Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (28 page)

The dragon took a step back. “Dost thou continue to prattle of this Gate?” he asked, weariness in his voice.

Silbane looked back at the tower and his apprentice, then said simply, “I am to use Arek to seal the Gate.” The words, uttered out loud, stunned him. Never before had he admitted, even to himself, that this was truly his task. Instead he had hidden it beneath worry, planning, and denial, pushing the weight of the decision onto the lore father. Somehow before the great dragon, the simple truth of what he had agreed to do made him feel sick to his stomach.

Rai’stahn followed his gaze to his apprentice. Surprisingly, the dragon looked resigned, and said, “If he touches the Gate, it will open. His power shall disrupt the wards placed there so long ago. Just as I did back then, thou dost not ken the danger.”

“Arek disrupts magic. The lore father believes if he touches the Gate, it will close,” Silbane countered. “If he is indeed this blackness as you say, the Way disappears into it. That would imply the Gate, too, would unravel.”

“I know of thy mission. Themun did not believe this, else thou wouldst not be here, in this desolation.” Rai’stahn faced the mage and said, “I tell thee again, if this abomination lives, all sustained by the Way dies.”

The words hit Silbane like a hammer. He could not believe what Rai’stahn had just said. If he spoke the truth, the lore father sent them here to kill Arek, not to find a Gate. That would imply a betrayal far beyond any simple worries or paranoia Silbane might have entertained. He shook his head and asked, “Why show me Valarius, then?”

Rai’stahn’s golden gaze continued to stare at the tower and Arek. “Was the revelation of Valarius's true name not enough? If not, then mistakes made by another have meaning. Wilt thou relive his path, knowing something of Valarius still survives in thy hatchling? He reaches back from death and exacts retribution on this world, on me, even now.”

“Arek is just a boy!”

“A boy in this life,” the dragon accused, “the hand of vengeance from another.” He looked up, his eyes drinking in the dusk sky. “How often is one given the exact truth? Never wilt thou be given every fact, and thou hath been given more than most.
Think.”
He paused, then added, “I will give thee one more. Let it sway thee to the side of reason. Thine apprentice does not disrupt magic, he
consumes
it. Thou witnessed this.”

Silbane did not know what to say. He took a step back, the dragon’s next words sinking slowly into him, making him question all he knew about Arek.

“He is born of something selfish, something
unclean.
I sought the lore father out, summoned by the passing of the other hatchling on my Isle. His death was unforeseen, but he was swallowed by the same blackness.”

Silbane thought, Piter.

“Providence delivered thine apprentice to me, a sure sign I should now bear this burden, justice for what I wrought on the slopes of Sovereign’s Fall so many cycles ago.”

Silbane shook his head. “The lore father knew?” He could not believe it. “He sent Arek here to be killed?”

The dragon-knight held up an armored hand and said, “Whilst we journeyed here, I felt myself weaken. Ask thyself, how much power hath he taken from me already? Too much perhaps, for us to accomplish what we must? The time for discussion is past. He is dangerous. Heed me and thou wilt save this world.” His finger stabbed the ground with finality. “Help me end Valarius’s final dream of madness, and set right what my hand put in motion.”

Silbane could only stare at the dragon’s golden eyes. The lore father knew this? The mission to the Gate, was that a ruse? He could not believe that. Thoughts raced through his head.

The vision didn’t show what Valarius did with his Sight, but history knew the Demon Wars were won and Lilyth’s Gate closed. The King’s Law was enacted and death fell upon those with Talent. It was known Valarius fell, and that was over two hundred years ago, yet Arek had been found comparatively recently. How could he be part of Valarius if they were separated by centuries? Silbane could not agree with the dragon, at least not without thinking it through, and something told him facts were still missing.

Below his uncertainty also ran an undertow of Silbane’s own guilt, threatening to drown him into inaction. Had he not agreed with Themun to a mission calling for the sacrifice of his apprentice? They had bargained Arek’s life for the fate of the land. Rai’stahn argued for the same to save the world. If Arek’s sacrifice achieved either or both, how were the two different? How was his Council any better than the Conclave of dragons and their actions?

Still, one thing kept coming back to his mind. It had been an immutable fact since the lore father had forced him to hold a figurative dagger to his apprentice’s throat. He had never intended on sacrificing Arek, agreeing only to avoid giving his apprentice over to Kisan, or worse.
I can keep Arek alive,
he said to himself,
only I can do this.

Although Silbane felt each of the dragon’s words strike deep within him, it had not yet overcome his reasoning. The turmoil in his soul did not yet reflect in his eyes. He had dealt with dragons too long to make that mistake. Silbane stood his ground and stared at the dragon-knight until one word escaped his lips, said with the obdurate strength of the man behind it, “No.”

Rai’stahn took a step forward and laid an armored hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Dost thee think I suffer this burden so easily? It falls upon thee to weigh the good of thy world against the life of this one child, yet
thou doth hesitate.
What sacrifice dost thou deem acceptable measured against this?”

“You condemn a boy on a vision showing nothing but the madness of a dead man, a man I already know was the land’s enemy.” Silbane’s head dropped and a small sigh escaped his lips as the burden of his decision began to sink into his heart. “How are we better than what we fight, if the price is the blood of our children?”

Silence reigned while Silbane looked over the majesty of the Wastes. Had he just condemned them both to death? He did not know, but hoped against all hope his words still held some sway. What came next surprised him.

“Stand steady,” The dragon-knight said. “Even now, thine apprentice dreams of power, of dealing death. He is not as innocent as thou wouldst believe...” Rai’stahn’s voice trailed off. At first he seemed rooted in place like a statue, but then he wheeled and started walking away from the tower, toward the deep desert.

Silbane looked up, confused for a moment. “You’re leaving?” He could not believe the dragon would give up so easily.

The dragon-knight stopped, his gaze sweeping the dunes, still lit golden by the setting sun. With a deep breath he turned and said, “I am drained and cannot recover whilst in that
thing’s
presence. Worry for this world, for I fear even I cannot kill him without thy help. I give thee till the full moon rises. Upon my return, I will ask thee one last time.”

Rai’stahn prepared to leave, but then turned back to the mage and said, “Thou questioned my actions with Valarius.”

“What did you do?” The question came out in the barest whisper and something told him he would not like the answer.

The great dragon locked eyes with the master and said, “I waited for Valarius to stand victorious, then struck him a mighty blow, killing him where he stood. Alone, I felled the land’s greatest hero, then condemned his memory with fault for the land’s undoing.”

The dragon paused, his golden gaze catching the last of the setting sun in a flash of yellow and menace. “What dost thou think I will do to thine apprentice if the land’s benefit hangs again in the balance? Or, for that matter, to thee?”

Without waiting for a response, Rai’stahn leapt into the air and changed back into a dragon. His huge wings beat once, twice, as he gathered speed, arrowing off to the east.

Silbane stood stunned, his mind refusing to believe what had just happened. Rai’stahn’s revelation put real meaning to the deadline he gave, for when he returned at the full moon’s rise, there was no doubt in Silbane’s mind it would be to kill them both.

B
LADE
D
REAMS

Mark the sun and the wind.

Feel the earth with your bare feet.

Be one with your surroundings.

Familiarity with the killing ground

Is as important as training with your weapon,

Or that ground will become your grave.

—Tir Combat Academy, Basic Forms & Stances

W
hile Silbane and Rai’stahn walked off in discussion, Arek busied himself with setting up their camp. He walked over to where their equipment lay in a heap on the sand. They had not brought that much, just a few sleeping mats and some food supplies. He knew they had not planned to be here long. If worse came to worst, he thought, they could probably forage for whatever they needed from the nomads, or the beleaguered fortress’s supplies.

A part of him felt guilty at the thought of stealing from a group of people besieged, but he justified it by reasoning whatever he and his master consumed would in no way affect the fate of the beleaguered stronghold. If Bara’cor were meant to fall, nothing he or Silbane ate would change that.

He proceeded to move their equipment to a small alcove of rock, made by a partial wall which lay half crumbled at the base of the tower. This would provide them with shelter from the wind at night. At least from two directions, Arek thought, which solicited a wry smile as he took in the wall’s dilapidated and pitiful state. He then worked his way up to the tower proper, leaning against the dead Far’anthi Stone.

The great expanse of the Wastes, empty and desolate, pulled his gaze. An ocean of sand stretched out as far as his eyes could see, like soft swells frozen by time. The setting sun gave the sky a ruddy orange cast, accentuating the yellow glow of the stark terrain. So different from the blue water and green hills of the Isle. Perhaps that was what made this place so beautiful to him.

Arek wondered if a desert nomad had ever stood here, in this exact spot, watching his own sunset before moving on to Bara’cor. Did he watch as the golden orb cast its warm light across the sands, wondering if this would be his last setting sun before the next day’s battle? Looking out at the great expanse before him, he knew the kind of person it would take to survive out here. It was someone very different from the people he knew.

Arek quit his daydreaming with a start, looking back at the pile of gear he had left near the wall. His master would expect the camp to be laid out before he returned. He picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers as he walked back down the hill. It trailed behind him, caught on the slight hot breeze, and fanned out like a horse’s tail.

His mind returned to that imagined nomad, and it struck him at how much sheer ingenuity and willpower it would take to survive in this environment. It was hard to believe anyone could do it for long, but he knew better. The Altan nomads were a hardy people, accustomed to the harsh life the desert demanded. This made them extremely pragmatic and deadly adversaries. Arek did not envy those trapped behind Bara’cor’s walls. Perhaps the nomad he dreamed of earlier only thought of the next day’s victory and his share of the spoils. That would not be so hard to believe.

He set to work stowing their gear and arranging a place for them to sleep. Once finished, he collected broken parts of the wall and arranged them into a circle, putting a rock the size of his head in the center. When Silbane returned, he could open a path to the
Way
and heat the rock, providing them warmth tonight as the desert cooled.

A part of him felt shame that he had to wait for his master. Either Tomas or Jesyn could have heated the rock without a thought. But he buried that thought in a place where he put all his frustrations, a silent place deep inside.

His task completed, he sat with his back to the short wall, reaching for Tempest in the pack next to him. The sword almost leapt from its sheath and he marveled again at her beauty. This was truly a wondrous gift and it spoke to the respect the council had for him. He should not have let his self-absorption get the better of him in front of the lore father, his master, or acted so ungratefully in front of Adept Giridian. He resolved to apologize to the latter, once he saw him again.

His eyes were drawn to the blade again. It was a keen and double-edged, with polished metal flowing like water down its silvery length. According to Adept Giridian, Tempest was forged during the Demon Wars. He had little doubt it represented a level of magic never to be seen again in his lifetime.

Arek leaned his back against the wall, making himself comfortable. The worn leather wrap of Tempest’s hilt warm in his tight gloved grasp. The blade, extremely well balanced, felt light and quick, as Arek could tell after executing just a few halfhearted swings from his seat. Though he had faced both students and adepts across blades, never had his life hung in the balance, despite the vigor in which the instruction was delivered. Still, he knew he could wield this sword with deadly effect.

A part of him, however, was disappointed when nothing happened as he drew the fine blade. He laughed a little to himself then, the thought of some proclamation declaring he was Tempest’s special wielder a bit too childlike a fantasy, even for him. Well, perhaps it would only happen in
real
combat, or at least that was a secret hope he could hold onto.

Then a thought crept in, a desire he knew existed from the moment his eyes fell on the blade. What if I touch it with my bare hand? Despite his master’s warning and Adept Giridian’s cautionary admonishments against such an act, he knew there was no way he wasn’t going to try. What if his touch was special? Cautiously, and with furtive glances to see if his master had returned, Arek shook off a glove and brought his hand within inches of the sword’s grip.

He held his breath, debating if this was worth possibly disenchanting the weapon, but doubting his power could permanently harm an artifact like Tempest. Also, the slight possibility this weapon might be part of a special, greater destiny inexorably pulled at him.
Something
pulled at him, a desire he could not ignore.