The Saints of the Sword (60 page)

He led them into a remarkably small but comfortable-looking home, with white paper walls and delicate woodwork and a shelf in the corner bearing a collection of clay statuettes. Sunlight and fresh air poured in from an un-shuttered window, festooned with flowering vines. A crimson carpet lay on the floor, threadbare but warm, along with some pillows and two hard-backed chairs. There was also a mattress tucked out of the way. It, too, lay on the floor. When Jahl saw the spartan appointments, he thought again about what Alazrian said—this really did look like a priest’s home.

Alazrian seemed intrigued by the place. He drifted through the main chamber, reaching out to touch everything and stopping just shy. Nagrah watched him as he explored, leaving Jahl to wonder if the man had sensed the boy’s Triin blood.

“I can use something to drink,” said Jahl. “Water or anything. We’ve been on the road some time.”

“First talk, then drink,” said Nagrah firmly. He gestured to the floor and pillows. “Sit.”

Jahl hesitated. Alazrian dropped to the floor and sat back on one of the pillows. Nagrah did the same, and the two looked up at Jahl, waiting for him. The pagan household made Jahl uneasy, but he sat down anyway, looking at Nagrah.

“My friend here thinks you might be a priest,” he said, trying to break the ice. “Are you?”

“I am a cunning-man,” replied Nagrah. “A Drol holy man. But the Naren word for it is priest, yes.”

“Drol,” echoed Alazrian, nodding. “Yes, I read about you. When I was in the Black City there was a book—”

“Alazrian,” interrupted Jahl, “not now.” He smiled at Nagrah. “You speak our tongue very well. I’m curious to know how you learned. Were you ever in the Empire?”

“No,” said Nagrah. “But my former master was in Nar. He learned the tongue of Nar, and I learned it from him. He was a great teacher.”

“What happened to him?” asked Alazrian.

“Dead. Some time ago now.” Nagrah thought for a moment. “Two years, maybe more.”

“Two years?” said Alazrian. “Was Tharn your master?”

“You know Tharn?”

“Oh yes! Everyone in Nar has heard about Tharn. He’s one of the reasons I came here, to find out about him!”

“Alazrian …”

“Tharn is dead,” said Nagrah. Then he touched his chest and smiled. “But he lives on, in here.”

“Will you tell me about him? Please? I really want to know. Anything you can—”

“Alazrian, stop,” ordered Jahl. “Just hold on for a moment, all right? There’s a lot we want to know, but this isn’t the time for a history lesson.” He turned back to the Triin, saying, “Nagrah, you wanted to speak to us privately. Why?”

“Because you say you know Kalak,” said the priest. “How do you know him?”

“I’m from Aramoor,” explained Jahl. “Richius Vantran was my king.”

“He is no king, not anymore.”

“No,” agreed Jahl. “But we must see him. It’s very urgent.”

Nagrah gave a mocking grin. “How have you come this far and not learned the danger you are in? Falindar is at war. The warlord Praxtin-Tar lays siege to the citadel. You cannot reach Kalak.”

“But he is there in Falindar, right?” asked Alazrian.

“Yes, Kalak is in Falindar. But Falindar is surrounded. There is no way to reach him.”

“But it’s important,” said Alazrian. “We
must
reach Vantran. If we can talk to Praxtin-Tar, maybe we can make him understand. We don’t want any part of his war. We just want to speak to Vantran.”

“You are not hearing me,” said Nagrah. “Praxtin-Tar hates Richius Vantran. He hates all Narens. He will never let you pass. If you go to Falindar, he will kill you.”

Jahl nodded, suddenly understanding. “That’s why you didn’t want us to stay here. Because we might endanger your village.”

“Praxtin-Tar sends warriors here sometimes for food and supplies. If you are discovered here, the warlord might take his revenge. I am not afraid of Praxtin-Tar, but the others fear him. And you should, too. If you are found, you will certainly die.”

“Great,” said Jahl. “You hear, Alazrian? We’ve come all this way for nothing.”

Alazrian refused to believe it. “No, there has to be a way, Jahl. We can’t let this journey be a waste.”

“Didn’t you hear him, boy? Falindar is surrounded by warriors.”

“I don’t care.” Alazrian gave Nagrah an imploring look. “Please, Nagrah, you’ve got to help us. Isn’t there some way we can reach Kalak? Some way to get a message to him?”

“What is this business you have with Kalak? What is so important?”

Alazrian was about to speak, but Jahl snapped, “Don’t answer that. Look, clever-man, or whatever you are—I don’t want to tell you our whole life stories. We’ll go on to Falindar, whether you like it or not. We don’t need your help. So—”

“Cunning-man,” Nagrah corrected. “I am a cunning-man. But how could you know that? You are not Triin.”

“You’re damn right I’m not.”

“But this one understands.” Nagrah smiled at Alazrian. “You know our words, boy, yes?”

Both Jahl and Alazrian froze. The cunning-man rose and went to Alazrian, kneeling down before him. Then he put out his hands and touched Alazrian’s face, tracing his fingers over its contours. Alazrian stayed very still, and his eyes locked with Nagrah’s.

“Are you Naren?” asked Nagrah. “Or are you Triin?”

When Alazrian’s eyes widened, Nagrah nodded.

“Yes, I knew. Your Triin blood shows, young one. In your hair, in your eyes. I can feel it when I put my hands on you.”

Alazrian gasped. “You can
feel
it?”

“That’s enough,” ordered Jahl. “Let go of him.”

Nagrah dropped back. “Once I saw him clearly, I knew the boy had Triin blood.” He looked straight at Alazrian. “Falindar is a special place to our people. Is this why you seek it?”

Alazrian glanced at Jahl.

“Go ahead,” said Jahl grudgingly, “Tell him.”

“You are right,” Alazrian confessed. “My father was a Triin. His name was Jakiras, but I never met him.”

“I know of no one named Jakiras in Falindar,” said Nagrah.

“No, that’s not why I came. I want to find out more about
myself
. Richius Vantran can help me. He knew Tharn, like you did.” Alazrian grew earnest. “I want to learn about magic.”

Nagrah’s eyebrows rose. “Magic? What do you know of magic?”

“Tharn was a sorcerer,” said Alazrian. “I think I have magic, too.”

“Tharn was touched by heaven, boy. He was no sorcerer doing tricks.”

“I know,” said Alazrian. “But I can do things, just like he did. I can read a person’s thoughts by touching them. Here, let me show you …”

Nagrah jumped back. “Do not show me anything.” His gaze sharpened. “This cannot be. Tharn was very special. He was chosen by Lorris and Pris. You cannot be like him.”

“He is,” insisted Jahl. “Believe it or not, you’ve got
another one on your hands, priest. That’s why Alazrian came here. He wants to find out about himself.”

“And that is all?”

“No,” said Jahl. “We also have a mission. We need to get to Vantran.”

Nagrah scowled. “So you have said. But Alazrian, you have come a long way for nothing. Tharn is a mystery to me, still. He was my teacher, but I never understood him. If you think Kalak can help you understand him, you are wrong.”

“I have to try,” said Alazrian. “If Vantran can help me learn about Tharn, then fine. But even if not, we still have need of him.” The boy reached out for Nagrah, who still wouldn’t take his hand. “Please, it’s too much to explain, but you have to believe us. We must reach Vantran. Can you help us?”

“You said you’re not afraid of Praxtin-Tar,” pressed Jahl. “Why not?”

“The warlord is a fool. Like you, Alazrian, he wants to solve the riddle of Tharn. That is why he lays siege to Falindar. Tharn ruled Lucel-Lor from there. Now the warlord wants to rule. But he never will, because he is not touched by heaven.”

“Is he evil?” asked Alazrian.

“Not evil. Just ignorant. But it makes him do cruel things. You must believe me, both of you. Praxtin-Tar hates Narens, and he will not welcome you. Unless …” Nagrah furrowed his brow. “Boy, if you are touched by heaven as you claim, Praxtin-Tar may listen to you. He seeks the same as you, it seems. He may accept you.”

“Will you take us to him?” asked Alazrian. “Please, if we could just talk to him, I know I can convince him of my gifts.”

Nagrah grinned. “Gifts? Is that what you call them? Tharn often referred to his powers as a curse.”

A sad expression crossed the boy’s face. “I really don’t know what to call my powers. That’s why I agreed to this mission.”

Jahl said quickly, “It is no curse to heal, Alazrian. Our Lord healed the sick, and He was without sin.”

“Heal?” blurted Nagrah. “You are a healer, Alazrian?”

The boy shrugged. “I guess so. If I touch someone who is ill, I can heal them. I don’t know how it happens, but it does.”

“Remarkable,” whispered Nagrah. “Perhaps I was wrong about Praxtin-Tar. Perhaps he
will
welcome you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jahl.

“No more talk now,” said Nagrah. “Rest. In the morning, we will leave for the warlord’s camp. I will explain it to you then.”

The next morning, as the trio rode out of the village, the cunning-man explained about Crinion, Praxtin-Tar’s son. Nagrah wasn’t even certain if Crinion was still alive. But if he was, and if Alazrian could heal him, it just might convince the warlord to spare the boy and let him see Vantran.

Jahl Rob didn’t like the plan, but he saw no recourse. They had come hundreds of miles to find Vantran and deliver Biagio’s message, and neither of them was willing to return to Aramoor empty-handed. So Jahl had agreed, and they had left at sunrise, refreshed from a night in the Triin’s quiet home. Now, as they trotted through another of Tatterak’s canyons, Jahl considered his surroundings warily. Alazrian rode ahead, desperate to reach Praxtin-Tar.

“Is it much farther?” Jahl asked Nagrah. The young man rode beside him at an unhurried pace, swaying on the back of a donkey.

“We are very close now,” replied Nagrah. He pointed toward a range of craggy hills to the north. “See there? Falindar is past those mountains. From there we will see the warlord’s camp.”

It wasn’t very far, and Jahl grew nervous. “I hope you’re right about this, priest. I’m supposed to be looking after the boy, not leading him to slaughter.”

“You are his guardian?”

“Well, not precisely.”

“Then why are you here? This business with Kalak—it concerns you, too?”

“You might say that. The Jackal was my king. I haven’t seen him in a very long time.”

“You are angry with him,” said Nagrah. “You do not hide it well.”

“You’re as annoyingly perceptive as the boy. Is that a Triin trait?”

Nagrah laughed. “A Drol trait, perhaps. If the boy is touched by heaven, then he is Drol, too.”

“Drol,” scoffed Jahl. “Such nonsense.”

“You do not believe in heaven?”

“Of course I do. I’m a priest myself. A
real
priest.”

“You?” Nagrah seemed stunned. “This is what a priest of Nar looks like? I am not impressed.”

“Ha! You could take lessons from me! There is only one God, Nagrah, not a collection of pagan myths.”

“Lorris and Pris are not myths,” said Nagrah sharply. “They exist.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Is it? Then how can you explain Tharn? Or young Alazrian, there? You say he is gifted, that he has magic. How do you know his powers have not come from Lorris and Pris?”

Jahl thought for a moment, then decided he had no answer. “I can’t explain it,” he admitted. “It is a mystery. But God works in wondrous ways. How do you know that his powers haven’t come from
my
God?”

Nagrah looked confused. “He is half Triin,” said Nagrah.

“And half Naren.”

“Word games,” said Nagrah. “So like a Naren to confuse things.”

“But you can’t answer me, can you? And that bothers you, doesn’t it? Who knows—maybe I’m right?”

Nagrah’s sour expression disappeared, and he laughed. “There is no conclusion, I confess. You have me, priest.”

Satisfied, Jahl trotted alongside his companion for long minutes more. Soon they reached the range of hills guarding Falindar. Nagrah took the lead, taking them up a sloping road and over the rocky hills. Tall walls of granite pressed in on them obscuring the horizon. But before either
of them could lose their nerve, the top of the hill was in sight. Nagrah led his donkey to the crown and stood looking out over the horizon.

“There,” the man declared. “Falindar.”

“Almighty God,” Jahl whispered. “Look at that.”

Alazrian raced up to him, breathing hard—then caught his breath when he saw the citadel.

“Holy Mother …”

It was blindingly beautiful. Like the fallen Cathedral of the Martyrs, Falindar was miraculous. The castle of silver and brass shone on a mountain precipice proudly defying the ocean a thousand feet below. Jahl crossed himself, and a dream-like state settled over the travellers, but only for a moment. For Falindar wasn’t the only remarkable sight. Around the citadel’s mountain swarmed a mass of men and machines, flying banners and sending up smoke. Nagrah pointed at the encampment.

“Praxtin-Tar,” he said. He looked at Alazrian. “Are you ready, boy?”

“I’ve come a long way and been through a lot,” Alazrian replied. “I think I’m ready for anything now.”

A
lazrian walked toward the camp of Praxtin-Tar, his face darkened by the shadow of Falindar. A hundred pavilions of grey and white dotted the landscape; a thousand men and children spoke in a chorus of gibberish. The banners of the warlord snaked in the breeze, bearing a taloned black bird. Horses and pack animals milled in pens while a blanket of smoke lay across the encampment, coiling up from cooking fires. A siege machine rising like a cobra over the throng drew Alazrian’s attention, its design unmistakably Naren. Warriors sat in huddles throughout the crowd working their weapons with whetstones while slaves struggled with boulders and massive lengths of timbers, and horsemen sat upon muscled stallions, practicing attack runs. Alazrian peered over Nagrah’s shoulder to get a better look. The cunning-man walked slowly, his face deliberate.