by John Marco
Praxtin-Tar continued to study Alazrian. There was genuine pain in his face, and a pitiful spark of hope. Finally the warlord gave his answer. Nagrah grinned.
‘He agrees,’ said Nagrah. Then his face became grave. ‘I hope you were not lying, young Alazrian.’
Alazrian let Praxtin-Tar and his slave lead him deeper into the camp, toward a tent far larger than the others, a yellow pavilion staked with ropes and bearing the raven crest of Reen. Jahl and Nagrah followed close behind. A thousand curious eyes watched Alazrian as he approached, but no one spoke and no one moved, and even the breeze had stilled. Alazrian flexed his fingers, wondering what he would find inside. It had been a very long time since he had used his powers, and he considered the possibility of failure. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t doubt the warlord’s promise to kill him. How ill was Crinion, anyway?
It didn’t take long to get an answer. As soon as Praxtin-Tar led them through the tent flap, Alazrian smelled the stink of sickness. It was a great, unwashed stench, full of sweat and urine and the sweetness of blood. He sighted a young man on a bed of pillows, wrapped in bandages and poultices. Even Jahl, who Alazrian knew had seen his share of death, choked at the stench and the ghastly visage. A wisp of smoke floated from incense on a small altar. Its scent did nothing to cleanse the air. A Triin man hovered over Crinion. Startled by the intrusion, the man stood up at once. Seeing Praxtin-Tar, he hurried forward to fuss over his master. Praxtin-Tar pushed him aside.
‘This is Valtuvus,’ explained Rook. ‘Praxtin-Tar’s healer. And that . . .’ He gestured toward the unmoving figure swathed in bandages. ‘. . . Is Crinion.’
‘He is worse than I remembered,’ fretted Nagrah. The cunning-man knelt down next to Crinion and studied his face. ‘He is very bad.’ He put a hand to Crinion’s neck, feeling for a pulse. ‘Barely alive.’
‘He sleeps and does not awaken,’ said Rook. ‘The infection has taken him. He will be dead soon.’
‘Dead?’ parroted Praxtin-Tar. ‘Uisha kah dead.’ Amazingly, he looked at Alazrian, his eyes deep and concerned. When he spoke, Alazrian missed all the words, but the meaning was plain.
‘Praxtin-Tar asks that you work your magic,’ said Nagrah. ‘He asks you to heal his son.’
Alazrian smiled crookedly. ‘I’ll try,’ he said. He looked at Jahl. ‘Will you pray for me? I could use the help.’
‘Me? Oh, I don’t know. I mean, this is magic. I . . .’
‘Jahl, please . . .’
Jahl Rob hesitated. ‘Yes, all right.’
The priest knelt next to Crinion. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, then began a prayer in the High Naren tongue, begging God to save Crinion and grant Alazrian his arcane strength. When he was finished, Jahl put out his hand for Alazrian and bid him to kneel beside him. As Alazrian did so, Jahl leaned over and whispered in his ear.
‘Can you really do this?’
Alazrian didn’t know the answer. He took a few breaths, clearing his mind. Praxtin-Tar’s shadow fell over him, blocking out the candlelight. He brought up his trembling hands, letting them hover over the unmoving Crinion. Next to him, Jahl sat very still. Nagrah’s soft breathing stirred behind him.
I can do this, Alazrian told himself. I have the power . . .
Taming his fear, he laid his hands upon Crinion’s body, feeling the warmth beneath the bandages and the feeble spark of life. The stench of blood and pus grew in his nostrils; the smells of herbs and incense assailed him. He closed his eyes, fighting the sensations, searching for the essence of the man at his feet. Instantly the cold of death arose, and Crinion’s sickness overwhelmed him. There was a dankness, and the sense of floating – mindless, without a body.
Lost at sea, thought Alazrian. Crinion is lost at sea . . .
Alazrian dug his fingers deeper into the flesh. Beneath his fingernails he felt the warm sensation of blood. He let it pour into him, become a part of him, until he was floating with Crinion on the same black sea. In his mind he saw Crinion, laughing, then crying, then screaming in pain, and the agony shook Alazrian’s bones. He let out a whimper, not opening his eyes. Jahl’s hand touched his shoulder, strong and reassuring.
‘I’m here, boy,’ said the priest. The voice came as if from many miles away. ‘Heal him, Alazrian. You can do it.’
I can do it, he screamed. Crinion, I see you. Come back!
With all his will, Alazrian summoned Crinion back into his body. The fractured bits of a lifetime fell like rain from the black sky, forming a picture of a young Triin . . .
‘I’m doing it!’ Alazrian gasped. ‘I can feel it!’
‘My God,’ whispered Jahl, ‘you are doing it!’
Alazrian didn’t dare open his eyes. The power in him crested. That strange union of will and magic raced through Crinion’s blood, cleansing it and burning back the infection. It was unbearable, an ocean of fire scalding him – but it was working.
Alazrian opened his eyes, slowly and with effort. His eyelids fluttered and he thought he might faint. His fingers had palsied into stiff stumps, still clutching Crinion’s flesh. Tears blurred his vision as his mind fought to focus.
‘Jahl,’ he gasped, ‘what do you see?’
There was no reply. Alazrian gave his head a violent shake, almost choking.
‘Tell me, Jahl! What do you see?’
Jahl Rob’s voice was pale. ‘A miracle.’
Through his clearing vision Alazrian caught a glimpse of Crinion. There was an aura over him, very faint, almost undetectable. At first Alazrian didn’t know if the others could see it, but then he looked at Jahl and noticed that priest’s astonished expression.
‘By the Passion,’ exclaimed Jahl. Quickly he crossed himself. Nagrah fell back, almost tripping in his shock, and Rook merely stared, his skin ashen.
Praxtin-Tar drifted closer. His mouth hung open in wonderment, and he reached out for the aura, touching it as though it were a distant rainbow. As his fingers entered the yellow light, the warlord of Reen let out a desperate moan. Beneath him, Crinion’s once brittle body had taken on a new vitality. A regular heartbeat seemed to fill the room, pounding like a drum, and the poisoned features of his face had vanished, replaced by an angelic serenity. Blood and pus still soaked his bandages, but the awful stink had gone, and in its place had come the scent of springtime and the perfume of flowers. Jahl started laughing.
‘I smell lilac! My God, Alazrian, it’s a miracle. A true and honest miracle!’
Alazrian could barely move. ‘I . . . I did it,’ he stammered. ‘I’m a healer. I really am . . .’
‘Lorris and Pris,’ sighed Nagrah. He put his hands together and began to weep. ‘You are touched by heaven.’
‘Touched by heaven,’ echoed Alazrian. He looked down at his hands as the stiffness ebbed, flexing them in disbelief. ‘Mother. Oh, Mother. I could have saved you . . .’
Jumping to his feet, he stared down at his blood-soaked hands, then turned and bolted from the tent. He heard Jahl calling after him, begging him to stop, but the only thing he wanted was to be away from the man he had saved. His mother’s face blazed in his mind, not a comfort but a curse, and he staggered through the crowd that had gathered outside Praxtin-Tar’s pavilion, pushing them away. A fog of grief settled over him, blinding him so that he did not know how fast he ran or where he was going.
Alazrian raced from the camp. There were hills in front of him; he could see them through his tears. He dashed for their sanctuary. He could still hear people calling after him, but he ignored them. Suddenly those hills seemed more important than anything. So he ran, not really knowing why, and when he reached the hills he collapsed beneath a giant fir tree. Pine needles struck his face as he hit the ground. Once again he dug his fingers deep, this time clawing up great clods of earth.
‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I’m sorry I let you die . . .’
When his mother had perished, Alazrian had shed tears. And when she had been entombed, he had wept again. But not like t
his. This was something monstrous. She hadn’t wanted to be saved – she had insisted he not do so. But he had never really known the depth of his strength; he had never really been sure he could have rescued her. But he knew now, and it shattered him. He buried his face in the pine needles and dirt, letting the sobs overwhelm him. The sounds of the encampment fell away . . .
But the solitude didn’t last. Soon he heard a familiar voice shouting his name, then the crunch of approaching boots. Jahl was searching for him, calling his name. Alazrian sat up unsteadily. He saw Jahl a few paces away, staring at him.
‘Alazrian,’ said the priest. ‘Why did you run?’
Alazrian couldn’t answer. He tried to speak but emotion choked him. Jahl went to him, waiting for him to speak. When he was younger, Alazrian used to stutter. Now he wondered if he would stutter again.
‘You saw what I did. I saved him.’
‘Yes, a miracle,’ agreed Jahl. ‘You were right, boy. And Nagrah is right, too. You are touched by heaven. You’re a healer. Like our Lord.’
‘I’m nothing like the Lord! My mother died because of me, Jahl. I could have saved her but I didn’t.’
‘No,’ Jahl argued. ‘Your mother had a cancer.’
‘Cancer,’ scoffed Alazrian bitterly. ‘So what? Crinion had worse than that, and look what I did for him.’
‘But you told me yourself she didn’t want to live. She begged you not to save her. Isn’t that so?’ When Alazrian wouldn’t answer, Jahl grabbed his shoulder. ‘Well? Isn’t it?’
‘It is. But how does that matter? I shouldn’t have listened to her.’
‘You are wrong,’ Jahl said. ‘Everyone dies. Even you’ll die eventually, just like Tharn. No magic can save you from God’s plan.’
Alazrian looked up at him. ‘Plan?’
‘It’s all a plan, Alazrian. God doesn’t make mistakes. And there are no accidents. Your mother died because it was her time, and she died giving you a mission to find out about yourself. Well, here you are.’
‘Oh, if only that were true,’ sighed Alazrian. He sniffed against his runny nose. ‘But I don’t know why I’m here anymore. I shouldn’t have come. I—’
A figure emerged from the pines, startling him. Alazrian sat up and looked straight into the face of Praxtin-Tar. The warlord stood in his bloodied rags, his expression grave. It looked as though he, too, had been weeping. Jahl sprang to his feet, ready to defend Alazrian, but there was no threat from the warlord. Praxtin-Tar merely watched, an inscrutable smile crossing his face. Then he began to speak.
‘What’s he saying?’ whispered Jahl.
Alazrian shrugged. ‘Praxtin-Tar? What is it? What are you saying?’
Praxtin-Tar grimaced in frustration. Then, gripped by an idea, he fell to his knees before Alazrian and grabbed the boy’s hand, clasping it hard and staring into his eyes.
‘No,’ said Alazrian, trying to pull away. But Praxtin-Tar held on, shaking his hand insistently. Alazrian relented, allowing Praxtin-Tar’s mind to reach him, and felt the thunderbolt of the man’s passion. This time when Praxtin-Tar spoke, Alazrian understood every word.
‘Yes,’ gasped Alazrian. ‘Yes, I understand you. I do!’
Praxtin-Tar’s overwhelming gratitude flooded Alaz-rian’s senses. Crinion was healed, and the warlord was humbled. There was a great satisfaction in Praxtin-Tar, a numinous enlightenment. Alazrian puzzled over it for a moment, wondering what had made the warlord so joyous. There was a name echoing between them, sounding over and over in their shared minds.
‘Tharn,’ said Alazrian softly. ‘No, Praxtin-Tar, I am not him.’
But Praxtin-Tar laughed. ‘Tharn!’ he cried. ‘You are like him. You are the door to heaven, open again!’
‘I am a boy.’
‘You are special,’ argued the warlord.
‘No, I am nothing.’
‘You are touched by heaven!’
‘I am . . .’ Alazrian paused. ‘Afraid.’
Praxtin-Tar squeezed his hand. ‘I will protect you.’
‘Alazrian?’ asked Jahl nervously. ‘Are you all right? What’s happening?’
Alazrian laughed. ‘I can feel him, Jahl! I can hear him. He’s talking to me!’
‘Talking? What’s he saying?’
There was so much in Praxtin-Tar’s words, it was more like reading a library than a single book. How to distill it all so Jahl could understand? But among the volumes of Praxtin-Tar’s soul was one distinct, very clear message.
‘The Jackal,’ whispered Alazrian, still clutching the warlord’s hands. He looked straight into Praxtin-Tar’s eyes, and knew that nothing in him was a lie. ‘He’s going to take us there, Jahl. He’s going to take us to Vantran.’
Thirty Two
Kasrin stood on the deck of his damaged vessel. The shadow of the Sovereign’s new mainmast fell across his face at an angle as the Lissen shipwrights tried raising it into position. It had taken more than a week to fashion the new mast, work that was performed while the crippled Sovereign was towed to Karalon by barges, and now it seemed the mast was too stout for the warship, and wouldn’t marry with the existing fitting. So far, progress had been wretchedly slow, and every day was a new adventure in futility. Despite their excellent reputation as shipbuilders, the Lissens were way behind schedule.
Once the Sovereign had been dragged ashore, an elaborate scaffolding had been constructed around her. The swampy banks of Karalon had made dry-docking the dreadnought nearly impossible, but Lissen ingenuity had eventually won out. After the barges had towed the wounded warship to the island, Jelena’s people wasted no time. They had erected the scaffolding and surrounded the Sovereign with booms and pulleys and armatures in an effort to repair her. But she was a cripple and looked ready for the scrap yard. The Fearless had blown great holes in her hull and deck, providing the carpenters round-the-clock work, and the cracked mainmast was completely unsalvageable. There was practically no rigging left and barely any sails, and the fire that had enveloped the stern had destroyed the upper deck so that a great maw now gaped in the planking, providing a perfect view to the holds below. Put kindly, the Sovereign was a wreck, and Blair Kasrin wasn’t certain she would ever sail again.
Since coming to Karalon, Kasrin had noticed the change in the weather. It was warm now. The days were getting longer, and the grass was already high. The first day of summer was three weeks away. On that morning he was to be in Talistan. He was to open fire on their border and signal Biagio to begin his invasion. And the Jackal would be there, too, if the boy Alazrian had been successful. It was a three-legged stool, this plan of Biagio’s, but the stool was already toppling because one of its legs was missing. As he watched the Lissens slowly positioning the mainmast, cursing as they contemplated its oversized girth, Kasrin could only shake his head.
There was simply too much damage. Even with Lissen know-how, there was no way to make the repairs in time. It would take at least a week to sail to Talistan, and that left maybe two weeks to get the Sovereign seaworthy – an impossible task if ever there was one.
Like sinking the Fearless?
Kasrin remembered what Jelena had told him that day on the beach. She had told him that they would rebuild the Dread Sovereign, and Jelena had been true to her word. She had provided craftsmen and materials and her own tireless support, but all of it seemed pointless. The clock was ticking. The Sovereign was in bad shape – much too bad to set sail so soon.
Still, Kasrin liked thinking about that day on the beach. He had been so afraid. And her lap had been so warm . . .
He turned away, unable to watch a moment longer. They might get the mast in place today, but then they needed to fit it with yards. After that, they needed to fit the yards with rigging, and the rigging with sails. And when that was done they could finally set to work on the stern. Kasrin closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of hammers. They were earnest workers, these Lissens, and highly skilled, but even they couldn’t work miracles.
I’m not going t
o make it, he told himself. Sorry, Biagio.
Somehow, the emperor would have to launch his invasion without the dreadnought’s help. There would be no bombardment of Talistan’s coast, no softening of Tassis Gayle’s troops. The Sovereign’s port guns were ruined, anyway. Endless fire against the Fearless had melted their barrels. Now the warship had only three cannons, all on her starboard side. Jelena had suggested salvaging the Fearless’ cannons, but that, too, was impossible. Only the tinkerers in the war labs knew how to fit the dangerous weapons. To Kasrin, the lack of firepower was just one more nail in the Sovereign’s coffin.
He opened his eyes and looked over the deck. His crewmen were hard at work alongside the Lissens, patching holes with planks and buckets of pitch. On the horizon the sun was going down, throwing long shadows across the dreadnought. It would be night soon. The setting sun reminded Kasrin he was tired. There had been very little sleep for him the past week. Work had consumed his days, and when he did close his eyes he endured nightmares. He hadn’t been eating much lately, either, and his head swam. But just like sleep, there was no time for food. The Dread Sovereign needed him.