The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (3 page)

Allion turned his gaze toward Thaddreus. The typically calm First Elder appeared angry, desperate even. If seeking comfort, the regent would have to look elsewhere.

“We will take the general’s proposal under advisement,” the speaker determined, frowning at those who protested. “Until then, I’m sure the army has much to do in tending to the carnage that clogs our streets already.”

As it had upon arrival, Rogun’s gaze swept the Circle in count of his supporters. A sly smile suggested that he was not entirely displeased.

“We will reconvene tomorrow,” the chief commander stated. “I expect the matter will be decided by then.”

He spun from the table and marched for the exit, his lieutenants in tow. As soon as he’d gone, the debate resumed, though Allion continued to wonder what choice they’d truly been given.

V
ORRIC
H
AZE NODDED CURTLY TO
those he passed in the outer hall. His angry visage did not invite discussion. While one or two bid greeting as if to beg further word, most of the noblemen and courtiers and servants that clogged the corridor seemed only too happy to clear his way.

As he rounded a corner, his eyes met those of the sentry posted at his door. The guardsman, engaged in casual talk with a chambermaid, straightened immediately. The woman stiffened as she turned, widened eyes betraying her sudden alarm.

“Elder Thaddreus,” she greeted, “I beg your pardon. I was not given to expect your return.”

Vorric Haze brushed past the obsequious scrubwoman. Inside, he slammed the door and slid the bolt. He needed some time to himself, free from the duties of the mortal whose guise he had taken.

Time in which to consider his untenable position.

General Rogun was a savior. Those who did not already believe it would not long remain unconvinced. Even now, Haze chafed at the ease with which the general and his supporters on the council had brushed aside the notion of insubordination—or worse, insurrection. Though Haze had known before suggesting it that he would never be able to jail the commander on such charges, a lengthy trial might at least have weakened Rogun’s standing and bought the First Elder some time.

It would not be long now before the Circle sided with the general in its entirety. A few of the Elders, he knew, would dissent until the bitter end, but
with half of them agreeing already to the idea of a citywide cleansing, these lone voices would soon be trampled. The cry for personal privacy could not withstand the people’s growing demand for security. Haze himself would be subjected to the general’s tests. And when found to be Illysp-possessed, he would be destroyed.

He stepped to the window, flush with fury and denial. Gazing out upon the city that had so nearly been his, he thought back to how matters had gone wrong. Due to his station, First Elder Thaddreus had been among the first to be taken and reborn. In the weeks that had followed, Vorric Haze had killed and raised more than a dozen himself—including a pair of Elders. His victims had claimed others in turn. They had done so carefully, patiently, as their leader, Kael-Magus—the one known outwardly as Darinor—had instructed.

Perhaps they should have worked faster. But why? With Kael-Magus away, and Allion and Marisha off in pursuit, there had been no one left behind who truly understood what they were up against. The city’s defenses were hardly a threat. Rogun and the army had been dispatched to the south. And Evhan, captain of the City Shield, had been the primary seed with which Kael-Magus had sown the infestation. His orders had been clear: Start with Thaddreus, and do nothing to raise an alarm.

And they hadn’t. There had been whispers, of course. Even in the beginning, fears and suspicions and false assumptions had abounded. But their execution had been flawless. In the course of supplanting Krynwall’s leadership, Kael-Magus had seen to it that those most likely to uncover his plot were either reborn or distracted elsewhere. Using general confusion and various illnesses of the winter season as cover, Vorric Haze had helped to orchestrate a flawless takeover from within.

But Rogun had outwitted them, and in so doing had changed everything. Instead of rising up against an unguarded city, the force Kael-Magus had seeded had found itself in a vicious struggle against nearly the whole of Alson’s armies. Recognizing this—and knowing well that his greatest value lay not in his combat skills but as one of the city’s ruling advisors—Haze had kept to the side, waiting for the dust to settle. Doing so had spared him the immediate destruction so many of his kind had faced. Yet, with Rogun’s military victory and the elimination of Kael-Magus, his own end remained clearly in sight.

He had to escape before the general discovered him; that much was evident. But he was determined to salvage something of Kael-Magus’s plan before surrendering all to folly. This war would yet be waged on many fronts, and it had come to him to lead his kind. He would not fail as those before him had.

The afternoon sun burned against his flesh, but Haze felt only the fire of his own resolve. That Kael-Magus had signaled them to attack meant the information gathered by Torin concerning their enemies must have pleased him. The time for posturing had ended. Numbers and weapons and savagery were what mattered now, for ahead lay only bloodshed.

And rebirth.

He would have the Sword, Haze decided, before joining his Illychar brethren beyond these walls. In this, he would counter Rogun’s blow. By arming his kind, yes, but more importantly, by depriving their enemies of the hope and strength the talisman fostered. If he gained nothing else, this alone might be enough—enough to make him lord of the Illychar, master of this world.

And he would have no better chance than right now.

But how? Since Torin’s death, the former Fason and presiding regent had all but sequestered the blade along with himself and Marisha. The pair trusted virtually no one. And those they did…

One by one, Haze considered them—the members of that small inner circle—wondering who he might twist to his advantage. How, exactly, was not yet a concern, only that one or more might be malleable enough to serve him in some capacity, willingly or otherwise.

He turned, lost in private focus…and nearly tripped over a water bucket neglected by his chambermaid. In desperate need of strangling
someone
, he almost called to his guard to fetch her.

Then it struck him.

Seeking to unravel the truth of events, the Circle had interviewed dozens of potential witnesses. Aside from Allion and Marisha, only two had claimed any knowledge of Torin’s return prior to his death: Pagus, the chief herald, and Stephan, the chief seneschal. Rogun, Haze suspected, had also known, based upon the foresight the general had shown in sending his commander-in-waiting, Zain, through the city’s lower tunnels in search of any who might attempt to flee. Such intelligence might have come from any well-placed spy, including one that had been slain in the fighting. But Haze had wondered at the time of their testimony if either Stephan or Pagus—each a
confirmed
witness—might have served as Rogun’s mole.

Now, upon focused reflection, Haze knew it. Not Stephan, for the aged fool was much too loyal to his city and king. But Pagus…Pagus was young and naive, full of ambition. The boy’s narrative had included no mention of Rogun or Zain. Why would it, when some still whispered that Zain himself had assassinated Torin at Rogun’s command? Had Pagus played any part in such treachery, he would surely seek to hide it.

The boy had refused to even look the general’s way, Haze recalled, while testifying before the council. And though normally buoyant in mood and speech, the herald had been moping ever since beneath a pall of what had looked to be sadness—but might as easily be guilt.

He could be wrong, of course, but Vorric Haze was short on time, and limited in his options. He would make the boy his pawn, then decide how best to use him.

Rogun had won the day. He would not win the war.

“A
RE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?”
Marisha asked.

In spite of everything—the fears, the doubts, the gut-wrenching pangs of sorrow and loss—Allion could have laughed.

“There is precious little I
can
be sure about anymore,” he said instead.

“But Rogun has already begun burning bodies, and I’ll not allow him to burn this one.”

“His might be the greater kindness.”

Allion stopped what he was doing to glare at her.

“To make sure,” she explained.

He held his glare, but ignored her comment and its dread implications. A moment later, he went back to his work, tying another rope into place.

“There is no need for this,” she pressed. “It is an unwise and unnecessary risk.”

“He would have done the same for me,” Allion insisted, reaching for another length of rope.

“Torin would never have demanded this of you. Not under these circumstances. And if he had, then he was not the friend you believed him to be.”

Allion whirled angrily. “What would you have me do, Marisha? Forsake everything I’ve been raised to believe? Pretend there’s no difference between a consecrated burial and the flames of a communal pyre?”

“It would not be like that. He is still king, and would be granted the utmost respect. Many burn their dead.”

“Heathens and savages!” Allion snapped. He recalled the screams of Corathel’s men as they were sacrificed to the A’awari flames…the ritual slaying of Jaquith Wyevesces…his and Marisha’s first kiss…

His hands clenched into fists. His eyes moistened with the threat of tears. When Marisha’s hands reached for his face, he recoiled.

She halted, looking as if he had slapped her.

Rather than apologize, he turned back to the body—wrapped loosely in its burial shroud—and fished out a longer cord from the pile upon the floor. As he had with the knees and ankles, he cinched this one about his friend’s waist.

When Marisha spoke again, her voice had changed. “Is this about burial customs? Or is this about us?”

Allion tensed. He wasn’t sure
what
was happening anymore, could not seem to think clearly. All he really knew was that his friend was dead, had perished while defending them—knowing full well of their betrayal…

“There is no
us
,” Allion muttered.

A chill silence settled over him. Already, he regretted the words, but would not take them back. Nor could he bring himself to turn and face Marisha, who he expected to go storming from the king’s chambers.

When she did not, he thought that perhaps she hadn’t heard him.

Her strained tone told him otherwise. “Should you not wait at least until Nevik arrives?”

“The sooner I am gone, the sooner I can return.”

“Have you told your family?”

Allion shook his head. “They would only insist on accompanying me, and I would not have them do so.”

“What about Stephan? Or does he not deserve to know?”

The strain was giving way to resentment. Allion did his best to ignore its sting, focusing on his work. “Stephan worries even more than you do. You will do a better job, I’m sure, of keeping things calm in my absence.”

“Is there anything else you require of me,
my lord
?”

Her voice was tight, angry. Allion finished tying the final rope in place before rising again to face her.

“Only this,” he said, taking up the scabbard and belt that lay propped beside the bed. From the scabbard’s throat protruded the jeweled hilt of the Crimson Sword.

Marisha’s glare could not mask her surprise.

“I will not risk it on the open road,” he explained. “The blade belongs here, with you.”

“I am no swordsman,” she argued.

“Nor am I, as Rogun kindly pointed out.”

“You are whatever is required of you. You always have been.”

Allion wished he could believe that. He wished he could reach out and hold her, kiss her, comfort her, then and there, without insult to his dead friend. He spent a lot of time, these days, wishing for things that couldn’t be.

“This talisman is our voice. Our people see it as a divine standard—one that even Rogun must respect.” Allion sighed. “The general grows impatient. He seeks permission to go door to door in search of Illychar who may yet be hiding among us. There’s no telling what he might do should the Circle refuse. Either way, we’re but a step away from falling under his thumb.”

“Perhaps we should
all
flee, then, while we can.”

“I don’t believe he yet dares take it by force. He can’t risk a civil uprising on top of the threat we already face. The important thing is to make sure it stays within our hands, so that we’re able to counter any unilateral moves he might make.”

He had no right to ask this of her, he knew. But there was no one else he could trust.

“Rogun concerns me, yes,” he added, when still she did not accept the sheathed blade. “But the Illychar frighten me more. As of now, we are all safer behind the city’s walls—the Sword included.”

Marisha met his gaze, her brilliant blue orbs holding him fast. “Then why insist on doing this?”

There was a softness to her tone once more, a more natural note of kindness and commiseration. Allion looked to the floor, then back at the bundled corpse behind him. “Because he deserves to go home and receive the proper rites. I owe him that much, at the very least.”

If she recognized the guilt he was carrying, she did not speak to it. “And if I fail to hide the fact that the body is missing?”

“Then you’ll tell them where I’ve gone, and why.”

“Some will spread rumor that he was taken by the enemy.”

“You will assure them he was not. Nor will it matter to most, provided you still possess the Sword.”

He raised it once more, urging her silently to take it.

Her gaze dipped to the pommel. A hand came up, fingers brushing lightly against the flaming heartstones embedded along the grip and crosspiece. Finally, her other hand lifted, taking hold of the scabbard.

Allion carefully let go.

Marisha shook her head, as if disgusted by her own compliance. Before Allion could think of an appropriate reassurance, her eyes snapped back to his.

“He may be an Illychar already,” she stated bluntly.

This time, Allion had no choice but to address the warning. “Should he revive, I’ll kill him myself before I bury him.”

“Will you?”

“You think I would see him become like your father?” She winced. Once again, he wished it were possible to swallow his hasty words. “I’m sorry.”

But it was too late. The budding tenderness had passed, and the harshness had returned.

“And what of the Circle?” she asked brusquely. “I have no seat on that council, unless you care to formerly appoint me to yours—which, of course, you cannot do if you wish to carry out this other task in secret.”

“What of it?” Allion asked slowly, softly.

“Should it fall to Rogun’s influence, you and I will have precious little ground to stand upon, Sword or no.”

She was right, of course. The Sword was theirs by royal writ, but they needed the City Elders, as representatives of the people, to support any stand they might take against Rogun. Had Allion himself not raised this same argument when Torin had determined to embark on Darinor’s quest?

“If I set forth this night, I’ll be gone no more than a day, returning by dawn after tomorrow. The Circle will hold together until then.”

A baseless guarantee, and Marisha knew it. “Amid this unrest?”

“Go to Stephan, if you must. Or Nevik, when he arrives.”

“You trust the baron to take our side, then?”

“I trust that if anyone can hold things together, it is you.” That much, he believed wholeheartedly, and he stared deep into her eyes to prove it.

She did not respond, and as the silence became awkward, he wondered if
he should say something more. He had to do this, if for no other reason than in hopes of laying his own demons to rest. Surely, despite all her protests, she understood—likely better than he. That was her gift: to know people and discern their sufferings better than they could themselves.

“I should check on Pagus,” he said finally, unable to match her gaze any longer, “to see if all has been made ready. If you’ve anything left to say to him,” he added, nodding toward Torin’s bundled form, “I’ll leave you to say it now.”

He tried not to sound accusatory, for he certainly didn’t blame her in any way for what had happened—between them, or to Torin. If there was indeed betrayal here, it was his alone. Nevertheless, he might have felt better if she were to show just a little less fortitude, and a little more sorrow.

With a light touch upon her shoulder, he slipped past and through the inner doorway, out into the sitting chamber beyond. He had nearly reached the latched door that would carry him to the outer hall when her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“When this is done, return to me guilt-free, or not at all.”

Allion hesitated, his hand upon the iron pull. When he turned, he found her standing beneath the arch that separated the royal chambers, clutching the Sword by its scabbard. Light cast by the hearth’s flames flickered upon her pale, implacable face.

Having no better response, he slipped the latch, stepped out into the hall, and closed the door behind him.

H
EAD BOWED,
P
AGUS SCUFFED ALONG
the gravel paths of the palace grounds. There were no torches along this route, no cressets or braziers to light the way, for it was a winding back course seldom traveled. The lantern he bore was his only aid in the moonlit darkness. And even this he kept shuttered, its glow muted, for he did not care to draw attention to himself.

Every so often, he would reach up with a soiled sleeve to wipe his dripping nose. The tears, for the most part, he had managed to keep in check. Nothing was ever set right by a woman’s weeping, his father had always told him, and it seemed now that his father might have been correct. For on this, the second day of his lord king’s death, he was surprised he had any left to shed. And all that lamenting hadn’t changed a thing.

He’d been unable to help it, however, and none were more taken aback by the truth than he. He was not his mother or sister. He did not cry every time a baby bird fell from its nest or a dog was run over by a wagon. When the Red Death had taken his family, and he had gone to live with his uncle, a royal guardsman, he had been saddened, to be sure, but had acclimated quickly enough to his new life. Life, death—the two were inseparable, and there wasn’t much a lad like him could do about either. So why fuss?

But with Torin, something within had seemed to snap, and he couldn’t figure why that might be. A lack of appreciation for what the king had done, perhaps. Like most palace servants, he was well accustomed to being ordered
hither and fro, kicked around like a lazy cat. He had never really taken offense at such treatment; while others let themselves be cowed or else muttered curses under their breath, he had simply smiled all the brighter and labored all the harder. His reactions had vexed some, but not Torin. The king was the one person, he now realized, to have ever accorded him a measure of courtesy and respect, treating him not as a callow youth, but as a young man whose enthusiasm was to be admired, and whose counsel was always welcome.

Pagus sniffed and slowed, picking his way now through an overgrown stand of brambles that crossed his path to scratch at the bailey wall. The pricks he suffered seemed well deserved. None other than the king himself could have elevated him to the position of chief herald. It was a calling Pagus had done nothing to seek and little to deserve, having performed his duties the same as always. That he had somehow found Torin’s favor was a quirk of fate, not something for which he felt beholden. Nevertheless, he could have done better to express his gratitude.

Rather than act in a manner that might have contributed to the king’s death.

His path came to an end at a weather-beaten portal in one of the old, abandoned guard towers. Withdrawing a key tied to a string around his neck, Pagus struggled with the lock until its rusted tumblers finally relented. How many times, he wondered, had he used this forgotten trail—its twists and turns and the keys to its gates provided him by the sneaky armorer, Faldron. Tonight, without a word of the truth to Allion as to how it had been discovered, he had used it to help slip Torin’s body to an out-of-the-way stable, so that the regent could bear his friend from the city in order to bury him in secret.

Allion had thanked him for his assistance. Pagus had only shrugged, wanting once again to cry.

Never before had he seen the harm his actions might bring. Whispers and intrigues were a part of city life—particularly within a royal household. Why should he not profit from them when someone else would? Even when he’d delivered to Commander Zain the news of King Torin’s return, even suspecting it could trigger a coup, Pagus had been untroubled. Not until he’d learned Torin had been killed—whether directly or indirectly because of his actions—had he come to hate himself for what he’d done.

On the verge of manhood, he was naught but a callow youth after all.

His thoughts continued to haunt him down darkened corridors and seldom-used passages, until he came at last to the wing that would lead to his private chambers. Chambers he would still be sharing with a dozen other servants and page boys, he recalled glumly, had it not been for the unrequited kindness of a slain king.

The door was unlocked, and he entered with his head still bowed. It was not until he had shed his cloak and hung it on a peg that he turned to find the intruder seated upon his sleeping pallet.

“Elder Thaddreus,” he greeted, after a startled gasp. At the last moment, he remembered to bow. “Forgive my surprise.”

“Your surprise is to be expected, though I do apologize if I frightened you.”

Pagus brushed aside the concern, though his heart continued to thrum. The man’s words did not sound threatening, but his very presence was highly irregular. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord?”