Clash (The Arinthian Line Book 4) (60 page)

The statue of the Lord of the Legion stared menacingly ahead, unmoving, stone silent.

Or he could have done it to extend his life. He was, after all, afraid of death. But then, he had been gone for quite some time studying necromancy, hadn’t he?

“You did all that for so long,” Augum went on in a wondrous whisper. “Nineteen years. What does that tell me about you?” He drummed the book with his fingers, imagining Nana sitting across from him, waiting for him to put it all together. “It tells me you had far-reaching plans for some time. It tells me you are persistent. It tells me you’re spiteful. It tells me …” He groaned. “It tells me I enjoy talking to myself—” He expelled a long breath while running fingers through his hair, muttering, “This is driving me crazy.”

Augum eventually returned to the text, finding another revealing passage.

Lividius pointed a finger in Terra’s face. “You need to be with child.”

“Why do you keep insisting? Our lives are … so dark. A child should not be born into such an existence.”

“You need to be with child. I do not expect you to understand.”

For a time, Terra searched her husband’s face. “Gods, I think I do understand. I think I finally do. You want the scion—”

Lividius thus lashed out. “Come here—”

Augum had to stop reading that part. He swallowed, but his throat was suddenly so dry it hurt. The passage had confirmed his worst fears. He had been born so that Lividius could use him to gain the scion through inheritance. That was the sole purpose of his coming into existence.

For a while, Augum could only sit, numb, hands shaking. It took courage to regain some semblance of self-control and return to the cursed book.

He skimmed quickly, trying to avoid more grisly details, until he came across another interesting portion—sometime after his birth, Lividius had cast an Object Track spell on one of Terra’s most prized possessions, a locket given to her by her mother. He had done this without her knowledge, when she was asleep.

Augum jerked his head up at the statue of his father. “That’s how you tracked her down, didn’t you, you fiend?” Even whispering, the sound carried greatly. The room was dead silent, so silent it was unnerving. “You found her using Object Track, interrogated her trying to find out where she hid me, and then killed her out of a jealous rage when she said she was finally leaving you.” When Mother finally had had enough.
Mother
… he was not used to that word.

Augum riffled pages forward again until he came across something unexpected—a letter. He carefully opened the yellowed and crinkled parchment. Some of the writing was blurred, as if splattered with water.

Even after everything that you did to me, I still love you, Liv, I do. I love you for the little things of the past. Memories that keep me company in the darkness. Picking me up and twirling me after we were married. Calling me “My sweet Tee”. Kissing my forehead after you had come home. Holding my hand briefly after I gave birth to our precious boy.

But your ever-growing ambition and callousness scares me. Did you have anything to do with Harisha‘s disappearance? She was my best friend. She was my only friend. Or that kind old woman neighbor who offered to help me relearn arcanery? What happened to her? How is it that I am even asking these … horrible things of my husband?

I know you have secrets, Liv, I do. I wish you’d let me in, share some of them with me. Yet I fear what they are. I fear them as much as I fear you.

I do not want to live forever. I want to grow old. I want to die a natural death. That which you demand of me is the work of darkness, and what terrifies me is that you know it. I never asked anything of you, but this I must ask you—do not make me take this path with you.

When my time comes, I wish to be mourned in the old way. I wish for a memorial ceremony attended by loved ones, with my body in the arcane sapphire flames that have enveloped my ancestors.

I do not want eternity. I want us to live a quiet life raising our son.

I want peace.

Your loving wife,

Terra

Augum reread the letter twice more before slowly putting it down, realizing it wasn’t water that had splashed the parchment. He brushed the words with his fingertips, feeling connected to the mother he had never known. Here she was in these words, perhaps in anguish and sorrow, but here she was nonetheless.

So his father had asked her to try something necromantic, something involving living longer. Perhaps an experiment of some sort. And she did not want to join him …

After staring at the letter for a while, he gently folded it and placed it back in the book, for that is where it belonged. A piece in a puzzle.

It took some willpower to read on, for he next sought out that which haunted him most—the night his father murdered his mother.

He needed to know.

Yet upon coming to the right section, he found the page torn from the book. He placed his hands over it. “Un vun deo,” but nothing happened. Not a shred remained, at least nearby.

He dropped his hands in frustration and threw a furious look at the statue. “You were ashamed of what you had done to her, weren’t you? It’s the one thing that’s ever bothered you about yourself, that you murdered the only person you cared about, the only person that cared about you.” Talking aloud seemed to help his thought process. “That’s why you left the letter in there. This is your way of making amends—by keeping an official record of it all. Except you don’t actually intend on people reading it, do you?”

One day, this story will come out. It had to, for the kingdom’s sake. He contemplated secreting the book away but realized there were likely countless arcane wards against that. It would probably set off an alarm, and that’s the last thing they needed right now. He even feared his father knowing the book was open in that moment.

“But why did you have this written?” Augum asked his father’s statue. “Why, if everything in the Herald is twisted lies, why did you write such an honest account?”

“Because your father believes everything he has done is a part of his glory,” said a hoarse voice nearby. “Yes he does indeed.”

Augum was so startled he fell off his chair. He had not heard a soul enter.

Nearby stood a familiar gray-robed old man with pointy ears.

“You!” Augum said, picking himself up, along with the chair. “So
you’re
the historian.”

The man the trio had met at the gargoyle statue gave a slight bow. “Rafael Herzog, lad, at your service, that I am.” The man blinked constantly behind his oily spectacles, hand perpetually shaking as it clung to his cane.

Augum smoothed his necrophyte robe. “I did not hear you enter.”

Herzog’s unruly-haired head bobbed. “I still have the knack then, that I do.”

“So you know who I am.”

“Aye, lad. But you be a darn fool for comin’ into the wolf den, yes you be, a darn fool.”

“I need information on my father, sir. Please, if you know something …”

Herzog shuffled over to the statue, glanced up at it. “I sat with this man for many days as his scribe, using the ancient crafts to complete the memories, that I did. I sat with him, listening to the errors of his ways, without judgment, minding my tongue, oh yes, minding my tongue.”

“Why?”

“The task needed completion in a thorough manner, indeed it did. And I ask you, lad, would it serve the kingdoms if the story had been told falsely? For I,
and only I
, was able to persuade this—” Herzog thrust his cane in the direction of the statue, “—monster that his story was important enough to tell truthfully. I told the fool what he wanted to hear, and so he dictated and I transcribed. A dangerous game I played, indeed I did, but he is not as smart as he thinks himself to be, no he is not.”

Augum spun the tome on the desk to face the man. “Where is this page then?” There was no time to mess about.

“He tore it out, did he? I suppose that should not surprise me, no it should not.” Herzog hobbled over and slumped into a nearby chair, wheezing a great sigh. He massaged his veined nose. “She don’t work right. Can hardly smell them books like I used to.”

Augum wouldn’t let the man get distracted. He stabbed the tome with a finger. “But you remember what this page said, don’t you?”

“’course I remember, you think me daft like some peasant scribe?”

“Then tell me—!” Augum caught himself. “Sorry, sir, this has been a difficult—”

“As it should be, lad! All you younglings think is everything be coming easy to you, but the world is complex, oh yes it is. Stories have facets, facets and angles and all kinds of intricacies, that they do.”

Augum sat down. “Look, Mr. Herzog—”

“Call me Rafael.”

“Uh, Rafael—I know my father regrets murdering my mother. And I know he tried to involve her in some sort of necromantic experiment before she ran away with me. I know that he—”

“Loved her, that he did.” The man stared at Augum with bloodshot eyes as he let that thought settle. “He loved her, in his own way, yes he did. Possessive kind of love and all that, poison kind, but something was there, that we can be sure of, yes.”

“I … I need to know what happened after he—”

“Murdered her?”

Augum swallowed. “Yes.”

“But you already know, yes you do.”

“No, I don’t, I—” Augum froze. He did know. He had subconsciously known it all along. He had
feared
it. He glanced at the torn page from the book, then at the statue of his father. He allowed the silence to amplify the blood rushing through his head until it was unbearable. He pried the words from his tongue.

“He tried to raise her. He tried to raise my mother.”

Herzog leaned forward in his chair. “Based on what you know about him, lad, do you think he succeeded?”

Augum stared with a blank look. “I … I …”

“Why did he want to become a necromancer in the first place?”

Augum recalled the story. “Power, attention, control over life and death—” There’s one other thing he’d been quietly ruminating. “And fear of death.” It was almost like Augum was talking to himself now. “But his rings aren’t black, so he isn’t a full-fledged necromancer yet, is he? And he wasn’t then.”

“What are his defining traits?”

Augum did not need long to think it over. “He’s manipulative, brutal, cold, selfish, and arrogant.”

“And his primary battle weakness?”

“Arrogance.”

“NO!” The outburst was sudden, startling Augum. “It is not. You must think clearly, lad, yes you must.”

Augum slowly ran a thumb across his forehead before looking up. “He loses concentration when he’s angry.”

Herzog watched him with rapidly blinking eyes. “And so …”

“And so …” Augum continued, choosing his words carefully, “as he was training himself in necromancy, he was experimenting, and that’s when he asked my mother to get involved. But because he was frustrated that his experiments were failing—”

“Vagueness! Vagueness does no one any good, no it does not. Leaders think clearly, decisively. Now I ask you again. Based on what you know, do you think he succeeded?”

Augum swallowed. “No. He failed raising her.”

“Which means?”

“It means he’s holding her body in the Black Castle, training himself until the right time when he’s powerful enough to raise her.”

“Deduction is a powerful mechanism of the mind.” Herzog stood with a groan. He glanced over at the statue of the Lord of the Legion. “All winners of wars took the fight to the enemy, yes they did. As they say, ‘Ye don’t win a battle sitting in ye castle’, lad, no you certainly do not.”

Augum slowly closed the book.

“Tell it to return,” Herzog said without looking over.

“Sorry?”

Herzog nodded at the book.

“Oh.” Augum envisioned it returning and said, “Return.” The book lifted off the desk and returned to its hovering position. Neat.

He stood, marveling at this strange and ancient place so full of history and arcanery. “I wish I could spend a tenday here.” He wished he could find those missing books about Mrs. Stone; or read about his ancestor, Atrius Arinthian; or learn about the Dreadnoughts; but it was getting very late and he needed to get some sleep before his duel.

He faced the curious old historian before him. “Thank you, sir, you’ve helped me put a few things together in my head.” The pieces to the puzzle were taking shape. A plan was slowly forming.

Herzog continued to stare at the statue of the Lord of the Legion. “Thank yourself, lad, for you have come here at great risk, searching for answers, yes you did. And that is the spirit of this ancient place. Omnio incipus equa liberatus corsisi mei.”

“All begin equal but only the curious thrive,” Augum whispered. “Sir, will you join the Resistance?”

Herzog’s turned to give Augum a smile. “A good general will strike at the right moment, when his opponent is weakest, yes he will indeed. Timing is everything. ‘When thy fallen can’t be slain, when lion children rise again, when fires burn from east to west, blood of kin can vanquish death’.”

“Does that mean you
will
join us?”

The man smiled mysteriously. “I do believe your friends are waiting for you, yes they are.”

They made their way through the silent room. Herzog spoke quietly as they passed the many historical statues.

“When your ancestor Atrius Arinthian defeated Occulus, besides being allowed to keep the scion as a gift, the Leyans also gave him one other, yes they did. Can you guess what that gift was?”

“Are you talking about Burden’s Edge?”

“Ah, I am afraid I am not, lad. Burden’s Edge was a thank you gift from the Dreadnoughts for allowing them to sleep instead of serving as slaves. No, this gift was in his blood, given by the Leyans, and he would pass it on to
some
of his children. It is a gift that would sometimes skip entire generations before re-appearing in his distant progeny, a gift known to appear only in a rare few.” His bushy brow rose at Augum. “I wonder if you have it.”

“What is the gift, sir?”

The historian’s face registered disappointment. “Ah, I dare say you would know if you had it, yes you would indeed. A shame, yes, for it would have helped.”