The Skull Throne (17 page)

When he returned he sat quietly, watching Jardir gnaw the bowl down to stem, seed, and core.

“Ask, Par’chin,” Jardir said again.

“Did you decide to kill me in the heat of the moment that night in the Maze,” Arlen asked, “or was our friendship a lie from the start?”

He watched Jardir’s aura carefully, taking some small pleasure as hurt and shame colored it for an instant. Jardir mastered himself quickly and looked up, meeting Arlen’s eyes as he let out a long exhale, nostrils flaring.

“Both,” he said. “And neither. After she threw the bones for you that first night, Inevera told me to embrace you like a brother and keep you close, for I would one day need to kill you if I was to take power.”

Something tightened in Arlen, and unbidden, the ambient magic in the room rushed to him, making the wards on his flesh glow.

“That don’t sound like both,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or neither.”

Jardir could not have missed the glow of his wards, but he gave no indication, keeping his eyes fixed on Arlen’s. “I knew nothing of you then, Par’chin, save that the
Sharum
and
dama
nearly came to blows over your request to fight in the Maze. You seemed a man of honor, but when your rock demon broke the wall, I did not know what to think.”

“You talk like One Arm was a piece of livestock I tried to sneak past the gate,” Arlen said.

Jardir ignored the comment. “But then, as the
alagai
poured through the breach and despair took hold in the hearts of the bravest men, you stood fast and bled at my side, willing to give your life to capture the rock demon and put things right.

“I did not lie when I called you brother, Par’chin. I would have given my life for you.”

Arlen nodded. “Nearly did more’n once that night, and Creator only knows how many times since. But it was all a show, ay? You knew you’d live to betray me one day.”

Jardir shrugged. “Who can say, Par’chin? The very act of foretelling gives us chance to change what is seen. They are glimpses of what
might
be, not what
will.
What would be the point, otherwise? If I thought myself immortal and began to take foolish risks I would otherwise have avoided …”

Arlen wanted to argue, but there was little he could say. It was a fair point.

“Inevera’s prophecies are vague, and often not what they seem,” Jardir went on. “I spent years pondering her words.
Kill,
she had said, but the symbol on her die had other meanings. Death, rebirth, conversion. I tried to convert you to the Evejah, or find you a bride and tie you to Krasia, in hope that if you ceased to be a
chin
and were reborn as an Evejan, it would fulfill the prophecy and allow me to spare you.”

Almost every man Arlen knew in Krasia tried to find him a bride at some point, but none so hard as Jardir. He never would have guessed it was to save his life, but there was no lie in Jardir’s aura.

“Reckon it came true after a fashion,” Arlen said. “Part of me died that night, and was reborn out on the dunes. Sure as the sun rises.”

“When you first presented the spear, I knew it for what it was,” Jardir said. “I sensed its power and had to force down my desire to take it from you then and there.”

Arlen’s lip curled, showing a hint of teeth. “But you were too much a coward. Instead you conspired and lured me into a trap, letting your men and a demon pit do the dirty work for you.”

Jardir’s aura flared, a mix of guilt and anger. “Inevera too told me to kill you and take the spear. She offered to poison your tea if I did not wish to sully my hands. She would have denied you a warrior’s death.”

Arlen spat. “As if I give a demon’s piss. Betrayal’s betrayal, Ahmann.”

“You do,” Jardir said. “You may think Heaven a lie, but if you were given to choose your death, you would face it with a spear in your hand.”

“Didn’t have a spear when death came for me, Ahmann. You took it. All I had were needles and ink.”

“I fought for you,” Jardir said, not rising to the bait. “Inevera’s dice have ruled my life since I was twelve years old. Never before or since have I so defied them, or her. Not even over Leesha Paper. Had Inevera not proven so … formidable, I would have hurt her when my arguments failed. I left for the Maze determined. I would not kill my brother. I would not rob him.”

Arlen tried to read the emotions in Jardir’s aura, but they were too complex, even for him. This was something Jardir had wrestled with for years, and still not come to terms with. It did little to ease his sense of betrayal, but there was more, and Arlen wanted to hear it.

“What changed?” he said.

“I remembered your words,” Jardir said. “I watched from the wall as you led the
Sharum
to clear the Maze, the Spear of Kaji shining bright as the sun in your hands. They shouted your name, and I knew then they would follow you. The warriors would make you Shar’Dama Ka, and charge Nie’s abyss if you asked it.”

“Afraid I’d take your job?” Arlen asked. “Never wanted it.”

Jardir shook his head. “I did not care about my
job,
Par’chin. I cared about my people. And yours. Every man, woman, and child on Ala. For they would all follow you once they saw the
alagai
bleed. I saw it in my mind’s eye, and it was glorious.”

“Then what, Ahmann?” Arlen asked, losing patience. “What in the Core happened?”

“I told you, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “I remembered your words.
There is no Heaven,
you said. And I thought to myself, Without hope of Heaven, what reason would you have to remain righteous when all the world bowed to you? Without being humble before the Creator, what man could be trusted with such power? Nie corrupts what She cannot destroy, and it is only in our submission to Everam that we can resist Her whispers and lies.”

Arlen gaped at him. The truth of the words was written on Jardir’s aura, but his mind boggled at the thought. “I embody everything you hold dear, willing to fight and die in the First War, but you’d betray me because I do it for humanity, and not some figment in the sky?”

Jardir clenched a fist. “I warn you, Par’chin …”

“Corespawn your warnings!” Arlen brought his fist down, the limb still thrumming with power. The table exploded with the blow, collapsing in a spray of splinters. Jardir leapt back from the broken boards and shrapnel, coming down in a
sharusahk
stance.

Arlen knew better than to attempt to grapple. Jardir was more than his match at hand-fighting. He’d fought
dama
before, and been lucky to escape with his life. Jardir had studied for years with the clerics, learning their secrets. Even now, when Arlen was faster and stronger than anyone alive, Jardir could take him like a boy to the woodshed. Much as Arlen wanted to meet Jardir on even terms, there was nothing to be gained, and everything to lose.

Jardir’s superior
sharusahk
skill was irrelevant in any event. His understanding and control over his magic was rudimentary at best, self-taught and unpracticed. It would be some time before he was in full control of his abilities, and even then he could not match with
hora
relics what Arlen, who had made magic a part of him, could do. If he wanted to kill Jardir, he could.

And doom them all. Arlen might be able to make the crown work without Jardir, but there wasn’t much chance he could escape Anoch Sun alive without help, and he’d never make it to the mind court alone. The Core would call to him, its song more insistent the closer he drew.

Nie corrupts what she cannot destroy.
Words of faith, but there was wisdom in them all the same. Every child had heard the proverb in the Canon that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The Core offered absolute power, but Arlen dare not touch it. He would lose himself, absorbed and burnt away like a match thrown into a Solstice bonfire.

He breathed deeply to calm himself before he did something rash. Jardir kept his guard up, but his aura showed he had no desire to fight. They both knew what was at stake.

“I made a promise to you that night as I left you on the dunes, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “I threw you a waterskin and promised I would find you in the afterlife, and if I had not kept true and made the Ala a better place, we would have a reckoning.”

“Well it’s come early,” Arlen said. “Hope you’re ready for it.”

Jardir looked at the sky as they exited the tower, trying to deduce where they were from the position of the stars. South and west of Everam’s Bounty, but that told him little. Millions of untamed acres lay between the great city and the desert flats. He might manage to find his way back on his own, but Everam only knew how long it would take.

He didn’t need to ask the Par’chin his purpose in leading them from the tower. It was written clearly on his aura, mirrored in Jardir’s own. The hope that fighting side by side against the
alagai,
as they had done so many times before, could begin to eat away at the anger and mistrust that lay between them still.

Unity is worth any price,
the Evejah said. Kaji had called it the key to Sharak Ka. If he and the Par’chin could find unity of purpose, then they stood a chance.

If not … 

Jardir breathed deep of the night air. It was fitting.
All men are brothers in the night,
Kaji had said. If they could not find unity before the
alagai,
they were unlikely to find it elsewhere.

“They’ll catch our scent soon enough,” the Par’chin said, reading his thoughts. “First thing to do is recharge your crown.”

Jardir shook his head. “The first thing is for you to return my spear to me, Par’chin. I have agreed to your terms.”

The Par’chin shook his head. “Let’s start slow, Ahmann. Spear’s not going anywhere just yet.”

Jardir gave him a hard look, but there was nothing for it. He could see the Par’chin would not budge on the point, and it was useless to argue further. He raised his fist, knuckles scarred with wards Inevera had cut into his skin. “The crown will begin to recharge when my fist strikes an
alagai.
”

The Par’chin nodded. “No need to wait, though.”

Jardir looked at him. “You suggest I take more from you?”

The Par’chin gave him a withering look. “Caught me off guard the once, Ahmann. Try that trick again and you’ll regret it.”

“Then how?” Jardir asked. “Without an
alagai
to Draw from …”

The Par’chin cut him off with a wave of his hand, gesturing at their surroundings. “Magic’s all around us, Ahmann.”

It was true. In crownsight, Jardir could see as clearly at night as in day, the world awash in magic’s glow. It pooled at their feet like a luminescent fog, stirred by their passage, but there was little power in it, any more than smoke had the power of flame.

“I don’t understand,” Jardir said.

“Breathe,” the Par’chin said. “Close your eyes.”

Jardir glanced at him, but complied, his breathing rhythmic and even. He fell into the warrior’s trance he had learned in Sharik Hora, soul at peace, but ready to act in an instant.

“Reach out with the crown,” the Par’chin said. “Feel the magic around you, whispering like a soft breeze.”

Jardir did as he asked, and could indeed sense the magic, expanding and contracting in response to his breath. It flowed over the Ala, but was drawn to life.

“Gently Draw it,” the Par’chin said, “like you’re breathing it in.” Jardir inhaled, and felt the power flow into him. It was not the fire of striking an
alagai,
more like sunlight on his skin.

“Keep going,” the Par’chin said. “Easy. Don’t stop with your exhales. Just keep a steady pull.”

Jardir nodded, feeling the flow continue. He opened his eyes, seeing magic drifting to him from all directions in a steady current, like a river heading to a fall. It was a slow process, but eventually the chasm began to fill. He felt stronger.

Then his elation cost him his center, and the flow stopped.

He looked to the Par’chin. “Amazing.”

The Par’chin smiled. “Just gettin’ started, Ahmann. We’ve got a lot more to cover before we’re ready to face a court of mind demons.”

“You do not trust me with the Spear of the Kaji, but you give me the secrets of your magic?”

“Sharak Ka comes before all else,” Arlen said. “You taught me war. Only fair I teach you magic. The rudiments, anyway. Spear’s a crutch you’ve leaned on too long.” He winked. “Just don’t think I’m teaching you all my tricks.”

They spent several more minutes thus, the Par’chin gently coaching him in how to Draw the power.

“Now hold the power tight,” the Par’chin said, producing a small folding knife from his pocket. He opened it and flipped the blade into his grip, passing the handle to Jardir.

Jardir took the small blade curiously. It wasn’t even warded. “What am I to do with this?”

“Cut yourself,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir looked at him curiously, then shrugged and complied. The blade was sharp, and parted his flesh easily. He could see blood in the cut, but the magic he’d absorbed was already at work. The skin knit together before it could begin to well.

The Par’chin shook his head. “Again. But keep a tighter grip on the power. So tight the wound stays open.”

Jardir grunted, slicing his flesh again. The wound began to close as before, but Jardir Drew the magic from his flesh into the crown, and the healing stopped.

“Healing’s great when your bones are in the right place and you’ve got power to spare,” the Par’chin said, “but if you’re not careful, you can heal twisted, or waste power you need. Now let out just a touch, sending it straight where it’s needed.”

Jardir let out a measured trickle of magic, and watched the cut seal away as if it had never been.

“Good,” the Par’chin said, “but you might’ve done with less. Two cuts, now. Heal one, but not the other.”

Holding tight to the power, Jardir cut one forearm, and then the other. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, releasing a fraction as much magic as before and willing it to his left arm alone. He could feel the tingle run along the limb, and opened his eyes to see the cut slowly sealing, the other still oozing blood.