Robb stared at her for a tense, silent moment, then reached over and wiped the tear from her cheek. “We will have to be unbelievably careful. No risks. No mistakes.”
Makasa nodded, stunned and humbled by Ceya’s kindness. “Thank you. I know this isn’t easy, letting us into your home. It’s that kind of courage that will bring Aramar home.”
It was a fine speech, but Ceya didn’t smile.
“There’s a spare room upstairs,” was all she said, turning away, wiping at her face with her apron. “And a shed out the back. Perhaps the strange ones best stay inside, and not be spotted by the town guards.”
Though the children giggled and played, deciding they would take on the roles of Murky and Hackle and wrestle to see who was the better warrior, their parents demonstrated no such joy. Makasa allowed them their grief. It had gone better than she expected, for they were not imprisoned in the village jail, and nobody had been killed or kicked out. Yet. She glanced at Valdread, holding his gaze for a long time.
“Hackle go to shed, Hackle take stinky man,” the gnoll muttered, unhooking the heavy pack from Galena’s back, after which she groaned with relief and rubbed her tired shoulders.
“Hackle,” Makasa warned him, following to the back door. “Wear your hood, and don’t do anything stupid. I mean it. And Hackle? Don’t beat him with your club.”
The gnoll pretended not to hear her, pulling up his cloak and plunging out into daylight without another word.
“Hackle!”
A muffled complaint came from under the cloak, but then the gnoll disappeared into the little woodshed, Valdread bumping along on his back. Makasa was too drained to worry too much about it. It was, perhaps, a fruitless exercise to try and teach diplomacy to a gnoll. Meanwhile, Aram’s mother waited at the bottom of the stairs, then led them up to a cozy second level. Thick, woven carpets were spread across the floor, and small brass lamps were fixed to the rough timber walls, a pleasant glow suffusing the hall.
“There’s a bedroom just there,” Ceya said softly. “And, well, I suppose one of you can take Aramar’s room. It isn’t— It …”
“Thank you,” Makasa said again, and, impulsively, reached out to take the woman’s hands. She didn’t smack her away, and Makasa squeezed, watching as the urge to weep came and went from Ceya’s face. “Thank you for accepting us.”
She shook her head, and Makasa didn’t know if that meant it was no trouble at all, or she hadn’t accepted them. Then she fixed the girl with a tight-lipped look, her eyes wet and pleading. “Just find a way to bring him back. Just find a way.”
Makasa woke, finding herself in the dark, frogs and crickets singing at her from every direction, the moons bright and low in the sky. Alone. Cold. She shivered and rubbed at her arms. Wearing only her night shirt and a pair of trousers, she stood barefoot in the tall grass, a strange rock formation shining like diamonds in the grass under the stars.
Was she dreaming? How had she gotten there?
The stones. Look among the stones.
Makasa doubled over, wincing, the voice in her head painfully loud, blasting through her thoughts and blinding her for an instant. Clutching her temples, she stumbled forward, falling into the wet embrace of the overgrown weeds. The rocks were different sizes, forming a circle, some of them with designs scratched across the tops.
The compass led you here. The shards led you here. Look among the stones, Makasa. Look. Do not be afraid.
The Voice of the Light. She had dreaded its return, and now she could hear nothing but the crystallized words that seemed to sear her mind with fire. She picked up each rock, turning it over, then dug through the grass, wondering again how she had ended up outside. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the Glade cottage not far away, the forge, and the doghouse, no lights burning inside. Had she been sleepwalking?
You have been led here. Search. Find Greydon’s hope. Find the shard. The Diamond Blade must be whole; to save Azeroth, the blade must be whole. Look. Look …
“I bloody am,” she grunted, shivering in the cold. A torch flickered down the way, a night patrol perhaps, and she clawed at the grass faster, faster, until her fingertips felt like ice. At the very center of the stone circle, covered by a deep layer of mud and pebbles, she at last felt the warm prickle of magic. The shard.
She closed her hand over it and gasped, a vision overtaking her, a blinding white veil dropping in front of her eyes, showing her the ghost of a man, Greydon, traveling to that same spot, kneeling in the grass, digging down to hide the shard and then marking it with the stones. He looked younger and less bearded; it must have been years ago. He must have always intended to return to Lakeshire, she thought, and not abandoned his family forever like most assumed.
“That’s why the compass was pointing here,” Makasa breathed. “There was a bloody shard buried in the backyard all this time.”
Makasa cleaned off the shard and tucked it into her pocket, hurrying back toward the house. The back door was open, no doubt a result of her sleepwalking. She tiptoed back inside and retraced her steps to Aram’s room, then used some remaining cinders in the hearth to light a candle and study the shard at his old desk. The desk, covered in scraps of drawings, soon held even more art, as Makasa retrieved his sketchbook from the bedside and opened it by candlelight. After confirming that they were, in fact, folk that Aram had drawn, the Glades had relinquished the sketchbook, and Makasa promised to take good care of it.
She wetted a finger and flipped through the book quickly, finding the picture Aram had drawn of the Diamond Blade hilt. With the shard she carried from his compass and now this newly recovered one, that meant they were still missing two shards. Makasa touched the pointed crystal chip on the desk, marveling at its smoothness, and the way it warmed to her fingers. While it was certainly a victory, how in the world could they find the remaining two pieces?
“We could really use your compass right now,” she muttered, glancing around at the room, as if by virtue of it being Aram’s she could somehow hear him. But she did feel closer to him there. His clothing was still draped over every chair and bedpost, though Ceya had done her best to tidy up. An aged globe sat in the windowsill, and he had left a fluffy rug out next to his bed, no doubt for Soot to sleep on. Given how much fur she found in the bedclothes, she didn’t imagine the dog used that rug much.
Never in her life had she expected to miss him so much. He had been nothing but a lazy nuisance on the Wavestrider, taking to seafaring life like a fish to the sky. But now that she thought about it, there had always been a spark of something more there, a willingness to try, even if he failed. Makasa had to admire that. She hated failing, looking stupid, or not knowing what to do, which was why the mysterious shards bothered her.
Sighing with frustration, wishing she could just go back to bed and forget the whole business and wake up to find Aram downstairs at breakfast, smirking over his bacon, she snatched up the shard from his compass and squeezed it with her fist.
“Just tell me, you stupid rock, tell me what to do!”
At once, the shard warmed in her touch. She opened her hand and held the crystal flat in her palm, the shard spinning and spinning, then stopping, abruptly, glowing brightly, pulsing with light. She stood up, using her palm like the body of a compass, and moved throughout the room. Then she spun, slowly, watching as the pointed end of the shard, like a needle, pointed northeast. No matter where she went in Aram’s room, the needle pointed the same direction.
“Great, so anywhere to the northeast,” she muttered, then dropped back down into the chair at his desk. Slamming her head down onto her crossed arms, she squeezed the shard again. “You can’t just … whisper it in my ear, can you?”
Close now. Less than a day’s journey. Remake the blade.
Makasa nearly screamed, jumping up. That was certainly not a whisper, but a shout as clear as anything in her mind. The Voice of the Light. Maybe, she thought, if she just started walking northeast, she could divine where the next
shard was hidden. But what could close mean? Did the strange thing in her head have any conception of human distances?
She was doing an awful lot of petulant sighing, but she blew out another breath anyway, watching it ruffle the pages of Aram’s sketchbook. The parchment whispered softly as the pages rushed forward and back, then stopped, resettling. In grand stories, there would be some kind of map on that page, but there was no mystical, magical map, just a drawing of a cave.
Makasa stood up, knowing she would never sleep but determined to try anyway. Halfway to the bed, she froze, turning and racing back to the desk and Aramar’s drawing of the cave. She kept her place with one finger, then flipped back through the book, finding that almost everything there was something Aramar had seen with his own eyes. Portraits. Locations. Scenes she knew he had witnessed in person. But this? When had Aram gone to a cave and happened across a dragon and a young man? She would definitely remember him telling her that, even if her mind had a tendency to wander during his longer stories.
Was it possible? Could Aram have somehow left them a clue in his sketchbook? It seemed absurd, but then again, she had just woken up outside in her bedclothes, guided in her sleep by a mysterious voice to a magical shard that was somehow a part of a sword that would save the world.
So all things considered, a fortune-telling picture was far less deranged than the rest of it.
“Northeast,” she whispered, running her hand gently over the sketch. “A cave to the northeast. If you manage to get us to that shard, Aram, I swear, I’ll never complain about you sketching me again.”
“Here. Take mine, son; you need it more than I do.”
Aram grunted.
“That leg of yours doesn’t look good,” Greydon added. “How is the fever today?”
“Not bad,” Aram said, sparing him the truth. Worse.
The wooden bowl of gruel skittered across the floor toward him, sliding just under the lowest crossbar of the cell and bumping into his leg. Aram lifted himself up, his leg throbbing with pain. The beatings had continued, but lessened ever since the imps noticed his swollen, infected leg. The prodding and burning might have ceased, but not the fever, and Aram wiped at the sweat collecting on his brow, reaching for the extra portion of gruel with shaking hands.
“I’m sorry,” Greydon said. He had told Aram that countless times as they wasted away in their twin cells. And like the last dozen times or so, Aram didn’t respond. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from this. This is not how a Thorne should die.”
At that, Aram finally showed some interest, and spooned a bit of the tasteless, gluey gruel into his mouth, gagging. “And how should a Thorne die?”
“With a sword in hand,” Greydon replied, leaning back against his cell bars, his long legs stretched out before him. They were both so dirty and scratched, and his father was almost unrecognizable under his shaggy beard. “Or on the sea, fighting the storm. That’s what we were doing, you know, your uncle and I. Fighting a storm. The Darkstorm.”
It occurred to Aram that, even with the hope gifted to him by Drella’s flower, it was likely they would die there together. This sudden confession from his father only deepened that sense. A strange kind of peace settled over him.
“The Darkstorm?” Aram prompted.
“Indeed. A force so terrible, so dark, it could unmake the world and destroy Azeroth entirely. Every living soul would be gone, the failure of our order. My failure.”
“How could it be your fault?” Aramar asked. “If you were part of an order, that’s not just one man.”
Greydon shook his head, stroking his overgrown beard. “The Order of the Seven Suns was under my care,” he recalled softly, as if even speaking too loudly of it might summon his cruel brother again to torment them. “Seven of us there were, Silverlaine and I among them. We were called to protect a naaru, a being of pure Light. It was foretold that this being could stop the Darkstorm, and Silverlaine and I vowed to protect it. Gladly. We dedicated our lives to the order, and I was chosen as its leader.”
“But why summon the Darkstorm?” Aram asked, puzzled. “How would that even happen?”
“Xaraax.” His father said the word like a curse. “A dreadlord of the Burning Legion. His only interest is in spreading the strength of the Legion, smearing it like a stain across every world. Azeroth is the only world to resist, a world the naaru has lent its grace to shield. We were to guard that shield against the malice of Xaraax. Silverlaine and I were to protect that shield, until he betrayed everything we fought for.”
“So what happened? I thought Malus said you betrayed him, not the other way around.”
“And so I did. I was the leader of the order, but he was the superior swordsman. The naaru granted me the Diamond Blade to bestow upon whomever I deemed most worthy. I kept it for myself. I saw it as a symbol of my leadership, but Silverlaine was furious. He, of course, deserved the gift of the blade, and I denied it to him because of pride.” The weight of that choice returned to Greydon, and he sank down against the bars. “He did deserve the blade, but I dismissed him, thinking it was mere jealousy. Brothers can be like that.”
“Sisters, too,” Aram said dryly. His father raised a brow at that. “Makasa, I mean. We squabbled so much … I never thought we could really be friends, and now I think of her as my sister.”
“Then you’ve been wiser than me,” Greydon replied. “Silverlaine and I argued endlessly over the blade, and it tore our bond apart. I told him … he was not worthy. Then one day, he stole the blade from my quarters and simply left. I discovered later that he had gone to fight Xaraax and his minions alone, no doubt determined to prove that I had erred, and that he had the true right to the Diamond Blade.”
“Brave, I guess. And stupid.”
“Those things often go hand in hand,” his father said. “Silverlaine was outnumbered. He survived the worst of the onslaught, but at the last, Xaraax tempted him to his side, promising Silverlaine great power and even greater revenge if he sided with the demons. Xaraax’s worm tongue burrowed into Silverlaine’s mind, persuading him that the naaru and I would discard him. He was weakened by his anger, I think, and accepted the demon’s offer. We had no idea he had betrayed us until he returned and used the Diamond Blade to murder the naaru.”
His voice hitched on the last word. Aram ate in silence, but he had lost his taste for the gruel and set it aside.
“The—the impact shattered the blade, and the shards of it were scattered across Azeroth, lost, I thought, for all time.”
“But what about the Darkstorm? It must not have come, because Azeroth is still here … We’re still here. Why didn’t Xaraax take what he’d won?”
“For a long time, I didn’t know. The naaru was gone, the order as shattered as the Diamond Blade. No one remained to defend Azeroth, yet the world wasn’t ending. And then everything changed.”
“What changed?”
“The Voice of the Light. After years, I began hearing the naaru. How I had missed the sound of its voice! It called to me, telling me that the blade could be reforged, that it contained the naaru’s essence. This was why the Darkstorm hadn’t come: it couldn’t come while the naaru still existed in some form. If I could find the shards, I could restore the naaru, and then it could stop Xaraax and the Darkstorm for good. This was my chance to mend my mistake, but doing so meant leaving you and your mother. The Diamond Blade is truly a double-edged sword: If I could reforge it in secret, I could save us all—I could save my family. But if I let the sword fall into Xaraax’s hands, Azeroth would be doomed.”
Another spell of silence. Aram didn’t think it would hurt so much to hear the explanation, not when they were already imprisoned and in pain. But he pounded his fist into his palm, glaring across at his father. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
“I didn’t know if I would ever return,” Greydon whispered, hoarse, his eyes shining in the darkness. “And I wanted to protect you. I see now that it was folly, and the naaru knew it,
too. You are part of this, Aram; the Voice of the Light told me to find you, told me you had a great destiny. I struggled with it for a long, long time. The Darkstorm, the Diamond Blade, Silverlaine … So much loss, so many mistakes, how could I endanger you, too?”
“That was why you came back for me. The Voice of the Light …” That hurt more. Hot, angry tears spilled down his cheeks. “You never wanted to come find me. It wasn’t even your decision!”
Greydon clambered to his knees, crawling toward Aramar, reaching for him through the bars. “No, Aramar, no. I only wanted to protect you from, well, this. Look what has happened. I listened to the naaru and now we are both doomed. You were much safer back in Lakeshire. I tried to tell you, Aram, I tried to tell you on the Wavestrider …”
Wincing, Aram did, in fact, remember. Just as his father finally sat him down to explain his actions, his abandonment, his absence, Malus had attacked, sinking the ship, leaving Aram to believe his father had been killed.
“For years I was desperate to return to Lakeshire and find you, but I was too afraid to get you wrapped up in this mess. I wanted to save you. That’s what a father does.”
“A father never leaves in the first place,” Aram spat. But his father, weakened by the prolonged torture, looked only pitiful to him then. Withered. Alone for so much of his life … and there Aram had been. Aram had always been surrounded by a loving family. First in Lakeshire, and then among his father’s crew, and when the Wavestrider was gone and hope seemed lost, he gained yet another family, one he had cobbled together himself.
“The fate of the world was in the balance, Aram, and that world is yours, too.”
The words hung heavily between them. Aram let out a single sob, wiped at his face, and found the anger had fled him. He was being just like Silverlaine, only seeing how things affected him. His father had been handed an impossible choice, and he had done the best he could, trying to save Azeroth and protect Aram at the same time.
The Shining Blade Page 16