The Saints of the Sword (71 page)

Alazrian laughed bitterly. “If only Leth could see me now. He’d say I was acting like a child.” He picked up another stone and tossed it away. “But I am a child, you idiot.”

When he returned to Aramoor, he would face his so-called father again, this time as one of Jahl’s Saints. He would take up arms against Leth and do his best to win Biagio’s war. And though he might be killed, death suddenly meant curiously little to Alazrian. Without a mother to love him or a life that provided answers, his whole journey seemed pointless. All he wanted now was to return to Nar at the head of an army. He wanted Leth to see him there, with a sword in his hand.

And what of his grandfather? What would Tassis Gayle think of him then? he wondered. He didn’t hate the king, not like he hated Leth. He pitied the old man. He was brainsick and grief-stricken, and his dementia had forced the emperor’s hand. In his day, Tassis Gayle had committed his share of atrocities. In fact, he probably deserved death as much as Leth. But there was a pathetic innocence to him. If he had been sane, things would have been different.

Alazrian looked down at his hands, remembering how Vantran had scolded him. Could he heal his grandfather? Was that even possible? His powers were considerable, but he didn’t know if they could heal a broken mind the way they could a broken body. Jahl said that the mind was the spirit, and that the spirit was the realm of God.

“Well, I’m not a god,” said Alazrian. “But maybe …”

His brow furrowed. Maybe he could help the old man. “Alazrian?” came a voice from the darkness. Startled, Alazrian jumped. Remarkably, it was Praxtin-Tar. The warlord was walking toward him, leaving behind Falindar’s merrymaking for the solitude of the cliffs. His face was perplexed as he studied Alazrian, and he spoke in Triin, asking questions Alazrian couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” said Alazrian. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

Praxtin-Tar stopped in front of him, then gestured to the nothingness around them.

“Oh,” said Alazrian. “You want to know what I’m doing out here.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not in the mood to celebrate.”

Praxtin-Tar nodded as if he understood. “Kalak higa eyido.” He grinned sardonically. “Kalak?”

“Yes,” replied Alazrian. “Kalak. He won’t help me, Praxtin-Tar. This whole journey has been for nothing.” He looked down at his feet, feeling sorry for himself. “I shouldn’t have come here. I wasted my time.”

Suddenly, Praxtin-Tar took hold of his chin and lifted his face so that their eyes met. The warlord’s gaze was furious. “Yamo ta!” he said. “Kkanan Kalak!”

“I don’t understand,” said Alazrian.

Praxtin-Tar thrust out his hands.

“Oh, no,” Alazrian said. “That’s not a good idea.”

But Praxtin-Tar shook his hands insistently, ordering Alazrian to take them. It was the only way for them to communicate, and they both knew it. So Alazrian relented, reaching for the warlord’s hands and looking into his eyes. A warm embrace rose up to take him, not at all violent or angry. Alazrian melted into the union, and soon heard Praxtin-Tar’s silent voice.

“You are troubled,” said the warlord. “Do not be.”

The voice came like a breeze, insubstantial. Alazrian focused his mind to reply.

“I have failed,” said Alazrian. “I have wasted my time coming here.”

“You have not! You were gifted to us, to me.”

“No. I came for a single purpose. I came for the Jackal. But he will not listen to me.”

With his mind alone, Alazrian imparted the story of how Vantran was supposed to lead a Triin army to Aramoor, and how Biagio was waiting for him. The mere thought of the Naren emperor made Praxtin-Tar shudder, but he held fast and listened to the wordless tale, nodding.

“Without Kalak, there is no peace. Biagio will fail. There will be war. Do you understand, Praxtin-Tar?”

“Praxtin-Tar understands war,” said the Triin. “But you do not need Kalak.”

“But I do. He was to lead a Triin army. His country needs him.”

“You are not listening. You do not need Kalak. I will come with you.”

“What?” blurted Alazrian. “What are you saying?”

“I will be your sword,” declared Praxtin-Tar. “I will lead my warriors in your name, and I will win this battle for you.”

“Oh, no! You can’t do that. I’m not asking for your help, Praxtin-Tar.”

“Do not refuse. You have need of me, and I have need of you. I will not abandon you, just as I would not abandon Tharn were he still alive.” Praxtin-Tar’s expression was grave. “You are the door to heaven, boy. You are the proof I have been seeking.”

“Proof?”

“That the gods exist; that Tharn was no accident or trick of fate. You are touched by heaven. You must be protected.”

“Praxtin-Tar, I can’t let you …”

“You cannot stop me,” said the warlord firmly. “It is my choice.” His face softened. “Before you came, I was without hope. Tharn showed me another life, then he took it away. I have fought to open that door again, but Lorris and Pris have been silent to me. Yet they speak to you. So you must be protected.”

There was no arguing with the warlord. Alazrian could feel his conviction like a tidal wave flattening all resistance. Praxtin-Tar was pledging himself, body and soul.
For him, it wasn’t friendship or the love of war. It was something holy.

“If you do this, you could be killed,” Alazrian warned. “Your men, too. My grandfather is strong, and he has allies. Defeating him will not be easy.”

Praxtin-Tar grinned. “Praxtin-Tar fears no Naren,” he boasted. “We will battle and we will win. I will make you king of your country.”

“No, that’s not what I want. I’m not doing this for the throne. If I can, I might even be able to save my grandfather.”

A disapproving rumble came from the warlord’s throat. “Do not be sentimental. To win a war, you must be ruthless.”

“He’s my grandfather, Praxtin-Tar. I have to try.”

Praxtin-Tar nodded. “If you must. But if you fail, I will slay him personally. You can make a trophy of his head.”

Oh, God
, thought Alazrian.
He’s a butcher, too
. Then he realized that Praxtin-Tar had caught the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I am not a warrior, I guess.”

“Warriors are made up of sun and moon,” said the warlord. “Lorris is the strength, the anger. Pris is the compassion and the strategy. You are more like Pris.”

Alazrian laughed. “My father would agree with you.” The warlord gave the boy a steady look. “You have saved my son, but you have also saved my soul. I will be your protector, wherever you go.”

“No, Praxtin-Tar, I don’t need a slave.”

“I am no man’s slave,” retorted Praxtin-Tar. “I am a servant of Lorris and Pris, as you are.” He glanced up into the starry sky. “I had thought they called me for other things, but now I see my fate.”

“Then I accept your help, gladly,” said Alazrian. “And I give you my thanks.”

He released the warlord’s hands, then saw another figure staggering out of the darkness. Praxtin-Tar turned in alarm, but relaxed when he realized it was Jahl Rob. The priest had an uneasy gait, like he was exhausted or drunk, and when Alazrian saw the bruises on his face, he knew something was wrong.

“My God, Jahl,” he cried. “What happened to you?”

“Vantran,” said Jahl through a crooked smile. “We had a bit of a tussle.”

Alazrian pointed to the contusion on his cheek. “He did that to you?”

“And more,” replied Jahl. To Alazrian’s shock, he didn’t seem angry. “Vantran fights like a wild boar.”

“But what happened? Why were you fighting?”

“It’s great news, boy,” said Jahl. His smile was wider than the ocean. “Vantran is coming with us. He’s going to join the Saints!”

“What?” Alazrian laughed, shaking his head. “God, what a night. And now we have an army, Jahl. Praxtin-Tar is going to help us. He’s going to march his men to Aramoor, to join the battle.”

Rob looked at the warlord in disbelief. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, did he say that?”

“He did,” said Alazrian flatly. “They’re going to be our army, Jahl. Maybe all your praying finally did some good.”

The priest crossed himself. “Thanks be to God.” He looked up into heaven, laughing. “Thank you, Lord! I will deliver Aramoor for You, I swear it!”

“It’s just like Biagio wanted, Jahl,” said Alazrian. “We’re his alliance now, all of us.”

“No,” corrected Jahl. He was still gazing skyward. “We’re not Biagio’s army. We’re the Saints of the Sword.”

A
lazrian spent the next two days shuffling between Falindar and the camp of Praxtin-Tar. There were plans to make and supplies to gather, and all manner of questions to answer. Praxtin-Tar had delivered a stirring speech to his warriors, telling them that they were about to embark on a glorious journey. It was a war for Lorris and Pris, he told them, a struggle to aid their mortal ambassador, Alazrian. Praxtin-Tar did not tell his men that they were going to free Aramoor, or that the peace of Nar was at stake. He merely worked the horde like a magician, and because his men adored him, they obeyed. The warriors of Reen spent the next two days sharpening jiiktars and preparing themselves for the long march westward. Under their raven banner and the steely eyes of their warlord, they readied themselves to fight for their fickle gods.

Surprisingly, Richius Vantran had come down from his apartment in Falindar to be with Praxtin-Tar’s warriors. The Jackal did not explain his silence to anyone, but it was agreed that he was worried for his wife and child, whom he would once again be leaving. It was said among the warriors that Vantran had never really become a Triin despite his giant efforts and that his heart truly belonged to Aramoor, no matter his claims to the contrary. At their meetings in Praxtin-Tar’s pavilion, Alazrian watched the
Jackal carefully, studying his moods. Even as they discussed strategies for freeing his homeland, Vantran was a thousand miles away, fretting for his wife and daughter. Surprisingly, it was Jahl Rob who tried to comfort the king. Since convincing Vantran to join them, Jahl spent much of the time shadowing the Jackal, forcing him to smile when he didn’t want to and making bold claims about victory. Vantran endured Jahl’s company with good humor, but Alazrian knew he was hurting.

On the evening before their departure, Alazrian went back to Falindar one last time. It was early and Vantran was still in the camp making final preparations for the long march, but Alazrian knew the Jackal would be returning for the night. Before he did, Alazrian hoped for some private time with Vantran’s wife. Seeing the Jackal with a foot in two worlds had snapped something inside him. All the travelling, all the worrying, all the planning of the past two days had buried the other part of his mission, but now Alazrian remembered his promise to his mother, and it drove him on.

So he dressed himself in clean clothes, left the encampment without Praxtin-Tar or Jahl noticing, and rode toward the citadel of Falindar. The brass gates were still guarded but he passed through them easily, recognized by the guardians, and soon found himself in the outer ward where an eager Triin boy took care of his horse for the price of a smile. Nervous about seeing Dyana, Alazrian smoothed down his hair and considered what he would say to her. As he walked through the splendid halls, he remembered Falger, the rebellious Triin he had met in Ackle-Nye, and how he had promised the man he would give a message to Dyana. He would use that as a pretext, Alazrian decided, then ease into his questions. And Dyana Vantran seemed like such a gentle lady. Surely she wouldn’t turn him away.

Vaguely recalling the way Richius had taken him, Alazrian retraced his steps up the tower. It was a long climb, and by the time he reached the top he was winded. He stepped out into a hallway, looked around, and anxiety seized him again. Dyana Vantran might not even be here.

But he supposed she would be; she would be expecting her husband. Alazrian steadied himself with a few deep breaths. She was his last chance at answers, and he was afraid of being turned away. Worse, he was afraid that she would tell him nothing.

“Steady,” he told himself. “Remember to smile …”

He put on a sunny face and went down the hall, ignoring the magnificent white stonework and banks of doors. Most of the portals hung open, revealing great, comfortable rooms, but the door at the end of the hall was closed. Perhaps the lady wasn’t in. He decided to try, going to the door and knocking quietly.

He heard some rustling behind the door, then the sound of a child’s voice. The door opened to reveal Dyana Vantran. She looked startled by the sight of him.

“Alazrian Leth,” she said uneasily. “I am sorry; Richius is not here.” A little frown betrayed her dismay. “I was expecting him. I thought you might be him.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Alazrian politely. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. But actually it’s not your husband I came to see. The Jackal … er, I mean Richius is still down at the encampment, making plans with Praxtin-Tar. I came to see you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well, I have a message for you, my lady. May I come in?”

Dyana Vantran shrugged and stepped aside for him to enter. Shani was playing on the floor, batting a little wooden figure from hand to hand. To Alazrian, the carved figure looked like a mermaid. The child glanced up at him and giggled.

“Triin,” she announced. “Triin …”

Dyana looked embarrassed. “I am sorry. She heard Richius and I talking about you.”

“That’s all right, I don’t mind,” said Alazrian. He went to the girl to squat down beside her, studying her fair hair and oval eyes, marvelling at the complexity of her features. She was neither Triin nor Naren, belonging to both races and neither simultaneously. “She’s a very pretty girl,” he said. “She looks like you.”

“You are kind. Are you thirsty? I can get a drink for you.”

“No,” said Alazrian. He stood up. “Really, I just came to talk to you.”

“Yes, your message.” Dyana looked at him inquisitively. “What is it?”

“Do you remember a man named Falger?” he asked.

Instantly, Dyana’s expression softened. “Falger,” she echoed. “Why? Do you know him?”