The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (70 page)

Alive or dead, all that remained for him was a cold, barren torment.

Torin shuddered in the darkness, succumbing to its chill. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t breathe. No memory, no passion, could justify this grief, yet it would not be driven away. The longing, the remorse, and the pain remained, clinging to his heart like a starving, slashing predator.

Sitting forward, he let go of the Sword and placed his head in his hands. His face was wet. He pulled back to find tears—actual tears—glistening in his palms. He looked at them strangely, then laughed, scornful of his own weakness. His feelings were childish, senseless, grossly insignificant in light of his struggle. How could he indulge such self-pity while the future of so many others depended on his actions?

But he was tired of resisting, of fighting vainly to ward off the inevitable. With nothing left to give, and nothing left to gain…

He looked back to the Sword. It was not too late to end his own suffering, to hew himself down in ultimate defiance of the Ceilhigh’s fiendish schemes. If he could but summon a final twitch of strength…

His hand moved reflexively to the pendant Dyanne had given him. A symbol of how close he had once been to a bliss he could scarcely imagine. The piece of black amber felt like a razor in his clenched palm. He recalled the bittersweet pain he had felt as she had placed it around his neck, this parting token—a pale candle with which to remember the sun. Worthless, and at the same time priceless…

He relaxed his grip and massaged it with his fingers, tips brushing its smooth planes and gentle ridges. Back and forth it spun, while the lightning flashed silently around him and he listened to those shrieking voices of inner despair. If only he could turn back time’s sands, he would return to her and confess the truth of his feelings—back when the opportunity had been his. But for one more chance…

Once, twice, his nail caught upon the pendant’s outer edge. Scarcely aware of himself or his actions, he held it up for a closer look. Sure enough, there appeared to be a hairline crack encircling the jet’s perimeter, dividing face from back. He hadn’t perceived it before, but then, the piece appeared so simple, he had never studied it that closely. Now that he did…

His gaze narrowed, scrutinizing. There, at the top, upon the clasp. A row of four tiny slits, cutting across the larger line’s path.

A hinge.

Torin frowned, even as a strange excitement stirred in his stomach. With trembling fingers, he pried open the locket.

To discover a portrait of Dyanne, peering back at him from within.

For a moment, he simply stared, stunned by his find. In the portal’s garish light, he could see every minuscule detail. The image was small, but had obviously been etched with painstaking care and precision. The soft-flowing hair, the mysterious eyes, the full-bodied lips—pursed with a hint of mischief…All had somehow been captured, just as Torin had remembered them.

A fresh warmth spilled suddenly from his chest. Tears of desolation gave way to joyful disbelief. Here, finally, was something tangible, an image that would not disintegrate into the untouchable recesses of his mind. At long last, he had a talisman to cling to, a physical memory of the woman he most truly admired.

Lies!
the voices shrieked anew, over and over again. But the truth lay there in his palm. He might tell himself it was a trick, another deception to which he had foolishly fallen prey, but as he blinked and stared and blinked again, the image remained. He even forced himself to close the locket—despite his fears—and open it again.

Dyanne was still with him.

And just like that, it no longer mattered that Annleia had rejected him. It no longer mattered that Dyanne herself was an ocean removed—or that she had found contentment with another. What he felt for her…no one could take that from him. No one could strip that away.

Even in the throes of possession, an enemy to all, the passions of his own heart had held strong—had in fact been the key to his liberation. Somehow, he had failed to grasp the inherent lesson. That he might never be allowed to explore his affections seemed suddenly inconsequential. They remained his, invincible, eternal. Though he held no sway over the feelings of others, his own love, his own devotion, would forever be his to control.

Lies!

Yet, amid that endless tumult, a buried warning now echoed.
The greatest danger…The greatest danger…

…lurks unseen.

Torin looked up, gazing into the portal with a flicker of renewed understanding. Each flash…the birth of another Illysp, perhaps? He felt certain now that it was they who assailed him, in such high concentration as to sap the will of even the strongest adversary. He recalled having considered—and dismissed—that possibility before. Annleia had been right about him being his own worst enemy. The self-doubts he carried were like livid embers to these fiends, from which they easily stoked the flames of despair.

He had underestimated the threat they posed. Even now, having determined what he was truly up against, he challenged his own logic, and questioned his conclusions. How could he make such assumptions? Who was he to define the supernatural?

But he refused to tread that path again, focusing instead on the peace and self-assurance that now flooded his veins. For once, his strength swelled from within, and he reveled in the magnitude of that power.

He reached for the Sword. Its light flared with his resurgent passion. He
marveled that it should do so, as though it fed upon his emotions as much as it fueled them.
A candle in your palm
, Ravar had told him.
Given a true wielder
,
its power could consume a form even such as mine.

What, then, did he lack? What, that he might use to tap into that boundless inferno?

The answer to that lies within.

Within…

He still clutched the locket, as a ward against his raking doubts. Though quieted, he could hear them even now, tearing at his resolve. But the warm waves unleashed by Dyanne’s image continued to flush through him—not unlike the sensations imbued by the Sword. What might it mean, that both had the ability to so stir his soul?

His gaze delved into the glowing blade, mesmerized anew by the tendrils of fire swirling within its depths. He thought again of Leaven’s jailor…of Spithaera’s assaults…then pushed those images from his mind, deciding to look at it another way. Annleia had spoken of passion and patience as the guiding principles to any power—even the Sword’s. Patience to draw and hold, passion to direct and unleash. To unleash…

The answer was there. He could almost see it, flashing like a lure amid the depths of his consciousness. Why could he not grasp it?

With hope and doubt vying for control, he pushed both aside in favor of a numbing detachment. In the glittering emeralds that adorned the Sword’s hilt, he saw Annleia’s eyes…in its gleaming silver, the dazzling purity of Dyanne’s smile…in the radiant heartstones, an inferno of unrequited feelings.

Love…

Pain…

Peace…

Desire…

The swirling fire…

Buried power…

And then, suddenly, he understood.

I
AM
C
WINGEN
U’
UYEN, SON OF
the Powaii. I do not suffer death, I earn it.

He clenched his jaw, biting back a scream as one of the basilisks tore off his remaining foot. He bucked with agony, but a pair of the creatures lay atop him, pinning him where he had fallen. They had already taken his arms—one had been chewed to the elbow, the other to the shoulder. Struggle though he might, his battle was ended.

His brothers—Oobolso Bwinem and Getarin Ta’alo—had succumbed before him. But their valor had won them labors swift and light in the journey to come. His passing, like theirs, promised to be a transcendent experience with far-reaching impact, and in that, he took great pride.

He only hoped now that their shield had stood long enough—had given the Sword-wielder the time he needed. That was what the Lady had asked of him, and the charge he had accepted. The basilisks were simply too numerous. The most stubborn ones had fought to grind through the rubble-filled doorway, or begun chewing fresh holes in the surrounding walls. But the rest had been clever and patient enough to snake around, seeking the many holes that fed into this antechamber from the outer tunnels. Once surrounded, he and his brothers had found their end.

They had met it bravely. Only Ta’alo had cried out—and that for Bwinem as the lightning had struck. He, like U’uyen, had held his tongue as the creatures devoured him—obeying their hosts’ natural instinct to mine a victim’s body for minerals as they did the stone they typically fed upon.
Let them do so
, U’uyen thought. The longer his own body kept them occupied, the better chance Torin would have.

A pressing numbness began to soothe the fire of his wounds. His vision brightened unnaturally. He could still hear the basilisks snapping at one another, but their snarls had grown distant. He wished he could think of some further way to stall or distract the pack that had slipped already into the pit. Instead, he sent a final thought out to Torin.

Fear not the embrace of darkness. Fear not…

In the growing brightness, he glimpsed a pair of amethyst eyes.

I am Cwingen U’uyen…

T
ORIN CAME TO HIS FEET,
Sword in hand. He faced the portal squarely, squinting against its harsh glare, raising the blade so that its tip was aimed at the heart of that otherworldly tempest.

He shut his eyes then, the better to focus on what he was feeling within.
He thought of Dyanne and all that she meant to him. He thought of Annleia and the confidence she had given him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, nothing he wouldn’t give, to defend them from harm and sadness. He allowed that selflessness to churn inside him, felt it giving rise to a noble desire, a willingness to sacrifice all to bring but a smile to their radiant faces. The Sword flared with the strength of his passion…

It wasn’t enough.

He feared for a moment that he might be wrong, that the understanding he had come to was vain and false, when a forgotten voice echoed in his head.

Fear not the embrace of darkness. Like the stars at night
,
we need the shadows to see the light.

It was something U’uyen had said to him, a parting message delivered after their retrieval of the Sword. He didn’t know what caused him to think of it now, but saw in it the obvious truth.

He dug deeper, as he had after his battle at the Gaperon, recalling that moment of supreme disappointment. Buried wounds resurfaced, a life’s collection of scars ripping wide. Pain…shame…bitterness…He did not fight to quell the feelings this time; he welcomed them, allowing them to wrack, strip, tear him all over again…

He felt a fire in his chest. His blood began to boil. It all churned together now—love, hate, joy, anguish—came raging to the surface. He fanned that inferno with mental images, memories of what he had gained, what he had lost—all of the experiences that had shaped his life and served to forge this creature he had become. He grimaced with the effort, but willed the torrent of blazing passion into his arm, his hand. The Sword’s heartstones seemed to sizzle in his palm. He embraced their power, felt them open…

And rather than draw upon their fire, pushed at it with his own.

A river of flame erupted from the polished blade, a searing streak that blasted into the radiant portal. Though blinded, Torin heard the resultant explosion, its thunderous howl shaking the arena. A titanic backlash threw itself against him, but Torin roared in response, smothering it with his own, matchless fury.

The portal’s light flared into darkness. Crimson flames billowed within its stone rim, filling the arena with a bloody glow. Torin’s bellow echoed amid the benches and walls, until it seemed a thousand voices screamed down upon him.

At last, he relented, lidding his emotions. The fire drew back into the Sword as suddenly as it had been unleashed. The blade, however, continued to glow as never before, pulsing with radiance to the rhythm of his beating heart.

Torin studied the rift—an empty well of melted bedrock—then looked to the Sword. So obvious, now that he knew. The strength of the Sword was fueled by the wielder. He’d been told that before, but never grasped what it meant. It meant that, despite all its perfect glory, the Sword was merely a conduit for the will and desire of a being who was decidedly imperfect.
He
was the bellows that fanned its flames,
his
passions the wind that drove them.
The Sword simply amplified those passions and channeled them into physical form. Like a fire-breather at a city fair, who spat his oils across a tiny flame to ignite a roaring burst.

A symbiotic relationship, yes, but one that began with him. The Sword provided endless stamina and supernatural awareness, not through some latent divinity stored there by the Ceilhigh, but through his own need and desire. By magnifying his emotions to a divine scale, such mortal limitations were all but stripped away. That the Sword should bestow such energy and take nothing in return was merely an illusion.

His ears perked at a scraping rumble, reminding him that his task was far from finished. With a final look at the steaming portal, he whirled toward the arena exit. He hadn’t gone ten paces before the basilisks came pouring through in a frenzied rush. Torin strode forward to meet them, simmering with rage and excitement, taking pleasure now in the cacophony of Illysp voices that filled his mind with fury and despair.

The clues had been everywhere; he simply hadn’t recognized them. Why could some, such as fellow soldiers on a battlefield, draw strength from the talisman’s mere aura, while others, such as patrons in a crowded tavern—or even those who unknowingly handled the blade—remain oblivious to the same? Because so much depended on the qualities a person projected onto it. Though divine in nature, the talisman was no more wondrous than the viewer believed it to be.

Words of instruction do not equal faith
, Ravar had said. Torin now knew why. Trying to explain the internal mechanism by which he had gained control of the Sword’s fires would not have been enough. It was something he had to feel. A casting aside of all hesitation and doubt. An embrace of everything within him—strength and weakness, pride and guilt, courage and fear. A willingness to accept and reveal to the world his deepest passions, including those he was most ashamed of and would ordinarily keep hidden. For all were required in order to realize the full measure of his own being, to forge a will that knew no limit, no pretense. Only then could he meld thought and desire into one unquenchable torrent of power.

He did so now as the basilisks reached him. Once again, the Sword erupted, spewing its divine fire in a concentrated stream. The nearest basilisks vanished with hardly a shriek of protest. Those farther back blackened, curled, and flew away in wisps of ash. A lightning blast came from the left, and another from the right, but the Sword’s flames reacted as Torin did, spreading forth to intercept them.

The bolts were consumed.

At that, the remaining beasts tried to scatter, slithering and clambering over one another and the surrounding benches in desperate haste. Torin simply willed the fire after them, sweeping his sword arm from side to side. The river of flames responded, splitting off into forked streams when necessary—chasing, immolating, until all that remained of its victims was an acrid haze and the sharp echo of severed screams.

It ended all too quickly. Again, Torin forced himself to withdraw his assault, letting the fire settle back into the polished blade, the gleaming heartstones, his thundering heart. He found himself dizzy from the outpour of emotion, yet flush with the raw power still churning within. It rolled through him as though he stood beneath a waterfall, washing in sheets over his neck and shoulders, one wave after another. With such euphoric strength, he could raise mountains from the earth, or melt the highest peak into oblivion. Anything he might ever wish for could now be his.

Anything but what you most desire
, he reminded himself, as he descended the portico steps in a rush and ran on down the temple corridor. He might raze this earth until only he and Dyanne remained, but that would not make her love him. Nor would Annleia admire him for doing so. He was still exactly who he had been before: a mix of charity and greed, of bravery and cowardice, of trust and jealousy. That he could manifest such feelings as a physical fire used to create or destroy at will made him a dangerous adversary, perhaps. But would those he cared about think any better of him for it?

One of many questions he could not yet answer. There was still much to learn, and more to be done. For now, he wanted only to reach those he had left behind, as quickly as possible.

He did not count his steps as he burst from the tunneling corridor and into the outer cavern. He could sense exactly where he was, and where he needed to be. The Sword’s glow pushed forth ahead of him, shoving back the darkness. A frenzy of voices still raked his mind, but he had numbed himself to all fear, all doubt. They were just another fuel to be burned. They would not paralyze him again.

A blast of lightning sizzled through the blackness. More basilisks, their maws bloody. Torin did not slow. He sought them out, one by one, and sent a spear of fire hurtling after them. Some hissed; some shrieked. Some attacked; some ran. All died.

The ladder of stones appeared before him. He scampered up its loose face with sure strides. His injuries stabbed at him, but could not bring him down.

He climbed from the pit, knowing already what he would find. U’uyen and his Powaii were gone. Only the pools of their blood marked where they had fallen. Consumed, as Ravar had warned. He cast about, hoping one or more had managed to slip away, but all he saw were the carcasses of the basilisks they had slain in his defense.

Torin ignited those remains with an explosive vengeance. He stood amid the conflagration, feeling the heat of his own wrath wash over him. The Illysp danced in his mind. Their presence stoked his fury. They, too, would one day claim mortal bodies, and when they did…

With the chamber cleansed of its creature coils, Torin set forth. This deed, he knew, was not yet finished, and he still felt a surge of passions smoldering within.