Blood Storm: The Books of Blood and Iron (23 page)

“Where is the power now?” Talfi asked.

Grandfather Wyrm raised his head as if testing the breeze, though they were underwater. “Interesting. It was bound up for centuries, but now the power has been restored to the world. It wanders about like a lost child. All it needs is focus, yes.”

“Can . . . can we learn to focus it?” Talfi said hopefully.

“Not yet,” Grandfather Wyrm said. “If you have the talent for shape magic, yes, then power needs an opening, a portal to reach inside you. To open that portal, we will need the same tools that closed it in the first place, yes.”

“Tools?” Aisa said. “What tools?”

“I am hungry,” said Grandfather Wyrm, raising his head again. “Perhaps I should eat before I tell you more, yes.”

Danr and Aisa both backed up a step, fear written on their faces. The same fear bolted through Talfi, but he uncorked the ink bottle with shaking hands. More ink floated out of it, and Grandfather Wyrm inhaled appreciatively. He brought his head down slowly, with slitted eyes.

“Yes,” he sighed. “Yes.”

Talfi swallowed at the close call. “The tools,” he prompted faintly. “The focus.”

“You’ll need the knife that first spilled your blood, yes.” Grandfather Wyrm looked contemplative, even mellow. “It is still there, as is the altar, in the center of the city. Now that it has tasted power, only the one who died beneath its blade can touch it safely, yes, so it is fortunate you came, Talfi. Bring me the knife, and I will show you how to restore the power of the shape,
yes.”

T
alfi followed Danr and Aisa down the ruined city street. It was tiring, pushing against the water every step of the way and watching for the monsters created by the loose magic of the Sundering.

“Grandfather Wyrm knew me,” he said quietly. “From before. Do you think he knows more?”

Danr drew him into an alcove, and Aisa piled in as well while a crablike creature with four claws skittered across the ruins past their hiding place. They emerged once it was gone.

“More?” Danr asked.

“About who I was,” Talfi clarified. “Who my family was. Where I came from.”

“I don’t know,” Danr said. “We can ask him when we get back.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Talfi said.

“The amnesia boy wishes not to remember,” Aisa said. “What an odd choice.”

Talfi didn’t answer. They picked their way farther along. Aisa was right—it
was
an odd choice. Why shouldn’t he
want to remember? He was a thousand years old, but he didn’t
feel
that old. He only remembered the last couple of years with any clarity, and had only snatches here and there before that, mostly memories of Ranadar. Maybe he was avoiding this because his family was long dead. If they had somehow survived the Sundering, they would have died of old age anyway. What good would it do to remember the pain of losing them? Better to let old memories remain buried.

But as they moved closer to the city center, faint memories now stirred. A building looked familiar. An open marketplace made him think of a hundred booted feet marching in rhythm with pennants snapping in the wind. For a moment a tall man with brown hair and blue eyes like his own stood next to him with a hand on his shoulder. Then he was back under the expansive ocean with Danr and Aisa.

“All you all right?” Danr asked.

“I’m remembering,” he replied. “I don’t like it. But we have to keep going—we need the power of the shape to get Ranadar out of that tank.”

“Ironic, is it not?” Aisa said. “We are breathing at the bottom of the sea to save Ranadar from drowning in a tank.”

“If that was a joke, it wasn’t funny,” Talfi retorted. “If it wasn’t a joke, it was a shitty thing to say.”

“Hey, now—careful how you talk to Aisa,” Danr said. “It’s not her fault we’re here.”

“Isn’t it?” Talfi exploded. “If she hadn’t wanted to see mermaids so much, we would never have come to Balsia, and if we hadn’t come to Balsia, Ranadar wouldn’t be chained in that tank.”

“If you had not fallen in love with one of the Fae, you would not be worried,” Aisa shot back.

“So you’re saying that it’s the fault of a
rasregi
?” Talfi snarled.

“Maybe it is,” Danr growled. “And I can see the truth, so I know.”

“See this, then.” Talfi grabbed his own crotch.

“That will do!” Aisa stepped between them. “We have all been hurt by other people and do not need to hurt ourselves.”

Talfi turned his head and ground some teeth. Dead, slimy buildings crumbled off into the distance, and the bubbly sea rose high overhead like a dome prison. “I’m just . . . I’m pissed off. On edge.”

Danr put a hand on his shoulder, and right then the last thing Talfi wanted was kind words. Fortunately, Danr only said, “Let’s keep going, then.”

They swam-walked closer to the town center, and the city became familiar. More memories dripped into Talfi’s mind like hot wax. He was a little boy with pride in his chest, watching his father teach soldiers to fight with swords in that courtyard. He was eight years old and arguing with his older sisters on those steps. He was ten years old and exploding with happiness while he received his position as a squire from the king in that square. He was thirteen and stealing an exciting kiss from a boy named Gavren in those stables, and the boy had red hair. The city flipped between fantastic and fractured.

“Move!” Danr’s voice popped the memories like soap bubbles. He herded them both into an alcove in time to avoid a cross between a lizard and a manta ray that glided malevolently overhead. Once the creature had passed, they continued, and more memories wormed their way into his mind—learning to use a sword himself, falling off a roof
and breaking his arm, receiving the news that General Bathilda herself wanted to see him.

His chest tightened and his hands trembled, but he kept going. They could see the center of the city now. It was named Malennsa, he remembered that now. A dozen streets led into a great round space more than a hundred paces across, now filled with rubble. Not one building survived in this spot. But against all expectation, in the exact center of the space, a high platform with stairs on all four sides rose three stories above the floor. It was clear of rubble, but the remains of thick, pillars stood all around the top. Talfi remembered the place. It was a temple to the Nine, or what was left of it.

“Up there,” he said hoarsely.

“I don’t like it,” Danr said. “No cover.”

“You watch while we climb,” Aisa said.

Cautiously, they clambered over the rubble. It was easier than Talfi thought—the light water let them scramble or bound over large pieces—and they reached the stairs, which were of cracked gray marble. Talfi was playing sword games with his best friend, Jak, he was flushed with anger when another squire called him
regi
, he was following General Bathilda up the steps to the temple. The general had a gold star painted on her armor, and she had told him his father had recommended him for an important mission. Mystified pride suffused him. What kind of mission started in the temple?

“Talfi, you look pale,” Aisa broke in. “Are you well?”

“This was the spot where I died the first time.” His heart beat a frantic rhythm and he wanted to pant, but the airy water wouldn’t let him. “Grandfather Wyrm’s wife brought me here.”

“Should we turn back?” Danr asked.

Talfi almost said yes, but then he thought of Ranadar huddling cold and wet in the tank while the water inched toward his chest, his throat, his mouth. They had to hurry. For Ranadar.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They were halfway up the steps now. Talfi was leaping away from the redheaded stable boy Gavren in terror, realizing they had been seen. He was brushing Sir Devrit’s horse, and when the nasty beast nipped his shoulder, Sir Devrit cuffed him on the ear for upsetting the horse. He was standing bewildered among the temple pillars in a strange circle of dwarfs, trolls, giants, humans, and orcs. General Bathilda was there, too.

They were close to the top now. The altar rose above Talfi, and the water rose above the altar. He could barely walk under the weight of the memories. Two strong men grabbed him from behind and clapped fetters to his wrists. He fought, but their arms were iron. A slow chant rose from some of the robed priests.

“What is this?” Talfi gasped. “You had a special mission for me.”

“I do,” said General Bathilda. The star on her armor seemed to glow. “You’ve been selected special, Squire Talfi. Your mission is to die so the rest of us can live.”

The men dragged him to the altar and yanked his wrists over his head. “Papa!” Talfi shouted. “Papa! Stop them!”

The general leaned over him and clasped a medallion around his neck. The trollwives shuffled toward the altar. They were massive as trees, their arms thick as branches. Their swarthy skin gleamed like obsidian, and their jaws jutted forward, revealing yellow teeth. But their clothes—robes and well-cut dresses—were rich with embroidered velvet and heavy with silk. They chanted together in harsh
voices like grating stones. One of them raised a long, jagged dagger. Desperate, Talfi looked into the crowd. Part of it was obscured, blurry. He couldn’t see who was there. He didn’t
want
to see who was there. It was pain, it was fear, it was betrayal.

Danr, Aisa, and Talfi were at the top now. The altar stood before them, and gleaming on the stone floor next to it, inexplicably untouched by time, the Sundering, or luminescent slime, lay a long, jagged dagger. Talfi was shaking now. Danr propped him up, and Talfi clung to him, terrified to take another step. The knife blade curved like a snake.

“Talfi,” Aisa said, “you are not well. We should back away and try again when you’ve rested.”

“We can’t,” Talfi said faintly. “Grandfather Wyrm said I’m the only one who can pick up the knife.”

“Bull’s balls.” Danr left Talfi and strode to the knife. He bent down to snatch it up.

“Danr, no!” Talfi cried, but too late. Danr touched the knife. A great crack of thunder slammed Talfi’s ears. A bolt of red lightning from the knife blasted Danr so hard he flew backward and slammed into one of the ruined pillars. The lightning held him against the stone like a red spear for a terrible moment, then vanished. Danr slid groaning several feet to the floor.

“Hamzu!” Aisa cried, and rushed to him as best she could through the water. He groaned faintly.

Talfi looked down at the cruel knife. Every nerve screamed at him not to touch it, to walk away and leave it, let the past die. But if he did, his future with Ranadar would perish. Slowly, in a watery dream, Talfi reached down and clasped the knife.

He was chained to the altar. The trollwife raised the jagged dagger over his chest. Desperate, Talfi looked into
the crowd. Papa was there. Papa, with his own sword at his side. Papa, who knew the king!

“Help me!” he cried.

Papa put his hand on his sword, and for a split second everything was all right. He was going to step forward and parry the trollwife’s knife with his sword. Then Papa’s face hardened.

Regi,
Papa mouthed, and turned his back.

Talfi was back in the stable, leaping away from Gavren. Papa was in the doorway. His face was a stone. He left without a word. The next day, Gavren was gone, no one seemed to know where or why.

Regi,
Papa mouthed, and turned his back.

The general had a gold star painted on her armor, and she had told him his father had recommended him for an important mission. Mystified pride suffused him. What could she want him to do in the temple? “You’ve been selected special, Squire Talfi.”

Regi,
Papa mouthed, and turned his back.

The trollwife pressed the dagger into Talfi’s chest. The point pierced his skin, then meat. Pain like nothing he’d ever known sliced through him, tore him in two, and he screamed. The knife met his heart. He felt it beat against the metal, and he begged the trollwife with his eyes to go no further. She thrust her lower jaw forward and leaned slowly on the blade. It burst into his heart with an agony that flooded every cell of his body.

Regi,
Papa mouthed, and turned his back, and Talfi couldn’t tell which pain was worse.

He was kneeling beside the altar under the airy water, breathing the strange liquid and gripping the dreadful knife hilt in his right hand. Tears formed in his eyes and drifted away.

“Now I know why I didn’t want to remember,” he whispered.

And then Aisa and Danr were there, with their arms around him. They shut out the dim light and blocked out the world, let him draw strength from them. He was glad for their presence.

“We are here, Talfi,” Aisa said. “You need not worry.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

“How much do you remember?” Danr rumbled.

“All of it,” he said, wiping stupidly at his eyes. “It was . . . I’ll tell you later. For now, we have the knife—and something else I think we can use. We should go.”

Talfi stuck the knife in his belt and they headed for the steps. Then Talfi caught both his friends by the arm. “I didn’t mean any of those shitty things I said before. I’m glad you both are here.”

Aisa nodded wordlessly, and Danr’s meaty hand squeezed his shoulder. Nothing more needed to be said.

Grandfather Wyrm was dozing in the spot where they’d left him. Danr threw a small boulder at his nose in a blow that would have killed a full-grown ox, but only served to rouse the great wyrm.

“Do you have the knife?” he asked.

Talfi held it up.

“Very nice. Still, I have not eaten, and I am beginning to think a meal is a better idea than giving you the secret of the shape, yes.”

Gulping, Talfi sheathed the knife again and pulled the ink bottle from his pack. It would be dreadful to have gone through all that only to be devoured. He uncorked the bottle once more, and a few faint wisps of ink drifted from it. Grandfather Wyrm inhaled them anyway. The bottle was empty.

“Very well, yes,” Grandfather Wyrm murmured like a
sleepy mountain. “I may as well give you a little help. The power of the shape is passed on through the blood. You can inherit it from one or both parents, yes, or sometimes you can be granted the power, if you are strong enough. Let me look at you, young Talfi.”

Talfi stood perfectly still while Grandfather Wyrm’s massive head looked him up and down. Abruptly, a tongue the size of a team of horses flickered out and licked him. Slime covered him. Talfi staggered back, horrified. At least the water quickly washed it away, but he could feel it in his ears and up his nose.

“You have no talent for the shape, yes,” Grandfather Wyrm said. Then he turned and licked Danr, who shuddered. “You have a little talent, half-blood. You could change into one other shape if you are lucky, yes.”

“One?” Danr said in his husky voice.

Grandfather Wyrm ignored the question and licked Aisa, who didn’t respond at all. Talfi had to admire her fortitude. Grandfather Wyrm’s eyes widened. “You, my dear, taste quite . . . tremendous, yes. Your talent outstrips most Kin, if you could only use it.”

Now Aisa did stagger. “My talent?”

“I do not envy you,” Grandfather Wyrm continued. “You will have to learn to use it on your own, for I cannot teach you. Or rather, I do not wish to. I have grown lazy, yes.”

“How does the talent work?” Aisa asked.

“It is great fun, yes. You can change your shape, that’s the first thing to learn. If you become good at it, you can learn to change the shape of other people or of other animals or even plants. Perhaps you will learn to crush two or more together into new shapes.”

“The chimera,” Aisa breathed. “The unicorn.”