The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (69 page)

“We—each of us—see to our duties in our own way. ’Tis easy to second-guess that which is past, but senseless to do so. Do you not regret some of the decisions of your own life? And if so, what has that regret won you?” The pointedness of her gaze cut down his defiance before it could take root. “I live my life from one fancy to the next, ignoring as best I can the various conflicts by which this world is governed. I prefer to spend my time alone, surrounded by birds and animals—the most innocent creations of the Ceilhigh. Only occasionally do I take interest in the lives of those who deal most often in death and strife.”

As he continued to look upon her, he remembered thinking of her as a child, though one for whom the entire world was a toy. An impossible dichotomy, but one which now might be explained.

“So why me?” he asked. “Why should
my
life interest you?”

“More than three thousand years have passed since anyone wielded a Sword of Asahiel. Not so great a time to some of us, but long enough that even I had supposed the talismans forever gone. You proved me wrong. I wished to congratulate you, in my own way, while taking a firsthand look at the Sword itself.”

“You chose a strange guise in which to do so,” Torin dared.

Cianellen’s smile became mischievous. “Not so simple a matter as you might think. Foresight can be an inconstant trickster, and there were plenty of opportunities for my plan to go awry. I first had to draw to my shores the pirate that would be recruited to abduct you, and convince him to take me aboard. I then had to ensure that we were in port when Soric’s mercenary captain came calling. When Karulos refused the assignment, I had to allow myself to be kidnapped, in order to convince him to do your brother’s bidding. After that, I had to wait and trust that you would arrive safely.”

“A lot of trouble,” Torin agreed. “Why not simply appear to me? Or come upon me as a beggar in the street?”

“Would a beggar have seen you or the Sword under duress? Would a beggar have been witness to—or able to lend assistance in—your struggle against the wizard? Would you have listened to a beggar who told you to seek Lord Lorre in regard to the missing Finlorians?”

It made sense now, Torin thought—not all of it, but much that hadn’t before. Her rare blend of innocence and wisdom; her scream after Soric had been carried away—which he now believed had closed the breakaway rift the wizard had left open; her prior knowledge of his quest…

“If you meant to help,” he replied, his bitterness rising once more, “why not do so outright?”

The warmth of her expression never slipped, as if immune to his prodding. “The way of the Ha’Rasha is not to do things
for
the children of the Ceilhigh. Nor has it ever been. Though it may seem otherwise, all are bound—even our
creators—by rules and consequences, only some of which a mortal would understand.”

Torin scowled. “You sound like the Entients.”

“Do not be too critical of your people’s shepherds. The Entients have done much good, given their limitations.”

“They used me. As Darinor used me. As
you
used me.”

The real reason for his bitterness, he realized. For once again, it seemed he had been little more than an unwitting pawn in another’s grand scheme.

“You underestimate the value of your own efforts.”

“Do I? What difference do they make, if I am forever acting under the influence of another?”

“Are we not all affected by those around us? Do we not affect these others in turn? I may do so to a greater degree, for that is my power and my calling. But that does not make you a helpless victim, nor excuse you of the responsibility for your own choices.”

“Then let
me
pay the price for it,” he said, gripping his friend’s cold hand. “Let not others suffer the consequences of
my
deeds.”

“Is it your friend who suffers? Or you?”

But Torin would not be misdirected again. “Anything I wish, you told me. You know what it is I ask for. Will you grant it?”

A deepening sadness seemed to shade some of the luster upon Cianellen’s face. “Death will not be cheated. Know you what is required?”

Torin’s stomach tightened, but he kept his gaze steady. “Yes.”

“And are you certain this to be your one and final desire? To turn these tables? To leave it to your friend and others to suffer the pain of your passing as you have suffered his?”

As she said this, he immediately thought of Marisha, of the anguish she had shown upon Allion’s death. It led him to wonder if she would truly grieve for him as she had for the other. She would be saddened, he was sure. But if given a choice, this was what she would want. And he alone could give it to her.

“I would not deny them whatever happiness they have found.”

“Even though that happiness was once yours?”

Torin nodded. Even so. Without reservation.

“And when you are gone, who will lead your people in the fight against your enemies?”

Torin looked purposefully upon Allion. “Someone who has already proven more capable than I.”

It was not a burden he passed on lightly. But all would have to make concessions, it seemed, in order to gain what they most desired. Regardless, none could afford any more mistakes of the kind Torin had already made. He had rid the Illysp of their champion. Now seemed as good a time as any to bequeath the Sword and its responsibility to someone else.

“Very well, Torin of Alson,” Cianellen agreed softly. “As this is your fervent longing, I will see it done, in payment of the favor you granted me. When your friends awake, they will remember not that Allion was slain, only ren
dered unconscious. Your own fall will be attributed to smoke in the tunnels. None will have any memory of this journey you have made. None but I will know the truth.”

Again Torin nodded, and, as he did so, Cianellen stepped forward with enchanting grace, bending to kiss his forehead. When she pulled away, he found her beaming. Once again, they were going to wed and have a thousand children.

“So,” he said, smiling back, “how do we do this?”

The woman knelt and kissed Allion’s forehead as she had his own. When finished, she reached up to brush Torin’s cheek. “My dear child, it is already done.”

As she stepped away, a warm rush began to spread throughout Torin’s body. The sensation did not frighten him, for it felt very much like the power of the Sword. And yet, while the Sword’s strength often surged and roiled until given release, Cianellen’s remained tranquil and soothing, lulling him quickly to sleep. The weight upon his eyelids increased, and he found the brilliant light receding. The sound of ocean waves grew louder as, little by little, he was wrapped in gossamer layers of darkness. As dreams of blissful serenity permeated his soul, a pair of amethyst eyes flashed once, the radiance disappeared, and Torin felt himself drifting…

…fading…

…into the ever black.

T
HE SUN SLIPPED SLOW AND SULLEN
from the bedding of night, dismissing predawn shadows and illuminating the sky with a dull reddish hue. Allion felt it upon his shoulder, its delicate warmth like a gentle nudge. A new day was breaking, and it was time to carry on.

Nevertheless, he remained where he was, knelt at the side of Torin’s deathbed, paralyzed with inconsolable grief. For hours he had sat there, ever since he had awakened and demanded of his attendants a recounting of all that had happened. Ever since he had come to know the agonizing truth.

They had told him first of the assault upon the city by a horde of Illychar, its members arisen from both within and without. The fighting had been contained, however, due to the equally stunning emergence of General Rogun and his legions, scattered in secret throughout the city. While battle yet raged upon the slopes beyond their battlements, it appeared Krynwall itself had been made safe.

They had explained then how the hunter and his friends had been discovered in a smoke-filled corridor far from the palace, by a contingent of soldiers led by Commander Zain in a sweep of the city’s underbelly. He, the Lady Marisha, and His Majesty, King Torin, had been found together, sooty and sweat-streaked, their breathing challenged by the poisoned air. They had been carried back to the castle and treated at once. The lady had yet to regain consciousness, but was alive.

His Majesty had been found dead, and would not be revived.

Allion had refused to believe it, and, despite the protests of his nurses and physicians, had set forth at once. After stopping by to check on Marisha, he had hastened on to Torin’s chambers in order to reassure these fools that the king was very much alive, only resting, recovering from his wounds and his weariness, mustering his inner strength for the battle that lay ahead.

But the hunter had learned all too soon that the rumors were true. He had seen it in the stance of the guards posted outside the king’s door. He had seen it in the somber faces of the healers and attendants that he shoved aside. After pushing past a tearful Stephan and seeing for himself his friend’s calm and bloodless countenance, Allion could deny it no longer.

Torin was dead.

He had fallen to his knees beside the other, shaking off all who came to
him, ordering them to leave. When alone, he had gripped his friend’s hand—pulling it from the hilt around which both were clasped—and wept.

For some time, his vigil had gone undisturbed, during which he had wrestled with emotions of sorrow, fury, and disbelief. Where one ended, another began, repeating in what promised to be an endless cycle. Unable to even recall how it had happened, he knew only that it did not seem real.

At some point during the night, Marisha had come to him, and together, they had begun the process anew. Even then, they could make no sense of it. There was too much they did not remember, too much that had gone unseen. The last thing Allion could recall, following the deaths of Evhan and his Illychar brood, was recognizing the truth about Darinor and then finding himself unable to breathe. Her father, Marisha had explained, had used magic to steal his breath until he had fainted. She was able to add to that certain details of Torin’s ensuing battle. She herself had assisted by taking up the archer’s bow. Unable to wake him afterward, she had helped Torin to carry him away from the burning battleground, during which point, she, too, had blacked out. That Torin was the only one to perish from the air they had all breathed did not seem likely, but that was the account both had been given.

In the end, such reflections had provided no sense of closure. All they really did was add fuel to the fire, reminding them that not only Torin, but Darinor had been lost. In addition to the feelings of devastation wrought upon Marisha as a result, came the terrible understanding that everything the Entient had urged them to do had been meant to serve the enemy’s goals, and not their own.

Somehow remembering his duty, Allion had called for a courier, dispatching him to Kuuria with all haste. Commander Troy was to be advised to disband their gathered forces, to send them home to their women and children—who now sat alone in unguarded cities. If the attack on Krynwall was any indication, it was reasonable to assume that Darinor’s true plan had been to siphon off their defenders in order to gain a stranglehold upon their homes and loved ones—if not to make them into Illychar, then to make sure the lands’ men-at-arms didn’t dare resist.

Merely a guess, of course, and likely only the beginning of what Darinor had planned. They couldn’t know, for if the mystic had revealed his intentions, or the reasons behind his various machinations, neither Allion nor Marisha had been conscious at the time. But they had too much to worry about going forward to waste time on revisiting what was past. If they meant to undo the Entient’s treachery, they had to act fast.

Save for that initial message, however, Allion knew not what to do. Nor did he have the heart to try and figure it out. Let Pentania’s kings and councils decide. For him, so much of this struggle had lost meaning with the passing of his friend.

Marisha had stayed with him as long as she could, but after a fit of coughing caused her to relapse into unconsciousness, he’d seen to it that her attendants carried her away again, with orders to keep her bedridden at least until morning.

He had turned his attention back to Torin, then, thinking that together, they might yet awake from this nightmare. He still could not understand how he was better off than both Torin, wielder of the Sword,
and
Marisha, who possessed the Pendant. Granted, laboring upright, where the air was thickest, would have caused them to inhale more of the harmful smoke than had found its way into his own lungs. And by the sound of it, Torin had done more of that than Marisha. But could lying low in a comatose state truly have made all the difference?

Perhaps someone or something else had been involved. Might Zain and his patrolmen have found the young king unconscious and decided to finish him off? It was a sinister suspicion, darker, perhaps, than the commander deserved. But Zain was Rogun’s man, and Rogun wished to be king. And yet, had he resorted to such treachery, would it not have been safer to smother all three of them? What good would it have done the general and his designs to leave Allion and Marisha alive?

These questions and others tore through his mind as part of a relentless whirlwind. If only he could find a few answers, then perhaps he could assign to all of this madness some sort of meaning. Perhaps, if he understood how and why, he could accept that his childhood friend was gone, and discover strength and reason enough within himself to go on.

But the answers did not come. Only memories, in a long and unbroken string—even the most meaningless of which had become suddenly sacred in light of Torin’s unexpected demise. Until recently, they had never been apart. It seemed impossible that the Ceilhigh should separate them now.

Hence the reason he could not bring himself to begin this day. To do so would be to allow his nightmares into the light and admit that they were real. To do so would be to accept that his life must continue, while his best friend’s would not.

The outer door opened, and Allion cringed. He thought to turn and yell at whoever had been admitted to leave him be, but held his tongue, knowing already who it was. Sure enough, the door closed quietly, and Marisha’s scent filled the room as she padded near on slippered feet.

He spoke without turning. “I told them you were to stay abed.”

“And I told them to step aside and let me be.” She paused, holding still and silent, allowing the air between them to soften. “Have you slept?”

“No.”

She came forward then, though refrained from kneeling. “I’ve spoken to Commander Zain.”

Allion turned.

“I asked him to explain himself—his intentions. I was trying to figure out if he had anything to do with…” She trailed off, her gaze slipping toward Torin.

“And?”

“He insists that General Rogun disobeyed orders for the good of Alson—as this night proves. They used Drakmar, as you suspected, as a base for their operations. I know not whether Nevik was coerced, but Zain swears that he has come to no harm.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Allion muttered, having decided that he preferred coercion to the idea that Nevik had willingly betrayed them.

“The baron must have had his reasons,” Marisha added, as if reading his thoughts. “For it was he who ordered his couriers to ferry false reports on Rogun’s whereabouts between Krynwall and the Gaperon, leading each to believe that our armies were stationed with the other.”

“And providing cover for our general to begin smuggling his troops back into the city.”

Marisha nodded. “A secret defense against what he and others saw as my father’s foolishness.” She hesitated, lowering her eyes. “I’ve not told anyone the truth. Regardless, it seems they were right.”

While loath to admit it, Allion was thinking along similar lines, having already surmised much of what Marisha had sought to confirm with Zain. For the moment, at least, it would seem he had misjudged his land’s highest-ranking general. Though right about the trap the other had set, he’d been wrong about the man’s reasons for doing so.

Not that any of it mattered now. Rogun, Zain, Nevik—there were questions everywhere as to who could be trusted. And that was without taking into account those such as Bullrum, Evhan, Darinor—the scores who had fallen prey to Illysp possession. With Torin gone, and no one to turn to for help, this seemed a war already near its bitter end.

“You believe his story, then?” Allion asked, and was forced to choke back tears. “About how he found us?”

“I don’t believe he had any reason to see Torin eliminated. He could have killed us all and taken the Sword for himself or for Rogun, yet did not. Had he done so, he might have even been allowed to keep it.”

It was something Allion had not yet considered: the fate of the Crimson Sword. The royal will stated that it should be bequeathed to Marisha, should the king become unable to wield it. Allion was listed behind her. After that, Torin had desired that it belong to whomever the Circle of City Elders should select as Krynwall’s new king. With all three of them gone, Rogun might indeed have been the ultimate beneficiary.

The hunter lifted his gaze to regard the divine talisman resting upon his friend’s body, where its radiance had dimmed. “He can have it, for all I care.”

“Don’t say that,” Marisha said, and dropped to her knees beside him. She turned his shoulders, forcing him to look into her glimmering eyes. “Don’t you do this to me. I need you now, more than ever. We all do. Don’t ask me to carry on this fight alone.”

“The fight is over, Marisha. All is lost. Can’t you see?”

“All is
not
lost, unless you throw away what remains to us. Our city is safe. He who led our enemy is slain. We have each other, and the Sword. But you suggested it yourself when you sent your message to Commander Troy: If we are to recover from what has happened here, we must attempt to do so swiftly.”

He tried to look away, but she seized his chin and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“I need you to take up that blade,” she said. “I need you to do as Torin would have wanted, and lead us forward where he cannot.”

The hunter looked again at the weapon, but shook his head. “It’s too soon, Marisha. How can you even ask that I—”

“I ask because your grief and mine are a luxury we cannot afford. I ask because we are either moving forward or falling behind. I’m not certain where these events leave us—any more than you are. I know only that we cannot sit around and wait to find out.”

He had no answer for that, and so just stared at her, at this remarkable woman who had lost not only the man who might have been her husband, but her father as well. Knowing
that,
how could he possibly deny her this urgent request?

He was still marveling at her strength of will when a knock sounded and the outer door to Torin’s suite cracked open.

“Pardon the intrusion, my lord. You’ve a young herald here with a message from the Circle.”

Allion stiffened, compelled to dismiss the guardsman under threat of torture should he permit any more callers. But as he turned to do so, Marisha’s magnificent blue orbs fixed upon him, their yearning plain.

“You may admit him, Sergeant.”

The door opened wider, and a somber Pagus stepped through. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord, my lady,” he said, nodding to each in acknowledgment. He then looked upon the bed where Torin lay, his young eyes red and puffy.

“What news do you bear, Pagus?”

“My lord, General Rogun has returned. The enemy has been sent away in full retreat. The general has demanded that the Circle convene, that he might address the city’s leadership.”

Allion shared another look with Marisha. He should have expected nothing less. Rogun’s ambush had saved them all this night. But for what purpose going forward remained to be seen.

“Has Elder Thaddreus agreed?”

“He has, my lord. He wishes that you would attend, to shed light on…on other matters, my lord. Provided you are well enough.”

Allion turned away, from both the young herald and Marisha, back to Torin.

“What message shall I bear him, my lord?”

The hunter did not respond right away, but gripped his friend’s cold hand once more. He then set it back atop the other, lifting both long enough to grab the Crimson Sword and pull it free. With the talisman’s warmth gushing through his veins, he drew his cramped legs beneath him and rose slowly to his feet.

“Never mind, my young friend,” he said, looking past the Sword to Marisha as she stood beside him. “I shall deliver it myself.”

Look,
THEY TOLD HER.
Do you see?

Necanicum dug her chin into her shoulder, ready with her retort, but
stopped as the red rim of the sun cleared the wooded horizon, spilling blood through the trees.

It has happened.

“I’m not a fool,” she muttered. “I know what it means.”