Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  Yvka shrugged. “Very good.”

  Zivon shook his head and laughed. “Fortune save me from uneducated palates!” He took yet another sip of wine, set his mug down, then pushed his plate aside—an indication that he was ready to get down to business. “You truly believe the priest is capable of dispelling the Fury?”

  “His name is Diran, and I’ve seen him do remarkable things.”

  “Rumor has it that you’ve seen his partner do a few remarkable things as well.”

  Yvka felt her own rage take hold at Zivon’s remark—a rage that had nothing to do with the House of Kolbyr. But before she could say anything, Zivon held up his hands in a placating gesture.

  “You’ve managed to maintain our code admirably—until the night you met Diran Bastiaan and his companions in a seedy tavern in Port Verge. At first you joined them in order to discover the secret of the Black Fleet, for information is the Network’s lifeblood, is it not? But it didn’t take long for you to come to admire your new companions and, despite your many years of experience at maintaining professional distance from others, for the first time in a long time you found herself becoming close to others, didn’t you? Especially the half-orc.

  “Oh, you made excuses, told yourself that the best way to gain your new companions’ trust was to appear to become friends with them, and your association proved even more beneficial than you’d hoped when, after you’d defeated Erdis Cai, you informed us about the vampire’s hidden lair in Grimwall. We were quite pleased with the treasures we discovered in the ancient goblinoid city. And if you’d had a little fun with the half-… with Ghaji in the process of performing your duties, what was the harm? You received a new assignment not long after that, and when you were forced to say goodbye to Ghaji, you pretended that parting from him didn’t hurt. And you almost managed to make yourself believe it.

  “But a few months later you learned that Aldarik Cathmore, one of Bastiaan’s former teachers in the art of assassination, had come to the Principalities, and you used that information as an excuse to rejoin your new friends once more … as an excuse to see Ghaji. Once again, your association with the others benefited you: you informed us of the existence of the creation forge within Mount Luster, and our artificers are even now investigating the facility to ferret out the delicious secrets it holds. You’ve done well, Yvka. Quite well, indeed.” Zivon paused a moment before adding, “All things considered.”

  Zivon’s tone remained pleasant enough, but his words sent a chill rippling down Yvka’s spine. “You’re speaking of the Zephyr.”

  “A valuable asset. One that we are disappointed to have lost.”

  “Makala took it.” It was as much a question as a statement.

  “Yes. Though she wasn’t alone.”

  Yvka frowned. “Who else was with her?”

  “A lich and a barghest. The same barghest, we believe, who stole the wand of your artificer friend.”

  “A lich?” Could it be the same one that Diran, Ghaji, Tresslar, and Hinto had slain in the mountains outside Perhata? How could it be any other? The barghest had been her servant, after all. But how had the lich been resurrected, if that was the right term to apply to the reanimation of an already undead creature? Had the barghest somehow used Tresslar’s dragonwand to perform the task? Yvka supposed it didn’t matter how the dark deed was done. A more important question was why Makala had joined forces with the lich and her servant, and most important of all, where were they bound aboard the Zephyr? Aboard her ship?

  Anticipating her question, Zivon said, “The three set sail from Perhata in the dead of night, appropriately enough, bound for the open sea. They did not make port here in Kolbyr, but otherwise I cannot say where they went. Given their last heading, my guess is that they intended to leave the gulf entirely, but it is only a hunch, based on no solid information.”

  Yvka smiled. “Your hunches are better than most people’s facts.”

  Zivon acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod.

  Yvka decided she’d gotten all she was going to from Zivon, and she’d better not push her luck any further.

  “My thanks. Knowing that the Zephyr and the dragonwand are together will make things simpler. If we find one, we’ll find the other.” She started to stand, but Zivon gestured for her to remain seated. Yvka gritted her teeth. She didn’t like being told what to do, but the Culinarian was Zivon’s domain, and so she had little choice but to do as he wanted.

  “I wish you all success in regaining possession of the Zephyr. But before you leave, there is another matter we need to discuss.”

  Yvka didn’t like the sound of this. “If it’s about my companions, I assure you—”

  “It isn’t,” Zivon said. “At least, not primarily. As I said earlier, we are greatly pleased with the treasures that you’ve delivered unto us, thanks to your most profitable association with Diran Bastiaan and his friends. But you know our philosophy: too much is never enough, not when it comes to information and power. In the end, they’re really both the same, are they not?”

  Yvka was disturbed by the sudden turn this conversation had taken, and she dreaded Zivon’s next words.

  “If you wish to find yourself in our good graces once more, not only will you recover the Zephyr, you will bring us two things more: the artificer’s wand and the psiforged called Solus.”

  I didn’t know what to expect, but this surely wasn’t it,” Ghaji whispered.

  Diran couldn’t help but agree with his friend. The two companions, led by Asenka and flanked by a pair of guards, walked down a corridor in the palace of Baroness Calida. Up to this point, the architecture they’d seen in Kolbyr had been austere at best and forbidding at worst, and the outside of the palace had been no exception. The face it presented to the world was that of a severe-looking edifice of gray stone bereft of ornamentation or humanity. No windows or battlements, no towers or crenellations … nothing but featureless cold sterility. The air around the palace felt heavy and stale, making every breath an effort, and worst of all, the palace itself exuded an aura of sheer malevolence, as if waves of hate emanated from the stonework.

  But inside was a very different story. The walls were painted soothing colors—soft yellows, placid greens, and gentle pinks. Potted ferns rested in corners, vases filled with aromatic blooms sat on tables, and hanging plants dangled from ceilings. Tiny bright-feathered songbirds flew through the air, free to sing wherever they pleased. Musicians performed at strategic locations throughout the palace—soloists, trios, and quartets—all playing their instruments with deft, light touches, producing tunes both soft and tranquil. The air smelled of sweet incense, and where breathing outside had been a chore, inside breathing was a pleasure and every inhalation filled one’s body with a sensation of peace and contentment.

  “Obviously, the palace’s interior has been designed to soften the effects of the Fury,” Diran whispered. “An absolute necessity, as this is where the curse is centered.”

  Neither of the two guards—tall, broad-shouldered men wearing chainmail vests and longswords belted at their waists—reacted to the two friends’ exchange. But Diran could feel the tension radiating from both men. Their muscles were tight, jaws tense, lips pursed, brows furrowed, and their breathing was labored, as if some great struggle was taking place within them.

  Ghaji must’ve sensed the guards’ anger as well, for he drew his lower lip back to better display his bottom incisors. Diran had seen his friend perform this action on numerous occasions, and he’d also seen the aftermath. It usually involved a great deal of blood being spilled.

  The priest laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Peace, Ghaji. Don’t let the curse of Kolbyr take hold in you.” Diran concentrated on projecting a sense of calm, not only in his manner, but also spiritually. As one of the Purified, Diran could mystically soothe a turbulent soul in much the same way that he could heal an injured body.

  Ghaji sighed then nodded to show he was all right, and Diran was relieved. He do
ubted Baroness Calida would grant them an audience if they began brawling with her guards in the palace corridors.

  Diran looked to Asenka, and though she appeared tense, she seemed to be handling the urgings of the Fury well enough. She was made of stern stuff, that woman: strong steel with a sharp edge. And yet she was also one of the most genuinely warm people Diran had ever met, with a gentle loving gaze and a delightfully earthy laugh. He was older than she by a few years, but the difference in their ages wasn’t that great. But the gulf between them was much wider in terms of experience. Asenka had spent her life in Perhata, training to be a warrior, joining Baron Mahir’s Sea Scorpions, and eventually becoming their leader. She had seen her fair share of battle, no doubt, but Diran had lived the first part of his life as an assassin. He had killed heartlessly, efficiently, and without remorse. So many men and women had felt the deadly kiss of his daggers that he’d lost count of the number he had slain. As one of the Purified, he knew death was not to be feared, for the passing away of the mortal shell allowed one’s spirit to join with the Silver Flame in the afterlife. But as wondrous as that joining was, as much as it was to be desired, never should it be hastened. It should take place in its own time, and not be dictated by the desires of the rich and powerful, those with money enough to pay to have their enemies slain.

  But after becoming a priest of the Silver Flame and dedicating his life to using his assassin’s skills to combat evil in all its myriad forms, Diran had seen sights far worse than anything he’d ever experienced during the war. Purified he might be, but that didn’t mean he was unaffected by the evil he battled, and he wondered if the shadows that had touched his soul over the years had changed him too much, set him apart from ordinary men to the point where he couldn’t love and be loved the way he wanted to. The way Asenka deserved.

  As they continued toward the Baroness’s court, Diran found himself thinking back to a time when he’d learned what it truly meant to be touched by shadow, when he began to realize that he’d only thought he’d understood what evil was …

  When his education as a priest of the Silver Flame began in earnest.

  Nighttime along the banks of the Thrane River, southwest of Sigilstar, a week shy of Victory Day in the month of Barrakas. A priest and two acolytes sat cross-legged around a campfire, cloaks draped around their shoulders against the night’s chill, heavy travel packs lying on the ground at their sides, bedrolls spread out behind them. The flames of their campfire burned with a silver tint, but the fire produced little smoke. A cloud of insects, mostly moths, hovered over the flames, drawn by the light, encouraged to come closer by the absence of smoke. The three men had finished a tasteless meal of travel rations and were now watching the silvery flames dance, thinking whatever thoughts happened to drift through their minds.

  “Pass the wineskin, Diran, if you would be so kind.”

  Diran did as his teacher asked. Tusya shook the wineskin once, then frowned.

  “That’s all we have left? There can’t be more than a couple swallows in there.”

  Diran smiled. “I have even worse news: that’s the last of the wine.”

  Tusya slapped a hand to his chest. “Say it isn’t so! Your words strike me to the very quick!”

  Diran chuckled, but Leontis only continued staring at their campfire, scowling as he stirred the silvery-white coals with a stick. Tusya had added silverburn to the fire, a common—if somewhat expensive—practice among the Purified. It symbolized the Silver Flame offering light to its followers and warding off the darkness. Diran had been surprised by their teacher’s largesse. Normally, he was by necessity a thrifty man, for wandering priests possessed little but what they could carry with them on their travels. Indeed, this was the first time Diran had known Tusya to use silverburn, and he wondered what the occasion might be. For certainly there was some reason; despite Tusya’s seemingly haphazard way of approaching life, he always had a reason for the things he did, even if that reason wasn’t readily apparent to those around him.

  Like Diran, Leontis Dellacron was in his mid-twenties. His brown hair hung almost to his shoulders and was in need of a good trimming, and he’d recently begun growing a beard that looked as if it might never fill in properly. Both Diran and Leontis had served as acolytes under the tutelage of Tusya Vanarden for the last six months. Before petitioning for admission to a seminary, acolytes of the Silver Flame were required to serve under a priest for an undetermined period of time, learning the basics of the faith. When the sponsoring priest thought they were ready—and only then—could acolytes be accepted as seminarians. During their time as Tusya’s students, Diran and Leontis had become companions, if not the closest of friends. Leontis tended to be moody and withdrawn, while Diran, due to his training in the Brotherhood of the Blade, was stoic and guarded.

  Leontis’s longbow sat within easy reach, but though it was the signature weapon of the order of the Silver Flame, neither Tusya nor Diran carried one. Diran had practiced with bow and arrow on occasion, but he had yet to develop any skill with them. Instead he carried a dozen daggers—the tools he’d employed in his previous life—secreted about his person. Tusya, however, carried no weapons at all. Diran had once asked his teacher why he chose to go about unarmed. Tusya had simply given Diran a mischievous smile and replied, “What makes you think I’m unarmed?”

  The best word to describe Tusya, Diran thought, was nondescript. There was nothing physically about the man to make him stand out in any way—a quality that would serve an assassin well, Diran mused, but could at times be something of hindrance to a priest engaged in the holy task of ridding the world of evil. Tusya was hardly a commanding or intimidating presence, and thus it struck Diran as no surprise that he had chosen to serve in the Order of Friars as opposed to becoming a templar. Tusya was in his late sixties, of medium height, and carried a rather sizeable paunch, especially considering how much he walked. Only a few wisps of snow-white hair clung to his bald pate, but he’d grown a full beard as if to make up for it. He smiled easily and often, and he spoke with a soft, gentle voice though his laugh was loud enough to scare the birds out of the trees. His eyes were kind, but if you looked beneath the surface, you could see a sharp, calculating intelligence that belied the priest’s easygoing veneer.

  “Is something brothering you, lad?” Tusya asked Leontis. His tone remained good-humored enough, but his voice now held an edge of seriousness.

  Leontis continued stirring the coals for a moment longer before responding. “Forgive me for saying so, Father, but your … fondness for wine confuses me.”

  Diran wasn’t surprised to see Tusya grin at Leontis’s words. Where others might take offense at being challenged—even in such a mild way—Tusya always seemed delighted, as if he thrived on conflict. No, that wasn’t right, Diran amended. In his former life as an assassin for hire, Diran had seen many men and women who lived for conflict … and died because of it. What energized Tusya was the chance to engage in a lively dialogue.

  “How so?”

  Leontis glanced up from the fire to look at Tusya for a moment, before turning his gaze back to the flames. Diran liked Leontis, even considered him a friend, the first real one he’d made—not counting Tusya himself, of course—since the priest had cast out the dark spirit that Diran had shared his soul with for so many years. But though Leontis and Diran were close in age, they were very different in terms of experience. Diran had begun training as an assassin during childhood, and he’d been a full-fledged member in the Brotherhood of the Blade for over a decade before turning away from the dark path of the killer and embarking on his studies to become one of the Purified. Leontis, on the other hand, had grown up as a cobbler’s son in Danthaven and had become interested in the priesthood because his maternal aunt served as a priest in a temple of healing there.

  Leontis continued looking at the fire as he spoke. Diran had long ago noted his friend often had trouble meeting others’ eyes when he was discussing what he thought were sensitive matt
ers. “You are Purified, are you not? Strong drink can impair one’s judgment, causing one to lose control of one’s emotions. As you’ve taught us, becoming Purified—and staying so—requires the constant vigilance of both a strong mind and a strong heart.”

  Tusya finished off the last of the wine before answering his young charge. “I’m not sure I’d call this vintage particularly strong, either in alcohol content or taste.” He smiled as he laid the empty skin on the ground next to him. “There are many lessons to be learned from the symbol of our faith, many truths and insights to be gained. For example, Leontis, what shape is our campfire?”

  Leontis turned to Tusya and frowned. “What?”

  “The shape, son. It’s a simple enough question. Square, round, triangular … which is it?”

  Leontis scowled. “Forgive me for saying so, Teacher, but sometimes I wish you would just come out and say what you mean.” But the acolyte looked back to the fire and answered. “It has a general shape, one that’s not like anything else except other fires. Our campfire is smaller than some, larger than others. Its specific size and dimensions vary with the amount of wood used to fuel it, and the flames themselves dance and move about.”

  “So would you say that while the essential nature of the fire remains the same, its particular shape varies from one moment to the next?”

  “Yes,” Leontis answered.

  “And thus it is with Purification. The shape it takes varies from person to person, depending on their personalities”—Tusya glanced sideways at Diran—“and what demons drive them. Some men drink alcohol as if it were water, without experiencing any significant lasting effects. Others merely take a few sips of strong drink and become its lifelong slave. For these latter souls, resisting their need for alcohol is a struggle far greater than battling couatls or lycanthropes. You have little taste for wine, Leontis, so abstaining from it would be no hardship for you. I enjoy wine, so abstaining would be more difficult for me, but I could do so with minimal effort. So it would be no great feat for either of us to forgo strong drink. And the lesson in this, Diran, is …?”