by D. T. Kane
“But while the Path must always arrive at these certain, fixed points, the manner in which it arrives at them is fluid, being subtly manipulated by the Angels in order to repair the rogue strands that are always threatening to send us into another Chaos. So, under the leadership of Stephan Falconwing, the Angelic went from passive observers of the Path, to active stewards. Wracked with guilt, he tasked the handful of remaining Angels with its care and preservation, fighting the ever-present cancer of their own creation that constantly threatens to destroy our world. He penned a new set of strictures for them to follow, called The Lessons. They even began to call themselves the Aldur, shunning the implicit hubris of calling themselves Angels.
“And to make matters worse, floating just under the surface of this never-ceasing battle to hold the Path together, remains the Seven. Though now blocked from our world, they retain a connection with this world’s shadow. They are responsible for the continued fraying of the Path; why we are still harassed by Lesser Terrors and shades. Some even speculate that ebon is a byproduct of their meddling—the waste product of some reaction between the Path and Elsewhere.
“And Ferrin,” Erem said meaningfully, “with this we finally arrive at the purpose of this story for your training. Despite what the Parents might have the people of Agarsfar believe, there is nothing inherently wrong with the shadow. In some ways it’s the noblest of elements, being the foundation on which the primes exist.
“But the fact remains that it is tainted by the Seven, their one remaining link to this world. Any channeler can, of course, burn out by drawing on too much elemental power, but it is a particular risk with shadow. Its call is stronger than any other element—the ‘Call of the Seven,’ the Angelic say. Always tempting wielders to draw in more. And the more powerful the attuned, the better it feels to draw more; almost euphoric.”
Erem eyed Ferrin closely, finally understanding why his own teacher had avoided this discussion for so long. The boy said nothing, but Erem could see in his eyes that he knew precisely of what he spoke. He’d felt the ecstasy, Erem saw. He cleared his throat as Jenzara looked at Ferrin with concern.
“You must resist that call. It is difficult. Agar be good, I know! That’s one reason I rarely channel. But it is essential, for if you burn yourself out channeling shadow, you expose yourself to the grasp of the Seven.”
Ferrin’s eyes widened, his face growing pale.
“What do you mean?” Jenzara demanded. She held her head high with confidence, but Erem could hear the undertone of fear in her question.
“The Seven are able to reach from the Elsewhere onto the Path when a shadow attuned draws too much power. Generally, the Seven have only a vague sense of what occurs on the True Path, as their only connection with it is the darkness of our world’s shadows. But a channeling shadow attuned is like a beacon on a dark night for them, signaling the existence of one susceptible to being twisted to their service. In a worst case, the individual can even be transformed into a shade, a worldly agent of the Seven. Like I said, boy. It is imperative you learn this lesson.”
At this, the three of them were silent for a time. But an unspoken question lingered on the lips of them all. Finally, Ferrin worked up the courage. Erem would have been proud of the boy if the question wasn’t so awful.
“Is that what will happen to me if we’re unable to clear the shadow corruption from me?”
Erem stared at him for a long time. He wanted so badly to tell the boy that everything would be alright.
“I don’t know, Ferrin. I’m sorry, but I just don’t know.”
They all exchanged uncomfortable stares.
“But I don’t understand,” Jenzara blurted, no longer able to mask her fear. “If this Great Chaos was such a watershed event, why doesn’t everyone know?”
Erem scratched at his beard. The rasp of his dry palm on stubble raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“You must understand,” he said. “The Great Chaos was an Angelic matter, independent of the linear flow of time. You can’t just say the Chaos happened from Year X to Year Y, at least not in the way we measure years.”
He went back to the diagram he’d traced in the dirt, considered a moment, then rubbed it out, replacing it with a single straight line. To this he added various dots connected by arrows pointing in various directions. Even he found the chart nearly indecipherable when he’d finished.
“See,” he said, circling the first dot he’d drawn. “The Chaos may have begun here, but subsequent events could have happened, from our perspective at least, either long before or long after. One battle could have occurred at the Blissful Glades in 300 A.A., the next, what seemed only a day later to the Aldur, in 700 A.A. at North’s End. No common man—no Linear—lived through them all.”
Jenzara still looked confused, so he added, “It’s like I was saying earlier. Picture the True Path as a river. We’re all stuck in the current moving one way, into what we see as the future. But the Angelic are on the shore. They can run one way for a while, then back the opposite way, and so on. They’re not stuck in the current of time like the rest of us.”
Jenzara pursed her lips, continuing to squint at the diagram.
“The Aldur must have a different way of tracking time,” Ferrin said. “There’s no way they think of it like that.” He waved a hand at the sword-drawn chart etched in the ground.
Erem shrugged. “That may well be. But I’ve no knowledge of that.”
Jenzara’s eyes widened.
“Erem, if what you say about the Path and Elsewhere; the Seven; the elements.” She paused to take a deep breath. “If that’s all true—”
Hard swallow.
“Then that means all the Temple’s rhetoric is a farce. There’s nothing inherently corrupt in being shadow attuned.”
She cast an apologetic glance at Ferrin. To the boy’s credit, he kept his face calm, but Erem could still see the pain in his eyes.
Erem could only sigh.
“A farce, yes. One I’ve been battling my whole life. The irony of patriotism serving as a shield for bigotry.”
Jenzara clasped Ferrin’s hand and Erem was happy to see a caring look pass between the two. He only hoped their sentiment would persevere through the coming days’ trials.
“That’s enough for today,” he told the pair. “We turn in early tonight and rise early to continue our journey. We mustn’t lose sight of the urgency we face.”
That wiped the tender looks from their faces. Jenzara and the boy quickly released hands and rose to prepare camp. Erem felt a moment of regret for spoiling the moment, but his heart swiftly hardened like clay in a kiln. This life wasn’t a fair one. The faster they learned that lesson the better.
30
Valdin
Those who turn a blind eye to crime share the culpability of the perpetrators. But those who lay blame where none lies are twice cursed.
-Excerpt from Tragnè’s Oral Histories
HE FLINCHED BACK AS bloody spittle spattered across his white robe. The shadow girl’s long hair was a mess of tangles, half concealing her face. But it didn’t hide the menace in her eyes as she wiped blood from her chin. To say the monsters speaking through her were angry would be like calling an ebon blade sharp. It didn’t even begin to describe their rage.
But why? Certainly he couldn’t expect them to be happy over the boy’s escape from the shades. Or the girl’s. Valdin had been oddly relieved to hear Jenzara still lived. He needed the boy, Ferrin, for the shadow power he held, and to carry out Stephan’s dying directive. But the girl needn’t be harmed. Those violet eyes of hers. So familiar...
There was also the matter of this new player who’d stepped into the game. Another shadow attuned, one Raldon had apparently been harboring all this time, deep in the woods. Symposium trained, it seemed. No other could have dealt with shades as he had. And multi-attuned on top of it—the vines he’d summoned to carry away many of the shades were a fancy bit of channeling to be sure. Valdin t
ried to think of an old Keeper who met such a description, but he’d never been much for history. That had always been Devan’s area.
But why this rage from those possessing the shadow girl? Ferrin had apparently been injured in the attack, and the trio were headed North, a fruitless effort to escape to the Keepers at Trimale City. They’d never reach it. The shades would harry them until Valdin and his Parents could take the barges upriver to intercept them at Corim’s Crossing. And even if they made it across? Well, they’d never get past what awaited them on the road to Riverdale.
The only thing that bothered Valdin in the slightest had been the description of the clearing where Ferrin and Jenzara had fled. It sounded similar to a place he’d often visited, in what now seemed another life. Almost like—
“And that’s not all, fallen Angel.” The little shadow girl spoke in a basso voice that seemed likely to topple books from the study’s shelves. “Not all by half. We received a visitor at the prison your ineptitude has trapped us in.”
A visitor? Who would dare...
“The Horologer,” shrieked one of the female voices. The girl raised her head and the thing screamed through her mouth. “You told us he was dead, along with the rest.”
The Horologer? Devan? They could mean no other. Valdin’s vision spun. He stumbled into the chair behind what had been Raldon’s desk. It sickened him to realize there was some relief mixed with the fear the news brought. They had been friends once, he and Devan. But his betrayal could never be forgiven. Devan had promised salvation for Valdin’s love, but delivered the opposite. The unthinkable.
“I thought him dead,” Valdin mumbled into the tabletop. The implications of this revelation were staggering. Sweat broke out on his brow. How could he yet live? Surely Devan would have tried to rescue Bladesorrow if he’d survived. But if he had, the Path would be in utter shambles. Valdin might have lost his power of peregrination, but he was nonetheless certain he’d know if something dire had occurred on the Path.
It had been 15 years. But only for Valdin. He was stuck in local time, as the Aldur would have said. Trapped by the Path’s forward momentum, just like every other Linear. For Devan, though, who could say how long had passed? He could have spent decades trying to fix what had happened at Riverdale, or it could have been no more than a few months since their accursed encounter at the Conclave had left Valdin an elemental cripple.
Was it possible Devan had somehow succeeded? Saved Bladesorrow without bringing chaos to the True Path?
No. The ones he’d released weren’t yet free, but they were no longer confined to the Elsewhere. Devan couldn’t have resolved anything. But surely he hadn’t been sitting idle. And if he’d seen what lurked at Ral Falar....
Broken wheels on a winter’s night! Devan must know he was here, posing as the Grand Father. But then, why hadn’t he confronted him? Fear? That didn’t seem like Devan. He’d dive headfirst into a pit of vipers if the Path required it. Scheming then. Devan’s mind was always moving. And so was Valdin’s own, with questions upon questions. Where were the answers?
“Do you play games with us, Valdin?” The voice of a man, abrasive as a rasp. “Think you to team with the last of your kind to overcome us?”
That pulled Valdin from his own thoughts. Work with Devan? After what he’d done?
“Never.” He slammed his fist onto the desktop. Then, recalling just who he was speaking to, curtailed the anger in his tone.
“I killed all the others. You think I’d mean to turn on you after that?”
His stomach heaved like an ocean, taking credit for a deed of such abhorrence. But it was a necessary farce to maintain. Sometimes, it seemed the only reason they hadn’t yet tried to kill him.
“I believe you.” The steady calm of the voice was like shards of glass through Valdin’s veins. He shuddered, trying to keep a moan from escaping his lips. The others were easy enough to face. But the sure confidence of their leader was something else entirely. His tone carried not the slightest hint of malice, and yet every time he spoke it left Valdin feeling as if he were a mere head nod away from having his throat slit. That the voice emanated from a little girl with blood streaming from her nostrils only made it all the more terrifying.
“But what are we to do about him? The Horologer’s mere existence is a threat not factored into our plans.”
“I’ll kill him,” Valdin blurted without pause. It seemed the desired answer. But even as the words passed his lips, he knew it was what had to be done, though for reasons totally apart from those harbored by the ones who thought themselves his masters. There were things Stephan had said, right before he died. Ferrin was the one of whom he’d spoken, of that Valdin was certain. But if what Stephan had said was true, Devan might be nearly as big a threat to the Path as the boy. And regardless of what Stephan had said, Devan deserved death after what he’d done.
“I’ll kill him,” he repeated to reassure himself the thought was all his own. “But that makes finding the boy all the more vital. I can’t hope to find Devan without my powers. Once I have the boy and complete the harvesting, I’ll make quick work of the last of the Aldur.”
“See that you do.” The soothing voice filled him with dread. “And be quick. We dislike this man who has joined the boy and girl. There is something... odd in the way he makes us feel. Dispose of him as well. Quickly.”
With this, the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head and Valdin began to let out a deep sigh. Then her eyes snapped back open.
“You try our patience, Linear,” sneered the voice of a woman streaked with the indignity of age. “Just remember, we can take life’s sweet breath from you whenever we please.”
The girl darted forward, so quick Valdin didn’t even think to react. She slammed a dagger into the desktop, not a finger’s width from his hand. The same blade the girl Jenzara had failed to throw at him before he’d killed Raldon. The action so shocked him he didn’t even pull his hand away. Just sat there staring at the weapon, quivering from the force with which it’d been driven into the wood. Valdin knew all blood had left his face and wondered if it would ever return.
The girl smiled with such malevolence his toes curled inside his boots. Then she dropped to the floor like a weight thrown from a tower. A part of his mind registered that she still lived as low moans crept from her lips.
For some time, he struggled to form any coherent thought. Finally, with great effort, he tore his eyes from the dagger. Once freed, he found the mere thought of looking at it once more sickening. He sprang from the desk and to the study door in one frantic motion. The shades could delay the boy, girl, and their unknown companion for some time, but they’d already been traveling north for nearly a day. They were only on foot, but it would take days for the barges to float upriver, even with his strongest water channels propelling them. Curse his lost powers of peregrination.
He swept out of the study like a storm, headed for the Hall. Ral Mok’s inhabitants called it “Great,” but he didn’t think they’d know true greatness if it was labeled and surrounded by torches. He cursed at a serving man who had the misfortune of walking down the hall as he passed. The man’s face turned white as Valdin’s own felt. He looked ready to scamper away, but remained planted to the spot where Valdin’s eyes held him.
“Where’s Shinzar?”
“Shin... Shinzar, Gr... Grand Father? Forgive me, which one is he?”
What little rein remained on his temper very nearly snapped. The torches lining the hall rose higher as he reached to their power. The man’s eyes bulged.
“It’s not right, Val. They’ve lives too, if different from our own.”
The memory of Devan was so vivid and so sudden Valdin whirled to look if Devan was actually there. The serving man took the opportunity to flee in the opposite direction. Valdin barely noticed. Once more his stomach churned like waves upon a jetty. Devan had spoken those words to him after he’d been particularly cruel to Devan’s new student. He’d brought her to tears with a t
ongue lashing over some insignificant mistake. An auburn-haired child who’d grown to be the most precious...
This time he did channel, flinging a ball of fire down the empty hall, so hot several of the sconces lining the hall glowed orange. Devan did deserve to die.
Where was Shinzar? Valdin strode out to the Hall, now bereft of much of its furniture, confiscated for use in the pyres Shinzar was constructing. Yet again he found his insides roiling. He hadn’t asked for any of this. But great change required great hardship and difficult choices—choices many could never live with.
He pushed past the massive doors that led to Ral Mok’s main courtyard. The cries of young children met his ears, right before the stink of unwashed bodies entered his nostrils. Shinzar had insisted on this, keeping the townsfolk confined in pens outdoors. None of the other Parents had argued. No one came to the aid of those accused under the Edicts.
A solitary gallows stood some distance away, where the town sparring grounds had been. The bloated body of a young man swung from them. The one who’d struck Jenzara that night after the banquet. Valdin had been happy to give that one to Shinzar as an example. But the remainder of Shinzar’s example-making ended here.
He spotted Shinzar near the town gates, berating several other Parents over a tumble of planks meant to be stacked in a pyre. Moans of “Grand Father” and “please” from the prisoners shut Shinzar’s mouth, causing him to look away from his subordinates.
“Shinzar, order the men to cease this work,” Valdin said. “We take the river north to Corim’s Crossing. With all haste.”
Shinzar had the audacity to contort his features in a look that was very nearly a scowl.
“Stop, Grand Father? But we do the Lady’s work. Shadow sympathizing is not to be tolerated.”
“These people knew as much of that boy’s shadow attunement as you and me, Shinzar. Stop this foolishness and get the men moving.”