Tak’la hesitated, but sat back, resting his weight on his hands. He nodded and the prisoner approached, kneeling beside him. He leaned over the wound, eyes still closed, and lessened his restraint and let his power rise in him. This time, however, he concentrated, pressing back against the familiar cold sensation. He held his hands a hairs-breadth from the wound.
The prisoner saw Tak’la’s face fill with horror as a shadow fell over him, surrounded them both. He seemed about to shout for help, but something stopped him. The discoloration around the wound faded and vanished. The wound knitted shut. The prisoner flinched, grimacing, struggling against the pressure in his mind. His arms shuddered and he jerked once, then again, and lurched away. He fell back onto forearms, breathing hard, and turned his face to the sunlight creeping through the leaves overhead. Tak’la gaped at his mended chest, then at the prisoner.
“Thank you, Revik.” All that remained of the wound was an ugly scar.
The prisoner shook his head. “That is not my name.” He held back a retch.
Tak’la reached out a hand and patted his shoulder. “Thank you.”
The prisoner nodded, but said nothing for the rest of that day.
—
A sound, both familiar and utterly new, crept into the prisoner’s mind throughout the next night’s march. Like a faraway roar, it grew in strength and fell quiet, over and over. Dim recognition fluttered in his mind like a moth around a candle flame. What is it? Another of the things I have lost to Halkoriv’s lies?
He had heard about the Northern Sea during his upbringing in Ferihold, though it was not until he heard the far-off crashing waves that he truly thought about it. At first, he could not distinguish it from the sound of the wind in the trees overhead. The sound grew, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the sea as the plainsfolk moved through the final stand of trees and out onto the rocky and windswept cliffs.
Ahead, the land simply ended. There was no beach, no long gentle slope, just sheer black rock stretching down hundreds of feet. At their base, the north wind drove the waves hard against the cliffs, so hard that the prisoner could feel the water below as well as hear it. From the base, the ocean stretched away, vast and unending, glittering with the reflection of the moon and stars.
They made camp at the cliffs. The prisoner was entranced by the waves and positioned himself as best he could to look out at the sea. Tak’la sat by him seeming to have lost his remaining fear of him. As the others bedded down and retired to their tents, together they watched the sun begin to send forth its rays from the east, stretching and dancing across the waters.
The plainsfolk elders were meeting some distance along the cliff. The prisoner and Tak’la were too far away to hear their conversation, but the discussion was short and they were soon off to their tents with the rest of the plainsfolk. The prisoner watched Ahi’rea pulling shut her tent flap, but did not realize that he was staring until he noticed Tak’la watching him. The prisoner’s gaze returned to the ocean and did not leave it until the sun was high in the sky.
It was only a short hike the next evening to finish their journey. The few hours walk, with the sea always in view to their right, ended at a place the prisoner felt he should remember, but could not. He knew it from his vision of Lasivar, the true Lasivar, but the cliff landscape was more familiar than that. Memory, deep and buried and almost dead, stirred. His inability to recall pained him, but he knew the memory was not only from his vision. He felt alone and frustrated, feeble, like a man who had been healthy all his life and one day awoke unable to walk.
The edge of the Gharven forest stood to their south. Beyond them, he could make out a few twinkling lights and thin wisps of smoke rising into the nighttime sky. Haaph’ahin and several of the others headed in that direction—to announce their presence to the local village, Tak’la explained. They returned a short time later, pleased, and ordered the tribe to make camp.
There was a new energy among the plainsfolk that night. They laughed and spoke freely to one another around their fires.
“What is all the excitement about?” The prisoner was not sure how to think of himself anymore. Revik, son of Lasivar, was the only name for himself he could remember, and he could no longer think of himself as that. Still, he wondered what the plainsfolk had been told about his vision.
“They have heard that the true son of Lasivar will return to us here,” Tak’la answered. His Gharven was improving by the day, now that he had someone with which to practice it. “Elder Haaph’ahin says he can See it now—that you…” he stopped. To the prisoner, he looked almost embarrassed. “He says that you stopped his visions with your dark magic.”
The prisoner nodded. Tak’la seemed at a loss, as he often was when he spoke with his charge. “They will not kill you,” he said. “You healed me. Ahi’rea want you alive.”
“Wants,” the prisoner corrected him absently, his face a mask in the light of their campfire.
“You would return to the South?” Tak’la asked.
“No.” That was one thing he had decided during the journey. Tak’la waited, so he went on. “He lied to me. Everything Halkoriv gave me was in exchange for something that I never agreed to give. He took me for his own uses, not to help me. He said it was to help me. He told me I was the son of a hero who wanted to unite Feriven—but I am not that man’s son.” He laughed, not a shred of humor in his voice, and added “I do not even know what the hero really wanted. Besides, I failed. My powers are not half what they once were, and now you all know that I can be beaten. I doubt Halkoriv would welcome my return.”
Tak’la was silent. He touched at the scar on his chest and looked out at the dark northern landscape. “Stay with us,” he suggested. “Repay him. Teach Halkoriv that he should not use you. You are still powerful—as much as Ahi’rea. Turn your power against Halkoriv. He hurt you.” He stared at the prisoner, as if searching for a reaction.
The prisoner turned, looking first at the distant village, then the other direction, over the endless expanse of the Northern Sea. There was a lull in the crashing of waves around them, and for a moment all they heard was the crackle of their small fire. “No,” he said. “Your cause is hopeless. Your hero will come, sure enough, and lead you all to very noble deaths.”
Tak’la stared. His mouth twisted into a scowl. “What will you do?” The prisoner didn’t answer. He lifted an arm and pointed north. On the horizon was a tall ship, invisible in the dark but for the moonlight reflecting off of its high white and gold sails.
—
The ship approached as the gathered Huumphar and Gharven villagers celebrated and cheered. In the short time since their sighting, other groups of northerners and plainsfolk had arrived. Haaph’ahin’s runners had alerted all they could find.
The prisoner watched from afar as the ship neared the coast with dawn’s first light. There was a winding path leading up the rocky cliff face, made years ago by the local fishermen. Smaller boats were launched from the ship and carried a landing party to the path. The party disembarked, and the prisoner saw tall banners in white and gold and a group of soldiers in glittering armor. They crested the cliffs and the prisoner saw, for the first time that he could remember, the true Revik Lasivar.
He was tall and broad shouldered. Long, dark hair fluttered behind him and his bright blue eyes seemed to take in every detail. The last, lingering hope that it had all been a bad dream fled the prisoner. The air of majesty about Lasivar was almost tangible. The prisoner was no one—a mistake wrapped up in lies.
He ignored the new arrivals as they were greeted in the distance. He was at a loss. Throughout all his life, he had felt so sure of his place, his purpose. He had been destined for greatness—or so he had thought. Everyone had told him he would be powerful and wealthy, respected, strong; a man of significance; heir to the kingdom of Feriven, a kingdom he would unite. Now, all of that was gone. He was nothing, like the rest of them, just another small, meaningless life, a single drop of ra
in falling into the ocean.
The prisoner wanted to die. He looked at the cliff and imagined stepping over the edge. The weightless fall, seeing the water and rocks rush up to him. He wondered if he would even feel the impact, the frigid water pulling him under, filling his lungs and freezing his body. No one would mourn his loss.
At the thought, a chill ran through him. He shuddered as something gnawed at his gut and his skin grew clammy. Cold washed over him from the base of his skull and the feeling intensified—like jagged teeth, devouring him from the inside. His vision blurred, all sound faded, and time slowed around him as something clawed its way into his mind.
—
Ahi’rea could not help but be excited as she watched the foreign warriors process up the cliffside path. The gathered crowd, hundreds of Huumphar and Gharven villagers and warriors, met Lasivar as he reached the top of the cliff. When she saw him, there was no doubt in her mind that she stood before the son of heroes. He was one destined to lead. His eyes bored into her with a glance, as if he was looking at her with Sight. When he spoke, she wanted to agree, wanted to follow.
He was a head taller than most of the crowd, Huumphar and Gharven alike. His eyes flashed as he spoke and Ahi’rea felt a shock run through her, a percussive blast without sound. Storm, she thought, even though she had never seen it used before. He did that effortlessly. His voice rolled out and pervaded the air as if he spoke directly to her. She glanced around at the others, who stood as if transfixed. The power of a leader. She found herself listening as raptly as the others if she did not concentrate. The words almost did not matter—the man did. What he said was like every speech from the old tales, every general’s rally. It was the power in the words that held them all spellbound, a surety that here was the one to lead them to victory. By the time he finished speaking, she and the other Huumphar and northerners felt ready to march on Ferihold itself. Through the cheering, a small voice inside reminded her of the seriousness of their plight. The plains were burning. Her people were dying. Halkoriv was stronger than ever—and yet, a man she had never met, newly arrived, somehow seemed like the best hope they had ever known.
Lasivar moved through the crowd, his face a picture of strength as smiling, cheering men, women, and children reached out to touch his armor, clasp his hand, or shout their thanks. Perhaps it was her own power, but Ahi’rea felt withdrawn from it all while the others remained enthralled. For a moment, as she watched, the hero seemed to diminish. He was tired—exhausted. What she had at first taken as resolve was in fact hard concentration. Whatever power he was using, it must have been difficult to maintain. She saw no sweat on his brow, but could tell that he was struggling.
Soon he reached the Huumphar elders and northern leaders that had traveled there at the news of his approach. He focused, as if instinctively, on the most important of them. He greeted Haaph’ahin and the others, leaders of tribes and Gharven villages. They welcomed him as they would have welcomed family or a longtime friend.
As they spoke, Lasivar’s eyes took in everyone nearby, Ahi’rea herself, Ruun’daruun, Ken’hra, and others. Something in his gaze gave Ahi’rea the feeling of being counted—noticed, but not remembered, the way one might take stock of supplies.
The soldiers that had come with him seemed as stony as Lasivar. The rumor circulating was that he had been of great service to them in their own land. They wore heavy, thick armor like the southerners, and their tongue, when it was heard, was unfamiliar. They looked hardy, with rugged, pale complexions and features.
Tak’la appeared behind Ahi’rea. She was still surprised that one so big could move so quietly. “What will happen, now that he is here?” he asked.
“A war council. They will waste no time in deciding how to proceed. The southerners approach, our people have been waiting, and he… he was born for this.”
She wondered—when was he told what was expected of him? How young had he been when others started placing that weight on his shoulders? Did he even want it? She shook herself from her reverie. “There is something he must know, first.” She pushed forward to Lasivar with Tak’la falling into step behind her.
—
The prisoner was sitting, arms bound, staring out to sea as Ahi’rea lead Lasivar and the rest toward him. “You left him without guard?” Haaph’ahin cried.
Tak’la was about to apologize but Ahi’rea spoke first. “Tak’la had the situation in hand, Father. As you can see, he is right where he was left.”
“Mind your tongue,” Haaph’ahin said. “It was careless and foolish. He could have done anything.” He turned to Tak’la. “Just because I brought you with us when you lay dying, does not mean I will tolerate failure. You must work harder than any to keep your place amongst us.”
They stopped a short distance from the prisoner. He still had not moved. Lasivar stepped forward and, as Ahi’rea watched, his façade cracked. He ceased, for a moment, to be a hero and became a man, sorrowful, remorseful. Something about what he saw deeply affected him. He extended a hand toward the prisoner.
There was a wordless shriek, primal and hate-filled. The prisoner arose, the rope on his wrists rotting away in an instant. Blackness fell around him and ephemeral, oily tendrils burst and snaked from his body. One of his hands shot, clawlike, toward Lasivar’s face. The prisoner, a head shorter than Lasivar, somehow dwarfed them all. Before Ahi’rea or the others could react, Tak’la was lunging forward, his machete already halfway out of its sheathe.
There was a burst of light and silence, a drowning of senses—she could not see, heard nothing. Blinded, Ahi’rea stumbled back a pace. She felt Ruun’daruun catch her and move in front of her. When her vision returned, Lasivar was holding back Tak’la’s machete-by the blade-with one hand. The other, outstretched, was planted on the prisoner’s chest. The prisoner’s eye sockets looked empty—black holes in his face—and his hand hovered just shy of Lasivar’s face.
Lasivar’s eyes flickered, a brief white flash. Ahi’rea thought she heard him say, “Azra.” The prisoner’s eyes closed and he collapsed without a sound. The phantasms vanished and the light returned to normal. The prisoner began to sputter and choke on the ground as he bent double. Lasivar released Tak’la’s machete. Tak’la stepped back, gaping at the bloodless weapon in his hand. Ahi’rea saw that the blade was curled and warped as if by heat. Lasivar knelt and rolled the prisoner onto his back and held one hand over his chest, the other on his forehead.
Ahi’rea rushed up to them, pushing past the others. “What did you do to him?”
“I healed him,” Lasivar said.
“Healed him? He attacked you.” Concentration etched Lasivar's face, along with something else. Fear? No—worry.
Lasivar shook his head. “That was not him. The Spirit had nearly taken him. Its hold on him is very strong. His mind was almost gone, but I have brought him back, for now.”
Ahi’rea stared. Tak’la came forward too, followed by Ruun’daruun, although the rest hung back. She watched as the prisoner choked and gasped and wondered if it might have been better if he had died—if Tak’la had been a little swifter.
“What is ‘Azra?’” she asked quietly.
“He is. It is his name.”
“You Saw his true name?” She had never heard of anyone who could do that, read a mind so easily.
“No.” Lasivar sighed, shaking his head. “I remember him. He was my best friend.”
—Fourteen—
“We grew up together—on this coast, in the village just south of here. My parents, who you call Lasivar and Hera, came here to hide when Halkoriv thought my father dead. They secretly continued to lead from this humble place. I knew nothing of this as a child, until I followed them one morning as they left home. They left me with Azra and his family every time they went south. Even then, the true nature of what they were escaped me. Eventually Halkoriv discovered us. When he came, my father and his allies decided they had to protect me. I only found out years later what they did.”
<
br /> Here Lasivar paused for a long time. The prisoner Azra had calmed and now lay, sweating and cold, but recovering. Lasivar’s hand remained on his brow.
“When Halkoriv’s men came, Azra’s parents and he were with us. My father’s men, his fastest and most trusted riders, snatched me away.” He sighed. “My parents were killed that night, along with most of the village. When they found Azra there—” he paused. “They planned it that way. So they would not think to look for me. Azra was offered up in my place.” Lasivar was still, calm, collected, but his voice had grown edged and dangerous.
“Until recently, all I knew was that another had been taken instead of me. When you told me that there was one with you who thought he was me, I had no idea. Not until I saw him.” His jaw clenched. “He was twisted by Halkoriv and saddled with this darkness. He was corrupted, and he was used. This should never have happened.” The next words rang clear in Ahi’rea’s trained mind, even though he did not voice them: They should have taken me, but then Halkoriv would already have won.
“How could Halkoriv have been fooled for so long?” Ruun’daruun asked.
“Sitis guides him. It may even control him now,” Lasivar said. “It is a spirit of hunger and immediacy. A child to consume may have proved too much to pass up. I am not sure.” Lasivar stared into Azra’s unconscious face. “It has invaded him in a way I did not think possible.”
No one spoke. Lasivar stayed for a long time with his hand on Azra’s forehead, concentrating. After some time, Azra passed into an untroubled slumber and was still—the darkness that had threatened to consume him had passed.
Ahi’rea peered at Azra. “Have you removed the Spirit from him?”
“No,” Lasivar said. “Merely pressed it back. The barbs of Sitis are too deep in him. He was channeling extraordinary amounts of power.” He looked at Haaph’ahin, who stood several feet away muttering with some of the others. “This spirit will kill him.”
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