An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3)

by J. D. L. Rosell

  "And if he's dead?" Aelyn asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

  "If he is" — the bard's tone made it clear what he thought of that possibility — "then we'll make doubly sure of it, and perhaps kill some of the Enemy's hounds."

  "Only you won't be doing the killing," the mage retorted.

  "Or we might turn back."

  Garin turned with a start toward Helnor, who had spoken. Of their companions, he hadn't expected the Prime Warder to be the one to turn tail. Evidently, he wasn't proud of the suggestion; his broad shoulders were bowed, his posture slumped.

  "Elendol is at war with itself," Helnor said at the looks from the others. "The East is shrouded in winter. And my nephew travels with us. There are a hundred reasons to return to the Westreach, and only one to continue."

  "Only one?" Falcon objected. "Only the reason we ventured into this gods-forsaken land in the first place, you mean?"

  Garin wished he could be doing anything but discussing this. Seeking an escape from his own misery, he looked around to those remaining silent. Ashelia, though she had initiated the deliberations, seemed to have relapsed into sorrow. Rolan had fallen silent and watched the adults with round eyes. Wren leaned against the wall, her muscles bunched tight, clearly frustrated that there was no obvious way forward. Aelyn observed the proceedings with a smirk that Garin wanted to wipe off his face with a slap. And Kaleras—

  Even as he turned to him, the old warlock stood and drew the attention of the room to him.

  His response to Tal's death had been hidden behind his usual stony expression. Garin didn't expect much mourning from him. All he'd heard and seen of their relationship had been an old antagonism bred from Tal's sins against the Circle, though they'd always seemed to know each other better than enemies. But finally, Kaleras looked to have found what he wanted to say.

  "There is a third way." He paused, letting his words sink in. "It seems Tal is dead. Seeking him would be foolhardy and fruitless, and revenge will bring us no closer to the victory we must achieve. But neither can we turn back. The Eternal Animus is centered here, in the East. Inevitably, we must bring war to the Enemy himself."

  Silence greeted the warlock's statements as he looked around at each of them with shadowed eyes. Garin assumed everyone else clung to Kaleras' every word, just as he did. The question on their minds almost rang inside his skull.

  What third way?

  "This is what Tal meant to do," Kaleras continued. "In Halenhol, he entrusted to me a book, a curiosity written by an Easterner sorceress. In its pages lays a theory as to the origins of Yuldor's power, and how his reign might be disrupted. Tal trusted this theory; he wagered his life on it. For he believed he was a Fount of Blood, a child of the Worldheart from which all sorcery pours into this plane of existence. He believed, too, that this affinity meant he might seize the Worldheart from Yuldor's possession, and thus make an end of the Enemy."

  Garin had known the truth. Yet hearing it said again made the possibility sound all the stranger and unbelievable.

  "I know this tome to be real," Aelyn said, somewhat less smug than before. "I saw it during our travels together from his swamp-infested town."

  "And he told me of the book on our way to Elendol," Falcon spoke up. "A Fable of Song and Blood, he called it."

  "A fable, indeed," Aelyn muttered.

  "I do not believe it to be a fable." Kaleras brought the room's attention back to him. "It speaks truth to irregularities I have noticed for years. Not least in Tal himself."

  "Irregularities?" Helnor queried.

  "You should know best of all, elf. How could Tal come to possess sorcery such as he wielded without a patron god or lineage of the Eldritch Blood?"

  The Prime shrugged. "I always assumed he was lying, or perhaps ignorant of the truth. That he had an elven ancestor, or was part of a secret cult, or something of the like. Wouldn't be the oddest lenual behavior I've seen."

  Kaleras shook his head. "About this, at least, he didn't lie. He has no elven heritage nor divine patronage. His sorcery is his own, come to him in greater strength than most elves could dream of."

  Aelyn's eyes brightened at this claim. But after Elendol, even he couldn't dispute it.

  "And his ancestry?" Helnor pressed. "How would you know about that?"

  Kaleras' jaw worked for a moment. "He is entirely human," he said finally. "I know this for a fact. Thus his magic derives from the Worldheart's Blood, as the book claimed."

  "What difference does any of this make?" Aelyn grated. "The man is dead. His lineage and capabilities are irrelevant."

  "They are not. For he is not the sole variety of Fount."

  "Founts of Song," Falcon murmured, his eyes rising to meet Garin's.

  The room's attention turned on Garin then. He tried not to squirm under the sudden scrutiny. Wren in particular studied him with narrowed eyes. Everyone seemed to expect something from him — but what that could be, he couldn't imagine.

  "I only know what Tal told me," he finally managed to say. "That Ilvuan — that is, my devil and the Nightsong are responsible for my sorcery. And that knowledge of this might draw the interest of the Thorn."

  "Precisely. You are a danger to the Enemy." Kaleras' gaze was unblinking as he stared at Garin. "You, as a Fount, might do what Tal intended: challenge Yuldor for the Worldheart."

  Challenge Yuldor.

  Garin had stood before he realized it. His vision blurred for a moment, and he felt so faint it seemed he must tumble over.

  "I'm not Tal," he heard himself say. "I can barely cast a spell. I'm nobody. I can't... I can't defy a god."

  Others responded, but Garin wasn't listening. Dodging around Helnor, who stood closest to the room's entrance, he pushed out into the frigid afternoon.

  Garin blinked into the bright sunlight, the door swinging shut behind him in a gust. Several of the passing dwarves, each of them soot-stained and walking with bowed shoulders, spared him queer glances. It was little wonder why. Despite it being the dead of winter, he'd neglected to wear his cloak. But for once, he was glad for the chill. It seemed to bring him back to himself, and down from the wild notions racing through his head.

  Me. Challenge Yuldor. Are they mad?

  He felt more than a little mad himself just then, in both senses of the word. He'd be a lamb to the slaughter if he did as Kaleras intended. Perhaps Ilvuan had dismembered Heyl's arm before the fiend could crush him and the others. But that was Ilvuan's power. The most Garin had managed was to set Easterners aflame, dooming them to horrid deaths.

  Ilvuan. Speak to me. He didn't know what he intended to convey to the Singer, nor what his response might be. Only the unfounded idea that his companion might know more of the mystery drew him to shout into the ether again. Ilvuan!

  But though he waited for several seconds, his silent shout echoing in his thoughts, Ilvuan made no response. Either his Singer was ignoring him, or his anxieties were too little for a dragon to be bothered by.

  He heard the door open behind him and turned. Who he expected to emerge, he didn't know — but he certainly didn't anticipate it being Falcon. The bard flashed him a tentative smile as he approached and stood close before him. For a moment, they did nothing but face each other in awkward silence.

  "You know," Falcon said, his gaze rising to hold Garin's, "I've learned a thing or two of stories in my days. And the funny thing about them is there's never one way to look at them."

  Garin shrugged, waiting for the bard's roundabout point.

  "What I mean to say is, you don't have to do what that old thaumaturge tells you. You don't have to throw away your life after an uncertain legend. Like… like Tal did."

  That roused Garin to the moment. It was the first time Falcon had acknowledged Tal's death out loud. If even the indomitably optimistic minstrel was relenting to reality, there wasn't much room left for hope.

  "I know."

  The words should have been comforting; Falcon had affirmed his own feelings, after all. I
nstead, he found a different emotion welling up, one that was not altogether pleasant, yet brought with it a certain relief. It was the release of finality, of a decision settled, of a course plotted and set. It was the cessation of an uncertainty surrounding him.

  Garin gave Falcon a rueful smile. "I'm no Tal; I don't need to tell you that. His sort of deeds don't come easily to me. I'm not tallied up as the finest swordsman in the Westreach; Silence knows I've barely survived every fight I've been in. I don't possess sorcery to kill Extinguished and their demons — at least, not on my own.

  "But I can hear the Song — the music that speaks to the core of the World. I can cast spells with the barest notion of what they might do, incantations that should cripple or kill me. A devil with the form of a dragon has claimed me as his own and protects me. I'm a Fount, whatever that means. Maybe, with time, with training, and a lot of help… maybe it will be enough."

  A smile had slowly spread across the bard's face at Garin's speech. He doubted Falcon bought his conclusion; Garin wasn't sure he believed it himself. But his smile wasn't mocking, but proud like a father might cast upon his son.

  "So this is what Wren sees in you, is it?" Falcon had turned back to teasing. Before Garin could respond, though, his smile softened again. "You are brave, Garin, far more than you know. Courage only exists in the face of fear. And you won't stand alone — you'll have us with you. As much good as a one-handed bard might do."

  Warmth pressed on Garin's eyes. Not wishing to show how his words had touched him, he put on a mocking smile of his own. "You might be of some use. How would you like to write a new legend?"

  As he grinned at Falcon's astonishment, mirth that was not his own seeped into his thoughts. At once, his gaiety vanished.

  Ilvuan! Where you have you been?

  Amusement turned to annoyance with a twist of the Singer's presence. Seeking what you failed to find.

  It took Garin a moment to decipher his words. You can't mean Tal.

  Do you seek another?

  Don't string me along. Did you find him?

  Ilvuan curled his presence within his mind. Almost, Garin wanted to retreat from him, as he had when containing the Song. Something about him spoke of a predator's prowl.

  He heard Falcon speaking his name, felt his body being shaken. But he kept his focus on the Singer inside him.

  Please, Ilvuan. I need to know. Is Tal alive? He stopped himself just short of begging.

  For a moment, only cold silence met his query. Then light contempt warmed his presence.

  Yes. He is less than a day's flight north of here, sheltered near a klendesem den. He is not well, but he lives.

  Garin couldn't find words to his response. Yet he knew Ilvuan would feel the rush of emotions at the news.

  Tal is alive.

  He could scarcely believe it, but for the fact that he knew of no reason the Singer would lie.

  Thank you, he managed to reply, then emerged from the pool of his mind and saw once more through his eyes.

  He reeled as he came back, pain spreading across his face. Cursing, Garin tried to make sense of what was happening as he stumbled to regain his balance and orient to the World. His face stung like he'd run into a door — or, he realized as he saw Falcon with his good hand lifted, like he'd been slapped.

  "Silence, that hurt," Garin said through gritted teeth.

  The bard winced. "Sorry. You went batty — I didn't know what else to do."

  "I was speaking to Ilvuan. It's Tal — he's alive."

  "Alive?" Falcon looked confused. "Garin, we just established this. I hate to admit it as much as you, but… we can't expect him to still be with us."

  "No, Falcon — he's alive. I know he's alive." Sucking in a breath to steady his racing heart, Garin found his head still pitching with the news. Could it be true? Could he really have survived? Now that he knew, he wondered how he could have ever doubted it.

  "How?" The bard's voice rose in pitch. "You've been with us, right here! How could you know anything of the like?"

  "My devil — he told me. Tal's alive and north of here. Injured, maybe, and in some sort of nest — but he lives."

  "He lives." A grin blossomed over Falcon's face. "He lives! Tal, you thrice-damned fool — you scraped it out again, did you?"

  Moving swiftly, Falcon hooked his arm around Garin's. "What are you waiting for, my good lad? We have to tell the others! Tal is alive!"

  Rebellion

  Tal woke to his body in rebellion.

  He sat up, gasping. Every muscle screamed as if fire blazed through him. His head felt as if it would burst. He could barely see, his vision fuzzed over with bright spots.

  His dam had nearly broken open.

  Desperately, he scrabbled at the fragments, trying to seal it once more. Sorcery leaked in, faster and faster. Even as he reveled in the power, fresh waves of pain roiled through him. In its attempts to heal him, it would kill him.

  He wanted nothing more than to let it.

  I can't. It's too much. He had been in too great of pain for too long. He could not endure it a second longer. Wouldn't the World be better off if I just end this now, away from where I might cause more harm? Anyone but Pim — yet he doubted anyone would weep for the loss of a Soulstealer.

  Then he felt someone dragging him free of his thin blankets.

  "You are full of surprises." Pim's voice was faint through the pounding of blood in Tal's ears. "And not usually the pleasant ones."

  Tal grunted, his tongue too swollen and clumsy for any other reply.

  A welcome coolness suffused his back. Snow. Pim had dragged him from the shelter and lain him down on the snow-covered shore. Tal tried to sit up again, to see what the Extinguished intended, but the effort was beyond him. It was all he could do not to unleash the maelstrom raging inside him. His back grew wet as the heat inside him found its way out and melted the snow.

  By fragments of sound and sight, he sensed Pim moving about him. What he was doing, however, he could not tell. Casting a spell? The Extinguished seemed to be grinding a knife into stone. Carving runes? Tal knew he should flee. Pim had saved him from the Ravagers, but perhaps it was only for this purpose. He'll bind me. He'll make me serve Yuldor, or fight against him. I must escape, I must—

  "Peace, Tal, peace! You will kill us both, and I do not wish to risk it being for good!"

  Only at Pim's cry did Tal realize the sorcery had risen to the surface. He fought to smother it, but could only keep it at bay. The dam was nearly shattered now. There was nowhere to go. He grunted, trying to warn Pim, though he didn't know why he bothered. Better he goes with me. Yet somehow, he wasn't sure he believed the thought.

  Pim set down the stone he had been working on and hurried over to him. "Here — grasp these." He placed something in Tal's hand, and Tal gazed blearily at it. Gryphon feathers? They were large, each quill as long as his forearm. He wondered how the sorcerer had obtained them. Then he questioned what possible use they could be for whatever he intended.

  He startled back to the moment. I can't let him take me. I can't. I have to—

  The idea closed off as Pim began to chant.

  The words twisted in Tal's mind, familiar yet just beyond his grasp. Darktongue. They shrieked with power, yet were cold next to the blazing hearth of his sorcery. He saw with his second vision the weave of sorcery closing about him, a noose that would soon hang him. Escape, I must escape—

  "Release it, Tal," Pim's voice halted his chanting, and the weaves of the spell faltered. "Let the sorcery flow out of you."

  I can't, I won't—

  "It is the only way. Please. For both our sakes."

  He felt the streams tugging at him, touching against the great, molten sea inside him. Where they touched, a tendril of heat escaped like steam from an opened oven door. The feeling was cold and unpleasant, yet with each touch, the pain lessened as well.

  It's the only way. He knew Pim spoke truthfully. He either must hold to his sorcery and kill them
both, or release it and trust he could survive at the Soulstealer's mercy.

  He let go.

  The cold streams, which he guessed came from the rune-etched stones, siphoned away his sorcery, bit by bit. Even as the drain continued in steady progress, it was a long time before the sweat began to chill on his skin and the melted snow against his back make him shiver. Yet, at long last, it did. Tal, groggy with the harrowing experience, mustered his efforts against the flow of power within him and built up his dam. This time, it sealed back into place, and his blood cooled.

  He sighed out the little air in his lungs. For a moment, darkness claimed him.

  He stood within a tunnel. No, not stood — floated, like a feather on a pool's surface. He gazed down the long, dark edges toward a distant light. Yet it was not only light. It was warmth, gentle and soft. It was comfort, and a promise of eternal relief. He reached a hand toward it, and began drifting down—

  The veil was ripped away, and the reassuring light went with it.

  Tal's eyes flew open as he gasped for breath, yet he saw nothing but gray. He was cold, so cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, but it did little good. After all that, and I'll freeze to death, he thought with scathing irony.

  Then feet stepped into view. A blanket draped over him, alleviating at least the biting kiss of the wind.

  "It is finished," Pim said from above. "You will survive a little while longer — so long as that does not occur again."

  Tal blinked, his eyes suddenly burning with dryness. He pulled the blanket tight about his body. With the pain gone from his limbs, he felt he could sit up and succeeded at his attempt. He gazed blearily around, taking in the scene once more. The white tors, the emerald frozen pond, the gryphon nest on the opposing shore.

  And him.

  The Extinguished kneeled next to Tal. His illusion of the handsome blonde elf had dissipated, but was slowly reweaving over Pim's repulsive features. Tal guessed whatever spell he had cast had taken too much concentration to maintain the illusion. In beholding the crystal-marked face in the light, fear and revulsion rose in him.