His old mentor's surprise seemed so genuine Garin only just managed to cling to his fury.
"Maybe you were then — but you were free in the Valley of Fog. You were there, close by — Ilvuan told me. We called out to you, Wren and I. We got lost looking for you. But you just kept moving away."
Tal's eyes wandered to the flames. "I heard you. But I thought you to be spirits trying to lure me away. I'm sorry, Garin. Had I known—"
"I don't care if you're sorry!" The words ripped free of him. "You always do what you want. You're — you're like a great big child, not thinking one whit for anyone else!"
An ironic comparison, a part of him mocked. Garin shut the voice out, his fury not yet spent.
"No one else seems bothered by what you did, leaving us — that's their business. But I'm sick of it. Are you always going to exclude us? Are you always going to believe you know what's best and not heed a word from anyone else? Will you never think I have something important to contribute?"
That stepped too close to the small, tender part of him that huddled in its hurt. Garin strangled the tirade with an effort and stared sullenly into the fire.
Silence, too thick to be genuine for their fellowship of nine, fell over the camp. Garin's face was flushed, but he kept his mouth stubbornly shut. He would not apologize. Maybe he was acting like a child, but he hadn't said a word that was untrue.
"You're right, Garin. You're right."
Slowly, Garin looked over at Tal again. If the man had been wearing his smile, he thought he might have struck him. But his face was only lined with regrets.
Garin looked away again. Somehow, that was almost worse.
"I've been forging my own path for so many years I've forgotten how to walk with others," Tal continued. "But that's damned inconsiderate of me, and I can see that now. I promise, lad — Garin, I mean — that I'll heed you in the future. I won't take you for a guarantee." The man hesitated, then spoke softly, "Will you forgive me? Again?"
Forgive. The word evoked all that it sought to erase. Too much. Could he forgive Tal for what had happened to his father, for a childhood without him? Could he forgive Tal for getting him wrapped up in this war, one he could have avoided in favor of a quiet life in Hunt's Hollow? Could he forgive him for leading him down the path that made him into what he was — a Fount, with a devil in his head?
For giving your life purpose?
The thought startled him out of his downward spiral, enough to consider its truth. Had Tal given him purpose? Had he been like a raft without a paddle, drifting down a river, carried to wherever the currents flowed?
You've a fire in you, Garin. You need to feed it with all the World has to offer.
Lenora's words, spoken to him what felt like years ago, before he left her and the rest of his family back in Hunt's Hollow. He had thought of those words often since; sometimes with disbelief, other times knowing they must be true.
Tal had proved his sister right. Whatever else the man had done, he was responsible for that, at least. There was a fire in Garin. And Tal had helped it to grow.
"Silence take me," Garin muttered, then continued louder, "I forgive you, you old gaffer."
He risked a glance over and saw an unmistakable shimmer in Tal's eyes.
"None of that," Garin groaned.
Tal grinned and gave a short laugh. "What can I say? I'm a sentimental old gaffer."
Garin shrugged in response. But though he felt spent, his words hadn't quite run out.
"Just promise me: no more running out on us. If we're doing this, let us go with you to the end." Garin swallowed, trying not to think of what the end actually meant. "Or at least let me."
"I promise, Garin." Tal seemed to hesitate, then he reached out and gripped Garin's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. "You're your own man — and it's past time I acknowledge it."
Garin cleared his throat, suddenly finding it felt scratchy. He didn't try to shake off Tal's touch. Though he had not expected it, in the chill mountain night, it felt reassuring.
A thought occurred to him. Reaching around to his other side, he lifted the cloth-wrapped Velori into his hands. Turning back to Tal, Garin held it out.
"Here. Your sword. I'm not your squire, after all."
Tal's hand drifted off his shoulder to hover over the hilt. Then it retreated again. "No, la— damn it all! That will take some getting used to. Garin, I meant what I said back in Naruah. Velori is yours now."
Garin held it out a moment longer, then drew back. He stared at his hands and tried to hide their trembling. "At least take my sword. I don't need two."
Tal chuckled. "I can do that."
They sat in silence for some time after that. But the tension that had filled it before was gone, dissipated like it was a curse Velori had severed. Garin gripped the hilt of the blade and felt the hum of its imbued sorcery from the change in the Song. A smile tugged at his lips.
The night did not seem so dark anymore.
The Restless Past
Tal slept deeply that night, the satisfied slumber of a man for once rid of guilt. He did not put up his walls, ever erected around him here in the East, but relaxed into much-needed rest.
While he slept, his eyes opened.
He was falling — or descending, rather, for he willed the plunge. The walls of the tunnel around him glowed with the intense heat of a forge's belly, yet he did not burn. He was fire himself, inside and out. He was a comet, moving with all the speed of a falling star.
He was rushing toward his destination.
It called to him, pulsing with promises of satiation and rest. Rest. At last, rest. He craved it, that sweet abandonment, the final cessation of his wearisome self. He could leave behind all the pain and horror and torment of his waking life. He could be free, united with the World itself.
He could be everything. He could be nothing.
Nothing.
The thought sent a spike of fear through him that brought his descent stuttering to a halt. Nothing. Did he really wish for that? To not exist separate from anything else? To have no distinct self?
Did he wish to escape being Tal Harrenfel so much?
Listen to your fear, Thalkunaras. Fear is a great teacher for those who heed its warnings.
The voice filled him, both familiar and foreign. Tal reached out his senses and felt a presence around him. It resembled the gray beings he had encountered there before, but less alien, almost understandable to his mortal mind. Its coloring was dark and devoid of light.
You, he thought back to it, voicing himself as much as he could in this realm. You're the one who wore the faces in my dreams in Elendol.
You have come a long way since then. A very long way. You are complete.
Tal considered the idea. It did not seem entirely wrong. He had won the war inside his body, cleansed the sorcery of its poison. He was one. And he had reunited with those he most cared for in the World. He no longer felt so alone.
Yet… Complete. He doubted he had ever felt complete in his life.
A man, once broken, can never fully mend, he thought back to the black being. I am as much myself as I ever will be. But part of me still yearns for escape.
That part is not broken, Thalkunaras. Even my kind possess this drive and know its name: Telthaen, the Rapture. That desire for your own destruction, despite the ultimate price you must pay for it.
It was a feeling Tal knew well. How many times had he thrown himself into battle, daring the death it might bring? He had always believed it was the nearness of finality that made him feel more alive. But perhaps it had always been the temporary soothing of an untamed beast, one that would inevitably spell his end.
But you cannot relent to it, the dark presence continued. You can never stray into the Doash, Thalkunaras. You must be vigilant now that you have experienced it once. Never will the Rapture leave you. This is the price of our power.
Our power?
A phantom wind swirled around him. For a moment, it thrummed
with more fire than even the World's veins in which they hovered.
You are my scion, Thalkunaras. Do not squander the gift.
Something pushed at him — only instead of moving him in a direction, Tal felt it shove him out. The blinding stream fell away, leaving in its place suffocating darkness.
Tal flailed against it until it shredded apart.
"Tal, for Silence's sake, settle down!"
He paused, breathing heavily. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, lifting the darkness enough to see it was not as impenetrable as he'd feared. Tal looked around to the familiar voice, and slowly, his mind returned to the World.
"Sorry, Falcon."
"Yuldor's prick, man." His friend, with whom he shared a shelter, came upright and shivered. "What were you dreaming of, drowning?"
"Something like that."
The sorcery throbbed within him, inviting him to draw on it. Tal stifled the feeling until it deadened. Its call was an echo from the Doash, or the Womb, or whatever the World's core should be called. The glowing mass of magic still appealed even in memory.
The bard settled back into his bedroll. "Well, dream of something else. I'd like to get what sleep I still can."
Tal remained sitting up and listened to his friend's breathing return to a deep, steady rhythm. Sleep had fled from him for the night. He wondered if he would dare let it come the next evening. Try as he might, he could not extinguish the desire to return to the source of sorcery and the oblivion it offered.
This is the price of our power.
He mulled over the strange visitor's words until he could not remain still any longer, then rose and left the tent.
The night air was cool against his feverish skin. Sorcery still simmered in his veins. The stars glimmered above, painted with an ethereal milky backdrop. The Night's Veil, the phenomenon was sometimes called, though its spiral pattern struck him more as a coiled whip than a shroud.
Tal stretched and marveled at the lack of aches in his joints. Years had been shed from his bones. Even the disturbing nature of his thoughts could not take away from that small victory.
Lowering his gaze, he stared at the figure silhouetted before the fire. A knot formed in his gut, as it always did when he beheld this man.
No matter how old he aged or how many enemies he overcame, he never vanquished the terror that Kaleras instilled in him.
He had largely avoided the warlock since being reunited with his friends. Kaleras seemed content to do the same. There was too much hanging between them, too many words left unsaid, to be untangled while continuing such a dangerous journey.
Or so he had told himself.
But now, Tal found his feet carrying him to the edge of the firelight. He moved softly, as if he might escape Kaleras' notice, as if it wasn't what he so desperately sought.
"It's not your turn to keep watch."
Though his back remained turned to Tal, the warlock had made his awareness of him clear when he spoke.
Tal seized upon the first excuse that came to mind. "May as well relieve you. Can't sleep as it is."
"Nor can I."
They remained like that, Kaleras sitting on a stool of his own sorcerous design, Tal standing, the silence between them thick as Hunt's Hollow mud. It oozed in the darkness, stinking like a week-old corpse.
He could stand it no longer.
Tal strode up next to Kaleras so he could face him. "Why did you come?"
The warlock did not react for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned toward Tal. Half his face was shadowed, but the other half illuminated a brown eye of a shade very familiar to Tal.
"I came to help," Kaleras answered quietly. "I knew your aim from the Darktongue tome. To defeat Yuldor."
It was a noble answer. It was the wrong one. Tal looked aside and stared into the flames. He focused on feeling the heat of it on his skin and the heat of the sorcery in his blood.
Anything but the heat of his resentment, flooding through him once more.
What else did you expect? he asked of himself. He has dedicated his life to this fight. Of course it was about the Enemy all along.
Before he could speak again, Kaleras continued.
"I also mean to keep you alive for as long as I am able." From the corner of his eye, Tal saw a rueful smile curling the warlock's lips. "Though that is a task in itself. A task I should have taken on long ago."
As quickly as it had come, the warlock's amusement was gone. Kaleras stared again into the flames.
Despite himself, Tal felt his feelings cool, replaced by a different kind of warmth. Expectation? he thought mockingly. What can you expect of this man after so long?
He conjured a smile of his own, though he could not entirely banish the tightness around his eyes. "You took on the opposite task for a time. I spent years of my life running from you, hiding in the darkest of dens."
Kaleras looked at him for a long moment. Tal could not meet his gaze. He only smiled into the fire and felt that he burned as hotly as it did.
The warlock began to stand. He seemed to have aged decades since their encounters in the Coral Castle. Despite himself, Tal found his body, devoid of its own pain, aching in sympathy at the laborious process. But Kaleras had never been one to be deterred by a challenge. At last, he stood next to Tal.
Tal did not dare turn toward him.
"For a time, I did pursue you," Kaleras admitted. "But it has been a long while since then. You're my son, Tal. I was not there for you when you were young, nor for your mother. I did not even know you existed. And I have regretted that everyday since I learned of you."
Tal could not help himself — he turned to meet his father's eyes. They caught more of the light now, the edges filmed with moisture. He felt a pressure on his own. Though it felt like he were being throttled, he squeezed out the words.
"How did you discover me? When?"
"About two decades ago."
Twenty years. Tal's knees nearly buckled.
"It must have been shortly after you left me to die in Avolice's remains."
"Yes. I was returning to Canturith after sorting out the aftermath of that… unfortunate incident. My path brought me through Hunt's Hollow. I had not returned there in over twenty years, yet I remembered the last time I had. I inquired after your mother, Talania, at the house at which I stayed. The wife was a scandalmonger and was happy to speak of all your mother's misfortunes. Birthing a son begotten by a warlock. Outcast from society. Relegated to an impoverished pariah."
The words seemed to taste bitter from the way Kaleras spoke them. He paused, his gaze tearing from Tal's for a moment before returning.
"I knew at once my mistake," Kaleras said, words little more than a whisper. "That I had conceived a son and abandoned him to a harsh upbringing, and his mother as well."
Tal's hands clenched into fists. He did not want Kaleras to see his anger. All his childhood, he had blamed his absent father for his and his mother's misfortunes. But that had begun to change in Halenhol, and it had changed further still in that very moment.
He was not angry with Kaleras. Now, he railed against the World itself.
Yet his words came out accusing all the same.
"Did you not try to make things right, then?"
A fire returned to Kaleras' eyes. "Of course I did. But you were a man grown, and you had changed your name by that point. I inquired after Brannen Cairn, following the thin threads to the Avendoran army. But there, the trail went cold. The only reports I heard was that you had died at the Pass of Argothe with the rest of your regiment in a battle with the Sendeshi. I thought you long departed."
Tal flashed him a bitter smile. "If only. Instead, I abandoned my brothers-in-arms."
One of the warlock's eyelids twitched at that, but he made no comment on it.
"I believed the matter to be concluded, and you to be another regret I carried with me to my grave. I continued with my life, and spent many years more at Canturith, keeping the watch.
"Then I heard fro
m my fellow surviving warlocks that the Butcher of the Circle had survived, and he had been sighted in Felinan in the company of troupers. I felt it my obligation to tie up loose ends, though even then, I did not know what I would do had I encountered you. I knew you had acted only as a puppet of one of the Extinguished, not out of your own malice. But you had demonstrated an aptitude for sorcery. Even if it were only from Eldritch Blood running in your veins, I knew I must inquire further.
"So I pursued you. I followed your performances until I cornered you at that Sendeshi manor. I waited for you to come on stage. But you never appeared, leaving your role unfilled, and your fellow troupers scrambling to improvise. I tried to pursue you, but you had already gone.
"But I had glimpsed you earlier in the night. Something about your features bothered me. I could not banish the notion that I knew you from somewhere. I did not realize it that night, yet it was not long until I did."
Kaleras stared at Tal, his gaze almost soft. "My eyes," he murmured. "You had my eyes."
So I've always thought. But the thought felt too intimate to voice aloud.
"Once I realized," the warlock continued, "I began actively searching for you. I pursued you throughout the Westreach, following rumors of your whereabouts, or at least someone like you. But you were a hard man to find. I had learned of the name 'Tal Harrenfel,' but 'Gerald Barrows' was not familiar to me at first. I wasted months and years in my fruitless hunt. Wherever you were, I appeared too late, as I ever have before."
It felt as if the many pieces of Tal had simply leaned together in a shanty house, and now the force of Kaleras' words threatened to blow them apart. Hold to them, he told himself. Hold them fast. He could not show weakness before his father, now most of all.
Tal's voice was almost steady as he spoke. "I knew you searched for me. But I thought it was to bring me to the Circle's justice. I did not know you knew the truth."
Kaleras' brow furrowed. "And you did?"
Tal nodded. "I always have. My mother told me your name long ago after I begged it out of her. Kaleras of Canturith." His lips twisted of their own volition. "I hated you growing up. At least, I told myself I hated you. And when we encountered each other later, I thought I wanted nothing to do with you, that you could not know our relationship, that you only wished to punish me. Yet, for all my efforts, I never could kill my curiosity where it concerned you."
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 33