Despite their hardships, Nail enjoyed Val-Draekin’s company. He felt a deep bond had formed between them. They had saved each other’s life numerous times within that icy hell of the glacier. And Nail would not soon forget that. It was why he’d carried Val-Draekin over the rugged terrain without complaint. He refused to leave his companion. He still felt guilt over Zane’s death. Guilt over Roguemoore’s and Shawcroft’s also. Too many had already died because of him, because of who he was, because of his choices.
He would not give up on another friend.
Once within the embrace of the trees at the bottom of the ravine, Val-Draekin slid gently from Nail’s back and leaned against a tall aspen. Nail went straight to the crystal waters of the rushing brook and drank. He scrubbed the crusted blood from the top of each foot, cleaned the wounds on the soles of his feet. He had never before appreciated shoes and boots as much as he had these last five days of hiking without them. The soles of his feet were like raw meat, twigs and pebbles and shards of rock embedded deep. Tears sprang to his eyes as he tended to the myriad of wounds.
Val-Draekin, sitting in his shredded leather armor, his back against the aspen, unwrapped his makeshift splint. The leg underneath was swollen. Nail had learned that the Vallè healed three times faster than humans. Depending on the severity of the break, a broken leg on a human could take six weeks to six moons to heal, but only weeks to two moons for a Vallè.
Ever since he’d met Val-Draekin and Seita, there had been something almost magical about the two Vallè, and Nail wasn’t surprised about anything he learned of them. It seemed they did everything better than humans. Especially fighting.
“I felt inadequate around Seita.” Nail sat across from Val-Draekin, leaning his own weary back against a lone aspen deadfall, stretching his sore legs, massaging his own ankles. The grove was dappled with thickets of thorn bushes and scrub oak. Good concealment. “The way she fought in the mines. I was literally in awe.”
“She is fierce,” Val Draekin said. “Seita is the best fighter I know.”
“How did she get so good?” Nail muttered. “How can I get that good?”
“You tend to freeze up in a fight,” Val-Draekin said. “And you wear down early. Those are your weaknesses. Concentration and stamina are the keys for one your size.”
“I fought Jenko Bruk with the ax just fine,” Nail countered, hurt by the Vallè’s sudden harsh criticism of his fighting skills. “I beat Jenko.”
Val-Draekin said, “Still, the fact is, that ax got taken from you.”
Nail felt his brow furrow in anger.
“When it comes to blade-to-blade combat,” Val-Draekin said, “I can teach you how to concentrate on the task at hand, not become distracted by your own thoughts and worries, and stay focused on the fight.”
Nail knew the Vallè was right. He had been so distracted in the fight against the oghuls in the mines. He felt everyone had contributed to that victory but him. Shawcroft preached patience and precision in all things. Hawkwood too.
“Hawkwood claimed I needed to leave my troubles at the edge of the battlefield.”
“Good advice,” Val-Draekin said.
“Thing is . . .” Nail wondered how much he should say. “When I held Forgetting Moon, wielded it against Jenko, it felt like the ax belonged to me, like it was destined to be mine.” He met the curious gaze of the dark-haired Vallè. “I felt magic in it.”
“Magic, you say?” Val-Draekin rubbed grass and dirt over the wounds on his own injured feet, a ritual he had done every night. “The power of suggestion can make one see things where there may not be anything to see.”
“What do you mean?”
“What did Shawcroft tell you of the ax before you found it in the mines?”
“Nothing at all. He didn’t tell me what I would find in those mines, much less any mention of an ax.” Nail tried to recall his master’s last words. “He did say something about precious things hidden beneath the ground, buried weapons that ancient kings had forged, and those who search the deep finding their salvation.”
“Exactly.” Val-Draekin nodded. “And that alone, combined with what seeds Roguemoore and Godwyn planted about your heritage, would imply there was something special about that ax and its connection to you.”
“Is there not?”
“ ’Twas merely the power of suggestion made you think that ax was magic. I doubt you felt or saw a thing. Or if you did, it could be easily explained as something else.”
“Like what?”
“Mere coincidence.”
Nail did not like the Vallè questioning what he had seen with his own eyes, felt with his own heart; what he knew to be true. “I saw it, the magic. Tendrils of blue light snaking up the hilt of the ax as I wielded it. Right before I struck Jenko. He saw it too.”
“Do you even know what it was you both saw?”
“I know what I saw,” he answered defensively. “I cannot deny it.”
“I’m only saying, perhaps another explanation exists for those tendrils of misty blue light. Some science behind the mystery?”
“What is science, some Vallè word?”
“Science.” Val-Draekin let the word flow like music off his tongue. “ ’Tis a gift from the stars, that which in time explains all things mysterious.”
The answer was nonsense. Bottom line, Nail did not want his memories, much less his beliefs about himself, being thrown into question. Wielding that ax had made him feel special like nothing or no one ever had, made him feel important, connected to greater things, divine things. He hated to see that memory besmirched with the cynicism and skepticism of someone who hadn’t even been there.
Val-Draekin said, “As we discussed in the glacier, there are many secrets that have been kept from you, Nail. Roguemoore imagined you to be one of great import. And he hinted of it numerous times. But all he ever offered were hints. Did you not find that odd?”
“Of course I found that odd.” Nail could feel the frustration boiling up within him again. “I know he was hiding something. That he knew more than he let on.”
“He planted seeds and dangled hints in front of you for a purpose, Nail.”
“Why?”
“Because those most devious know the power of suggestion is more powerful than reality. Reality can be brutally disappointing, whereas there resides limitless possibility in mere suggestion. It is the driving force behind belief and faith.”
“Are you saying that Roguemoore and Godwyn and Culpa and Hawkwood are all wrong? Are you saying I am just a nobody?”
“It is what we do with our own selves that defines us. Not where we came from. Or who gave us birth.”
“According to holy writ, a bastard is nothing in the eyes of Laijon.”
“Those are no more than old words likely written by addled old men. You needn’t pay The Way and Truth of Laijon any mind.”
“How can I ignore it?” He felt Ava Shay’s turtle carving against his chest and thought of her. He even remembered things she had said to him. It must be sad, always belonging to people.
He met Val-Draekin’s hard gaze. “They may likely just be old words written by addled old men as you say, but they are still words read to every child in Gul Kana. And every child grows to be a man or woman who is more than happy to enforce the rules behind those words. Which leaves little place for a bastard. So even if I do not subscribe to those words, as one who is fatherless, how can I just ignore them? They affect me daily. In the eyes of Laijon, I do not matter. Slaves do not matter. Believe me, as someone who has lived it, because of what is written in The Way and Truth of Laijon, the fatherless feel like they do not really even exist.” He looked up into the trees. “It is sad, always belonging to people.”
Val-Draekin shifted his position against the aspen, rewrapping his splint as he spoke. “Just so you don’t think you are alone in this, Roguemoore imagined me to be one of great import too, both of us linked to his cause. Or so he cleverly suggested.”
Nail was so tired, every muscle and bone in his body spent and weary and sore. He remembered what Hawkwood had told him about his parentage in Ravenker, wondered now if any of it was real. Only the youngest Raijael can be the Angel Prince. Under the glacier, he had already told Val-Draekin what Hawkwood had said about that.
“Why would the White Prince hunt me?” He voiced the question out loud. “If I am of such scant importance as you say, why did Aeros Raijael attack Gallows Haven? Liz Hen claimed Aeros asked about Shawcroft, asked about me. I heard Baron Bruk say things with my own ears. He said I bore great resemblance to someone important. I even found the note Shawcroft wrote, the note that talked of my scars and tattoos.” He stared hard at the dark-eyed Vallè sitting in front of him, willing him to answer with the truth. “What do you know of it all?”
“And how did the scars and tattoos come about?”
Nail explained how he’d gotten the mark of the cross on the back of his right hand when Dokie was struck by lightning, how the mermaid had raked his arm underwater, how Stefan had tattooed him, how the red-haired warrior woman from Sør Sevier had branded him a slave. He reiterated how Shawcroft thought the marks of great significance.
Just talking of the markings made them flare with a strange heated soreness, uncomfortable even here in this cold place.
“And what do you think of the scars and tattoos?” Val-Draekin asked.
He had never considered his own thoughts on the subject. “They are unique to me, these scars and marks; I suppose I wear them with pride. They are important, if you must know. I feel they were also destined for me. Omens of a sort, for good or for ill I do not know.”
“I say they are naught but random coincidence,” the Vallè countered with a certain measure of cruel indifference. “And you only attach significance to the marks and scars and tattoos because of the power of suggestion.”
“You seem quick to belittle everything about me at all times.” Nail hung his head.
“I only want you to accept the truth,” Val-Draekin said. “Fact is, there could be any number of folks currently bearing a slave brand, a crosslike scar, and injuries from a mermaid, or a combination of two or three, or none.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I’m not. But you asked what I thought of your scars and tattoos. I say they are meaningless. Naught but misty blue light on a battle-ax.”
“Really? I don’t know what that means.”
“The power of suggestion is a trick, a trick as simple as making fire appear using a pinch of white powder and a snap of the fingers.”
Nail was stung by the brutal frankness of the Vallè’s opinion. Maybe it’s better to just have people lie to you and spare your feelings.
He couldn’t help but stare with trepidation at the dark-haired fellow before him, wondering just who his traveling companion was, what secrets he hid. For all his honesty, Val-Draekin seemed the most mysterious of anyone he had ever met.
“The power of suggestion.” Val-Draekin met his gaze coolly. “If what Hawkwood suggested is correct, and let’s say certain people really believe that you are the youngest son of Aevrett Raijael, particularly if Aeros believes this, then of course the White Prince would want you dead. You are Aeros’ greatest threat. You, Nail, may very well be the reason he marched across the breadth of Adin Wyte and Wyn Darrè, destroying and killing all in his path. Aeros may have attacked and destroyed two kingdoms based solely on the mere suggestion that you are in reality the Angel Prince and he is not.”
Every word the Vallè spoke haunted Nail.
Val-Draekin met his gaze with firm resolve, saying, “So, as it turns out, you really are important . . . but merely through the power of suggestion. The question is, who planted that suggestion in Aeros’ mind and why?”
The Vallè’s assertion chased away Nail’s previous sense of fatigue, replacing it with anger and a deep-rooted guilt. Lives lost because of me. Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps millions.
With sharpened senses, he looked around the small aspen grove. The wind had died, and a light cloud of dust hung for a time in the still air above their ravine. “But is it all real?” he murmured to himself, almost inaudibly.
Val-Draekin heard his soft pronouncement. “Aeros believes he is Raijael reincarnated, the second coming of Laijon’s son in the flesh. And if you are who people suggest you are, he wants you dead. According to the prophecy in The Chivalric Illuminations of Raijael, in the last days before Fiery Absolution, the Angel Prince and his armies will converge upon Amadon and reap great slaughter. The Moon Scrolls of Mia talk of the Five Warrior Angels returning to the Five Isles and staving off the Angel Prince’s crusade. Aeros Raijael does not want to see the return of the Five Warrior Angels. And you represent the return of the Five Warrior Angels, and the destruction of all his plans.”
“And that’s what this is all about, our quest?” He thought of the dwarf lost in the glacier. “Roguemoore’s quest was to retrieve the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels, so we can stave off Aeros’ attack?”
“Or so Roguemoore and the Brethren of Mia believe,” Val-Draekin answered.
“It’s all so messy,” Nail said. “Naught but madness. The Way and Truth of Laijon. The Brethren of Mia. The Chivalric Illuminations of Raijael. None of it adds up. Like you said before, all likely just the mad ramblings and writings of old men.”
“Yes, and as you so perfectly stated before, Nail, people believe those mad ramblings and writings. People like Roguemoore and Godwyn and even your friends Liz Hen and Dokie. They all of them believe in a version of this madness. Even you believe to a certain extent, especially regarding those things that have been suggested in your mind. Things cleverly planted there over time.” Val-Draekin paused but a moment before ending with, “Roguemoore and Godwyn believed you to be one of the Five Warrior Angels returned, Nail.”
A thrill crawled up Nail’s spine. One of the Five Warrior Angels returned?
Was the Vallè just toying with him now?
The power of suggestion . . .
Val-Draekin went on, undaunted. “They also believed I am one of the Five Warrior Angels returned. And Hawkwood too, and Jondralyn Bronachell, and a fellow named Squireck Van Hester. Together the five of us were the Slave, Thief, Assassin, Princess, and Gladiator. The Brethren of Mia’s plan was to gather us together along with the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels before Fiery Absolution.” The Vallè’s cold glance continued to cut into the night. “But it is all madness.”
“What makes you think it’s all madness?” Nail challenged. “Did Hawkwood also believe in the gathering of the Five Warrior Angels?”
Val-Draekin sharpened his gaze, now focusing on Nail. “Close to Hawkwood, were you?”
Hawkwood saved my life, Nail thought. Hawkwood told me at least something about my parentage. Whether it was true or not . . . it was at least something. But he didn’t put voice to any of that.
It appeared he didn’t need to, for the Vallè seemed almost to read his mind. “You felt Hawkwood was the first one to speak truth to you, truth of your destiny. A destiny you have been seeking your entire life. A destiny not even you or Roguemoore or any of the rest of them can fully fathom.”
How could he know what Hawkwood said that day in Ravenker? It seemed everyone insisted on speaking to him in riddles. And Nail was weary of it. In many ways, conversing with Val-Draekin was the most maddening of all.
“What is prophecy?” the Vallè asked. “Your Way and Truth of Laijon is rife with it. As is Sør Sevier’s Chivalric Illuminations, and the Brethren’s Moon Scrolls of Mia. Even the oghuls have their Hragna’Ar prophecies of rape and pillage and the awakening of the nameless beasts of the underworld and skull-faced monsters. And all these numerous prophecies have their similarities. Yet they all contradict too. A convoluted mess. Legend and prophecy are so common as to be cheap. They all cause division, confusion, hatred. They all talk of war and glory and conquest and revenge in the name of Laijon, in the name of the Five Warri
or Angels. ‘Warrior’ is even in their celebrated name. You’re right, Nail, it is messy. It is madness. The Way and Truth of Laijon is full of naught but contradictions. At the time of Fiery Absolution, The Way and Truth of Laijon clearly states that those of the Church of Laijon must fight to stave off invasion, but at the same time, according to the same book, the White Prince must reach Amadon to fulfill Fiery Absolution. Two opposing commands. And in the end, many will die so that Fiery Absolution may take place at the appointed time in the appointed place, and the lands of Gul Kana will be destroyed to the point that it will be in no more need of saving than Wyn Darrè or Adin Wyte. And the really twisted thing is, if you don’t believe that there is to be a Fiery Absolution, that there is going to be a return of the Five Warrior Angels, then you are not really a true believer and damned in the eyes of your kin. The Way and Truth of Laijon and its myriad prophecies of doom and war and Absolution quite clearly want us all to perish. The book itself seeks the end of the Five Isles with a deep yearning. King Jovan and the grand vicar and five archbishops and all men of that ilk cannot wait for the end; they cannot wait for it all to be over and their prophecies fulfilled. The notion of Fiery Absolution is a hateful idea and a hideous thing. Even Aeros Raijael fights and kills and crusades for his own slightly different version of the same horrid notion.”
Pure anger crept into the Vallè’s eyes. “To most humans, it seems religious ideologies are easier to fight and die for than even friends and family. . . .”
The Vallè was now giving Nail a hard and merciless stare, as if the entire mess were indeed his fault. “We are only guaranteed this one life, Nail. And this one life is too short and precious to wait for the second comings of Warrior Angels that may or may not exist, or worse, to hasten them to fruition through violence and war. When the truth is, there will likely be no miracles or saviors in the end. . . .”
He trailed off again, face softening some. Then went on. “At least the Vallè educated themselves about all creeds and belief systems rather than blindly following one set of tenets. At least the Vallè can see the absurdity of them all. We have known this secret for centuries. Yesterday’s beliefs and legends and prophecies should not be revered nor sought after. Yesterday’s wars should not matter today. Yesterday’s heroes should be forgotten and not worshipped. Why follow the beliefs of our grandfathers? Because they followed the beliefs of theirs. Who is to say they were ever right?”
The Blackest Heart Page 66