elsewhere. After everything they’d shared together. For all Devan knew, the key to fixing the current catastrophe with Bladesorrow lay with that lost knowledge.

  But crying over potholes did no good. Better to fill them in as best you can and carry on.

  Truthfully, he was just stalling. He’d never been to this place. None of the Aldur had since the Cataclysm. He recalled asking Stephan of it once. He’d dismissed it in his typically aloof manner. Just thinking of Stephan’s prototypical scoff accompanied by hand wave brought a smile to Devan’s face. But this particular time had been different. The flash of fear in Stephan’s eyes at the mention of Ral Falar had been so brief as to have hardly been. But it had been there, the memory seared to Devan’s brain sure as a flaming brand seared flesh. That brief crack in his mentor’s implacable personality had stuck with Devan through the centuries. Haunted his dreams. Why even think of going to a place that had struck fear in the heart of Stephan Falconwing?

  But, as Stephan had been wont to say, “Waiting won’t stop the Path flowing.” Better to do what needs doing now, no matter how much it scares you. Delay is the drug of the indecisive. And Raldon had been right. Even after the man had suggested Ral Falar, Devan had continued look anywhere but here. But he’d searched everywhere his powers could reach without finding so much as a trace of the Andstaed, the anti-Bladesorrow. Logically, that left places where his powers couldn’t reach. And Ral Falar was one of the few places that qualified.

  Besides, what was there to be afraid of here? The Seven were trapped in the Elsewhere. The fact that a thing most terrible had once tread here didn’t mean he should be afraid now.

  So Devan stepped forward, down a cobbled road lined with decrepit buildings, partly obscured by a fog that seemed suspended by strings, rather than to float as was natural. The air was the same, arid atmosphere of the rest of the North. But it left his tongue tingling, edges numb, every time he inhaled.

  He turned down another street. At its terminus stood a spire, protruding above the mist like a finger from the grave. A single, circular tower. A balcony along its uppermost point was surrounded by a parapet wall. Its roof coned into a singular point, an iron lightning rod at its tip stabbing into the sky. Unlike the ruins about him, the tower seemed untouched by the ages. It hurt his mind to look upon, as if it were too massive to take in all at once, yet his eyes told him he saw it all. It was his destination. The place didn’t even register as being on the Path. It had no history Devan could sense. No past. No future. It must be the site of Stephan’s Rending.

  He turned another corner, eyes focused on the central spire. So focused, in fact, he nearly walked into an entire murder of shades.

  “Washed out paths and I need to get to market,” he shouted in surprise, stumbling back. There were at least 30 of the shadow fiends, limbs all impossible angles that curdled the stomach. They stood clustered at the center of the boulevard, swaying back and forth like dead brush in a stiff breeze. Their eyes smoldered like the bowls of dying pipes, their mouths uniformly open in a spasmed rictus, whether of pain, terror, sorrow, or all three it was impossible to say. It seemed their ashen skin was likely to blow clear of their bones any moment.

  For several instants of hard breathing, Devan thought they hadn’t seen him. Then one of their heads snapped into his direction, so quick it seemed impossible the bones hadn’t snapped. It slipped. Not to be confused with peregrinating. Devan never left the Path while peregrinating, just moved along it. The way shades moved was like they opened a door, stepped off the Path completely, then reemerged through another door in a different location.

  The fiend appeared right in front of him. Its palm, bearing a jagged shadow heart, rose to strike him. Devan reacted without thought, imagining a slender katana forged of ebon.

  Leopard Springs from the Shadows.

  The psychic weapon took the shade’s hand off at the wrist, the shadow heart shattering upon the cobbles. The creature teetered for an instant, a sigh whistling through its gaping jaws. Then it disintegrated to dust. Rather than drop like ash to the ground, the particles floated away into the mists.

  Devan had little time to notice. Half-a-dozen more slipped, reappearing in a circle about him. They stuttered towards him, limbs all grotesque angles.

  Two could play this game. He peregrinated, extricating himself from the circle, reappearing behind one of the shades.

  Ram Climbs the Mountain.

  His imagined cleaver took the shade’s head off. Another of the fiends lurched at him, but he’d already peregrinated again, a hunting knife already coming down to sever the arm of another. He moved without thought, flowing like a melody amongst the monsters.

  Lark Sings in the Morning.

  Heron Dives.

  Swan Alights.

  Two more shades fell to dust in his wake. Without looking, he caught the wrist of another attempting to drive its shadow heart into his spine. Intense cold prickled his fingertips at the touch. Usually, Devan could sense a creature’s course along the Path through touch. But the shade gave no such sensation. It was nothing at all, like a book with naught but blank pages.

  He shook off the momentary surprise of the creature’s nothingness, focusing on the thing’s elemental makeup. It might not be of the Path, but it was currently existing on it, which meant its body followed the Path’s physical rules; it was made of a combination of the five elements.

  Devan channeled, but rather than draw power from Stephan’s chronometre, he pulled from the mortal fire within the shade, the burning life force that held living things together. There was alarmingly little in the thing, nowhere near enough to sustain any true life. But even the paltry sum was a furnace. He grabbed at it all, then flung it from the shade at one of the others. That one went up in a smoking inferno. The one from which he’d taken the mortal flame deflated like an emptying bladder, a bag of vacuous skin flopping to the ground.

  Channeling like that, using the elements of a living thing, was forbidden as an unthinkable cruelty. But Devan felt no remorse doing it to a creature of the Elsewhere.

  Several more shades slipped to block his way, replacing those he’
d felled. He frowned, dropping his hands to his hips. It could take the better part of the afternoon to dispatch the whole murder. And that wasn’t what he’d come to do. He turned his eyes in the direction of the ruins’ central tower and peregrinated once more.

  He reappeared at the structure’s base, its height soaring above him. There was no fog around the tower; he could see straight to its peak, though the dizzying nausea he’d felt upon looking at it from a distance returned and he quickly returned his gaze to the ground.

  There was a wide, double-doored entry before him. The heavy-planked doors appeared pristine, as if new made. A startling contrast to the desolation all about it. The arch of the doorway was capped with a keystone fashioned in the likeness of a falcon, beak agape, talons reaching out. It sent a chill through him.

  He turned his head at a surprised shout off to his left. A woman in a white robe stood there, jabbing an accusatory finger at him. A Parent of Tragnè. He sensed her reach out for an earth channel.

  He was far quicker. Peregrinating, he appeared at her back, driving a psychic knife into the base of her skull. He grimaced as the body dropped into his arms like a sack of rocks. Killing Linears was not his preferred method, but where there was one Parent, there’d be more. And the method he’d used had been quick, one he’d used before to exact an instantaneous, painless death.

  He laid the body down with as much dignity as he could, then stalked off in the direction from which she’d come. A short way back into the mists he came upon a cluster of tents hung amongst the wreckage of what might have once (but also never) been a market. He reached out to the shadow in Stephan’s chronometre, calling forth a simple channel that would shield him from all but the most astute observer.

  Between the guards milling about, and the dwellings and supplies he could see, there were perhaps two score Parents there. Curious. He knew there was a war going on between North and South in this rogue strand of the Path. But there was no strategic significance to these ruins. Why post a garrison here? In fact, since Val was posing as Grand Father, why would he post them here? Devan reflexively glanced back to where he’d fought the shades, then up at the central tower. His stomach tightened at the implications.