The Saints of the Sword (89 page)

Alazrian wondered if he knew what he was doing, but he was driven by a need to face his so-called father one last time. All the memories of his childhood flooded over him as he approached the castle—his mother’s soft voice, Leth’s harsh insulting rasp, the dark recesses of the closet and the sting of the belt—it was all unstoppable suddenly, and it pushed him onward. The horsemen in the courtyard parted, letting him pass. Up ahead, the doors to the castle opened and a servant peered out.

“Get off your horse, Master Alazrian,” a voice directed. It was Barth, Leth’s bookkeeper. “The governor wants no trouble.”

Alazrian dropped from Flier’s back. Leaving the horse in the yard, he approached the doors. Barth hurried him inside.

“Your father is waiting for you upstairs,” said the man, closing the doors again. “Please, don’t do anything to anger him.”

Alazrian went through the entry hall toward the main staircase. Barth followed, chattering nervously, but the bookkeeper stopped talking when they reached the stairs. There at the top of the flight was Elrad Leth, gazing down with a twisted grin.

“Alazrian.”

Alazrian glared up the staircase. “Governor.”

“What? Won’t you call me Father any longer? Or have the Saints of the Sword thoroughly brainwashed you against me?”

“They didn’t have to change my mind,” sneered Alazrian. “I’ve always known what you are.” He glanced
around. The entire castle staff seemed to be watching him, hanging on his reply. “You wanted to talk about surrender, didn’t you?” he asked. “So let’s talk.”

“My, but you’ve changed!” laughed Leth. “How forceful you are now. Almost a man! Come upstairs then, little man. We’ll talk in my chambers. I can keep an eye on your rabble from there.”

Leth turned and disappeared down the hall. Alazrian went up the stairs after him, leaving behind Barth and the other servants. At the top of the stairs a soldier waited, ready to escort him to the master bedchamber. There was a window in the hall, its glass broken, manned by an archer. Alazrian slipped past and saw Richius and Jahl and the others staring back at the castle. Praxtin-Tar looked furious. Seeing his protector put Alazrian at ease, but his relief was shattered by Leth’s grating voice.

“Alazrian! Get in here, already.”

Leth was in the master bedchamber, looking out past the balcony when Alazrian entered. There were three soldiers with him, all of whom watched Alazrian closely. Leth gestured gruffly to a chair.

“Sit there, away from the balcony.”

Alazrian did as he was told, all the while watching Leth. Though Leth put on a good show, the sight of the Triin had shaken him. He exhaled nervously then went to the bed and sat down on its edge.

“Well?” Leth asked sharply. “You care to explain what the hell you’re doing with those traitors?”

“I came here to talk you into surrendering,” lied Alazrian. “I’m not going to explain myself.”

“I see Jahl Rob and his rebels have taught you to disrespect your elders. Quite a holy man, that one.”

“He’s a good man. He’s twice the man you are … 
Father
.”

The insult rattled Leth. He was about to rise but stopped himself. Alazrian could tell he was afraid—too afraid to strike him.

“They’re going to kill you, you know,” said Alazrian. “You won’t live to see the end of this day.”

“Is that right?”

Alazrian nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you that myself.”

Their eyes met. A nervousness grew inside Alazrian, and he felt his resolve slipping away. But he had come for a reason, and refused to be afraid. It would save lives, he told himself. And Leth deserved it.

“You’re not my son,” said Leth. “I’ve always known that. And I never wanted you.”

“I know.”

Leth smiled. “Look at you. So cocky. You think because you’ve got an army that you’re powerful. But you’re nothing, Alazrian. You’re just a weak little half-breed.”

“You’re wrong,” said Alazrian. “I
am
powerful.”

“Is that what they think? Those Triin savages out there—do they think you’re something special?”

“I am special.” Alazrian put out his hands. “Why don’t you let me show you?”

The humor left Leth’s face. “What is this?”

“I have Triin magic. I can read your thoughts, and I can heal people. Let me show you.”

“Impossible.” Leth reared back. “You’re no sorcerer!”

“Oh, but I am,” said Alazrian. “That’s why the Triin follow me, because I have magic. I can prove it to you. Just give me your hands.”

Leth glanced at the bewildered soldiers, then back at Alazrian. Alazrian knew he was almost convinced.

“You’re afraid,” Alazrian taunted. “Ha! Who’s the coward now?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” sneered Leth. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then prove it. Take my hands. I’ll tell you what you’re thinking.”

“All right,” snapped Leth, slapping his hands into Alazrian’s. “Go on. Tell me what I’m thinking.”

A wall of loathing struck Alazrian like a fist. He closed his eyes, shaking his head against the shock of the connection, gripping Leth’s hands and feeling the flow of hateful energy. It was nauseating, and Alazrian’s mind flashed with pictures and bitter feelings—a great, regret-filled tide.

“Well?” Leth demanded. “What am I thinking?”

“I … You’re …”

Leth began to laugh. “Oh, very good, wizard!” He tightened his grip. “What else? Tell me without stuttering for once!”

Alazrian struggled to focus, to block out Leth’s taunts and to concentrate on the one thing he had come here to do. Quickly he searched the recesses of Leth’s mind, blowing away the dust and gazing down the twisted corridors, trying to locate his mother. Any love, any warm thought for her could have saved Leth, but when Alazrian found her she was in this bedroom. Leth was on top of her, half-naked and beating her. She was crying softly, taking his fists and his unwanted thrusts. The sight blinded Alazrian. He cried out, digging his nails into Leth’s hands.

“You killed her!” he railed.

Leth stood up, trying to get free. “Let go of me!”

“You killed her, and now I’m going to kill you!”

The vision of his mother let loose a demon inside Alazrian. His healing power was a choice, he knew, as much a weapon as a salve. He focused his mind like the strength of the sun, picturing the air shooting from Leth’s chest, imagining his lungs shrivelling. Leth let out a gurgling scream. Alazrian dug into his hands. The soldiers backed away, horrified, as Leth’s scream went on and on, building to a high-pitched wail.

“I hate you!” Alazrian cried. “I hate what you did to us!”

He was weeping now, unable to stop himself. Leth’s eyes bulged, begging for mercy, but Alazrian knew no mercy. The memories of a thousand beatings drove him on. Elrad Leth ceased struggling. His head fell back in a wordless howl and his throat flushed scarlet, clutched by invisible fingers. With one last gasp he hissed a silent curse. His head fell forward; spittle dripped from his mouth. Alazrian let go and watched him topple to the floor.

Two lifeless eyes stared up at him.

Alazrian went to his knees beside Leth, weeping without knowing why. “You killed my mother. It wasn’t cancer. It was you.”

The soldiers gradually came forward. They looked at Alazrian in horror.

“You … you killed him!”

Alazrian nodded mutely. “You can’t win,” he said. “He’s dead. And the Jackal will kill you all if you don’t surrender.”

Up on the roof of Aramoor castle, Shinn heard the shouts of Talistanian soldiers.

“Leth is dead! Surrender!”

The archers lowered their bows and looked at each other. In the courtyard, the cavalrymen were dropping their lances. Shinn got unsteadily to his feet. Outnumbered and leaderless, the Talistanians surrendered, leaving their bows on the roof as they climbed back down the hatches and wall walks. Shinn watched them go, utterly lost. Leth was dead? How could that be?

Then he remembered the boy.

“That little whoreson,” he whispered. Had the boy killed Leth? It didn’t really matter. If Alazrian was alive, he could tell his grandfather how the boy had tried to murder him. Shinn might even tell his grandfather.

With his bow still in hand, Shinn hurried from the roof, eager to take care of some unfinished business.

Down in the courtyard, Jahl watched in astonishment as the Talistanians surrendered. The order travelled quickly through their ranks. As the horsemen dropped their lances and the weapon-wielding staff emerged from the castle, Richius and the Saints swarmed forward, shouting orders and herding the horsemen into groups. Praxtin-Tar and his warriors surrounded them.

“Alazrian!” Jahl called. “Alazrian, can you hear me?”

Praxtin-Tar jumped from his horse and ran for the castle gates. Jahl was right behind him.

Together he and Praxtin-Tar pushed their way inside, shouldering past a group of Talistanians. Jahl grabbed hold of one, a young woman wearing an apron.

“Where’s the boy?” he said. “Where’s Alazrian?”

The woman nearly fainted, shrieking as she noticed Praxtin-Tar.

“Where is he?” Jahl demanded, shaking her.

“Upstairs,” she stammered, pointing down the hall. “That’s where the master took him.”

Jahl and the warlord raced for the staircase, hurrying to the second floor. As he reached the top of the stairs Jahl saw an open door across a long corridor. There was a figure in the threshold. For a moment Jahl thought it was Alazrian, but then he saw Alazrian kneeling in the chamber. The figure in the threshold held a drawn-back bow.

“No!” screamed Jahl.

Shinn turned. Jahl raced up the steps. Shinn loosed his arrow—and Jahl felt its hammering impact. His chest exploded with pain and he stumbled back, falling into Praxtin-Tar.

“Alazrian!” he gasped.

Alazrian was in the doorway now. He saw Shinn, then cried out for Jahl. Praxtin-Tar laid Jahl aside and roared forward, flying at Shinn with his jiiktar. Jahl saw it all through a fog. Praxtin-Tar raised his blade. Shinn brought up his bow and saw it severed as the warlord’s weapon flashed. Shinn’s anguished wail shook the hall.

“Jahl!” cried Alazrian desperately.

Jahl could barely hold his eyes open. An arrow erupted from his chest, swamping his shirt with blood. Alazrian knelt over him, weeping.

“Alazrian …”

“Jahl, don’t talk. Let me help you!”

“No,” Jahl gasped.

“Stay still,” Alazrian begged. He quickly laid his hands on Jahl, digging into his bloodied flesh. “I can heal you, Jahl,” he said. “Just hold on!”

“Don’t … do … anything.” With a giant effort, Jahl raised his head and looked at Alazrian. “No magic!”

Frustrated tears stained Alazrian’s cheeks. “Jahl, please! I need you.”

With his waning strength Jahl pushed away Alazrian’s hands. “Don’t …” He looked into the boy’s eyes, so
bright they could have been stars, and smiled because he knew the boy was safe.

“No tears for me,” he choked. “Alazrian, I’m going to God.”

Jahl Rob closed his eyes and let his angels take him to heaven.

J
ust off the coast of Talistan, the
Dread Sovereign
sat at anchor, bobbing in the moonlight. A gentle solitude blanketed the ocean. The warship’s cannons had quieted hours ago, but her decks still stank of kerosene. Onshore, the ruined fortress glowed with waning fires, sending up sad smoke signals. It was abandoned now, without even a single occupant to curse the dreadnought offshore.

Blair Kasrin had gone through his usual inspections after the bombardment of the fortress, seeing to his crew and the welfare of his ship, and finding both in good spirits. The
Sovereign
had weathered her mission remarkably well. Kasrin was proud of her. He was proud of himself, too, and how he had helped Biagio. If he listened very closely, he could hear the chaos in Talistan, the occasional shouts of troops or farmers as they realized their world had violently changed. Biagio had launched his war. He had probably even won. For that, Kasrin was glad. But like the
Sovereign
, Kasrin knew he had paid his debts.

He finished his inspections then went in search of Jelena, finding her at the stern, pensively watching Talistan. She was lovely in the moonlight, and Kasrin adored her. He adored her fire, her will. She wasn’t a girl to him—she was a queen. She glanced in his direction as he approached, offering a smile. Kasrin shouldered up to her, leaning on the railing and sharing the view. It was very
quiet and he could hear the waves lapping against the hull. A good time to confess his decision, he supposed.

But before he could speak, Jelena asked, “What will you do now, Blair?”

“We will anchor here for the night,” he said. “Give the crew a chance to rest.”

“That’s not what I meant. Biagio will be expecting you, I suppose. He will need a new admiral. Or at least passage back to Nar City.”

“Yes, I suppose he will.”

“Will you go ashore to see him?”

“No.”

“No?”

Kasrin turned to her. “I’ve paid my debt to Biagio, Jelena. I don’t think he needs me anymore. He can make Gark head of the fleet. Besides, I’m not really sure how safe I’d be in Nar. Not after killing Nicabar.”

Jelena looked at him hopefully. “So? What will you do?”

Kasrin patted the railing. “She’s a good old ship, isn’t she? Still seaworthy. She’ll make it back to Liss, no problem.” Kasrin took Jelena’s hand, grinning wickedly. “After all, you still have a lot of Liss to show me, my Queen.”

I
n the aftermath of the battle, Biagio returned to Elkhorn Castle.

The survivors of the battle had accompanied him, and Cray Kellen and Vandra Grayfin paid their respects to Breena before returning to their own territories. A day and a half after they were gone, the silence of the castle began to irritate Biagio, and he knew it was time for him, too, to leave. He had spoken infrequently to Breena since returning to the castle, for she had not wanted his company, and Biagio thought it best that she be given space and time to recover from her loss. But as he readied to leave the castle, to go on to Aramoor and meet with Richius Vantran, he knew he could not leave her without saying good-bye. With his saddlebags packed and stuffed with provisions, he made a small detour before departing, going to the castle’s rose garden. There among the forlorn blossoms he found her, absently trimming back the vines the way he had taught her. She did not notice as he approached, or if she did she simply ignored him. Sadly, Breena had changed. The death of Redburn had smothered her fire, replacing it with a dreary apathy. Biagio paused at the edge of the garden, waiting for her to acknowledge him.