The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (16 page)

Raven smirked, but waved dismissively. “Illusion, as you saw. A minor contrivance. Nothing that would hold sway against the powers I saw your wizard to possess.”

“And what makes you think I have any?”

“He is your adversary. And a vanquished one at that, to hear you tell it. There must be something you can share with me, some knowledge I can put to use.”

So that was the purpose behind this meeting, Torin realized. The ruffian sought to gauge him as a potential ally, to use him against Soric in whatever manner might befit his own designs.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I take my chances, and leave you to the wizard’s mercies.”

“You killed my friends.”

“As you killed mine. Unless you wish to join them, I suggest we put that behind us and do what we can to aid each other.”

Torin considered his limited options. He would deny the pirate if he could, but as he’d already recognized, there was no going back. The best he could do was press onward and see where matters took him.

“All I want is to rescue Autumn and offer her a life of contentment,” Raven continued. “Some might say I’m reaping the seeds of my own villainy, but I won’t accept that. You can either benefit from what I mean to accomplish, or fall victim to it.”

Torin studied the man anew. His professed goals were easy enough to relate to. And despite a lingering skepticism, it was hard not to be won over by the other’s scathing honesty.

“I assure you I have every reason to hate this wizard,” he replied at last. “My mother, my father, and countless friends lie dead at his hands. Unfortunately, I know nothing that might aid you. The wizard fled my lands as a matter of circumstance. I wouldn’t begin to know how you might face him.”

Raven considered this with a dubious expression. “Can you at least tell me who he is? Why he’s so desperate to claim you?”

“He—” It was Torin’s turn to hesitate. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Marisha, the truth about the wizard’s identity. As far as he was aware, no one knew of their blood tie, and he preferred to keep it that way.

“As I said,” he began again, clearing his throat. “He blames me for usurping his throne, for I am Alson’s recognized king.”

The pirate skewered him with that beady gaze, as if detecting the omitted
falsehood. “That sword of yours. Has it no power that might be used against him?”

“It is the last Sword of Asahiel,” Torin confessed, seeing no reason to deny it. “Are you familiar with the legends?”

“None that I would believe. The wizard warned me to beware its strength, lest you single-handedly decimate my crew. I didn’t believe that, either, though I’m glad I made preparations to the contrary.”

He was speaking of the nets, Torin realized, designed especially for his capture. “The Sword may grant you some protection against the wizard’s magic,” he allowed. “My pendant as well, assuming your men handed it over to you.” He paused, seeking some sign of confirmation. The pirate captain didn’t blink. “But as I say, I’ve never confronted him directly, so I cannot promise how much use either may be. What I
can
promise, should you set me free, is to do what I can to secure Autumn’s release.”

Raven shook his dripping head. “I had not intended on storming his keep. From what I’ve seen, he might dash us against a reef before we come within a league of his isle, should he suspect such an attack.”

“Then what do you offer me, if not my freedom?”

“Your freedom comes later, when the wizard is dead. What I must know now, if nothing else, is whether or not I can count on your support when the time comes.”

In spite of the circumstances, Torin snickered, which in turn caused him to cough and choke against the suffocating ropes. “You offer precious little inducement,” he rasped, once he had recovered. “Do you mean to tell me nothing of your plan? Only that I am to trust blindly in the word of a brigand?”

“The lesser of two evils, am I not? Think of me as you will, but in this matter, we both want the same thing.”

Torin’s smile faded. “Then how about this? You say the wizard informed you of my destination. What he may or may not know is that I did not set forth for this foreign land in the dead of winter in search of salt air. I don’t care to explain to you my business, and doubt you’d care to hear it. Suffice to say, your future, and that of your precious maiden, may be short indeed if I do not succeed in what it is I’ve come to do.”

The ruffian regarded him evenly, unimpressed. “What would you have of me?”

“When this is over, if any of us are still alive, you will give me back my possessions and return me to my ship, that I may resume my journey as before.”

Raven hefted his dagger, eyeing its gleaming edge in the murky light. “Seems to me, you are not in any position to set the terms of our bargain.”

“I will have your oath, such as it is,” Torin demanded. “On Autumn’s life, if I am to aid you, you will find me a way back to my companions.”

“On Autumn’s life,” the pirate agreed finally, “if you are to aid me,
and
see to it that Autumn is returned to me unharmed, then I will deliver you to Yawacor myself—at any landing you desire.”

Torin considered the careful phrasing, turning the words over in his mind in search of any hidden meaning or loopholes.

“Fair enough?” Raven pressed.

Torin continued to ponder. “Fair enough.”

“Good,” the pirate said, sheathing his dagger with a sharp rasp. He turned then, snatched up his lantern, and headed for the hatch.

As he reached the base of the steps leading upward into the storm, he paused and looked back. “But understand,” he said, “king or no, if it means Autumn’s life—or my own—I will gladly slit your throat myself.”

Before Torin could respond, the hatch opened and closed, and he was abandoned yet again to leaking darkness, in which the rhythm of raindrops etched away at his aching skull.

T
HE OLD MAN SHUFFLED
as quickly as his ancient bones would carry him down the rough-hewn corridor. At this depth within the buried keep, only the floor was paved, and unevenly at that. Jagged walls curled up along either side, joined in a ceiling supported by arching ribs of iron at regular intervals. Beyond that, the weight of the mountain bore down on him like the stones of a cairn.

He carried no torch, nor did any burn along the walls. Rather, he made his way by tuning his vision to the spectrum of the shadow-earth. Veins of minerals glowed blue before his sapphire eyes, casting all the light he needed to navigate the rocky tunnel. His sandals scraped along the rugged flooring, a rasping echo in the otherwise oppressive silence.

But it was the burden he carried that oppressed him most—and paradoxically forced his pace. He had lived for nearly three centuries, a time during which he had witnessed wars and treaties, seen bloodlines come and go, observed the erosion of the land and the buckling of nations. Consequently, few events in the natural order of things gave him cause for alarm.

This did.

Perhaps because this particular chain was not entirely nature-formed. It had begun that way, its initial links forged by the curiosity of two children—Garett and Elwonyssa Culmaril, of the ruling family of Souaris—whose intrepid explorations had led into the dank lair of a demon avatar and given her new life. But he could have prevented it, he and those of his order. He could have persuaded the youngsters by any number of subtle means to turn down a different path, to carry their journeys elsewhere so that Spithaera—whose secret presence the Entients had long ago discovered—might continue slumbering undisturbed, of no threat to the races of man.

He had argued that very course all along. But his brethren, especially Maventhrowe, had sensed an opportunity, and convinced the others of it. That opportunity was twofold: to present a quarrelsome mankind with a common enemy that would compel them to unite, and to give one man of faith desperate cause to seek out the last known Sword of Asahiel—whereby their order might at long last shed light on a missing chapter in the history of this land.

The plan had worked only too well. Despite a plethora of unforeseen incidents, the young Torin had retrieved the Sword from its centuries-old rest
ing place and put an abrupt end to Spithaera’s conquest. However, as was always the danger when going beyond the study of man’s affairs to active involvement, they had unwittingly helped to unleash an even greater menace. Htomah had learned all about it when scrying upon Torin during the king’s meetings with the renegade Entient who called himself Darinor. Darinor was correct in his assumptions concerning the Entients’ fragmented knowledge of the history of these lands. It had been fascinating to hear how this blot of ignorance had come about—among those who for millennia had chronicled so much. At the same time, the truth had filled him with an unease that bordered on dread.

If only he could convince his brethren to share his sense of urgency. He should have gone to them right away when first he had scryed the creatures known as Illychar emerging from the well beneath the Sword. But he had not understood at that time the extent of their peril, and had feared to cry wolf. Instead, he had continued to keep watch as much as he could, night and day, waiting for the right moment in which to share his fears.

He had missed seeing Darinor’s fight with the Illychar within the ruins, and the renegade Entient’s narrow escape. But that only made sense now that he knew the truth about the man, having heard it while scrying upon Torin during the pair’s conversations. For while a fellow avatar was generally the easiest form of life on which to focus his third sight, they also had the ability to cloud themselves from view. Why Darinor would do such a thing had at first aroused in him a deep suspicion, but once he had heard the other’s account of willing exile, the curtains of isolation were easy enough to understand.

It was then, of course, that Htomah had hastened to meet with his brethren and tell all of what he had learned. Like Torin, he had no cause to disbelieve the tale Darinor shared. Nor could they afford to stand idly by if it were true. This catastrophe was their fault—in part, at least. They had to take action at once.

He might have received greater reaction had he addressed a wall of mountain stone. As usual, where he saw fire, the others barely smelled smoke. Maventhrowe, their leader, was the worst. Though the average life of an Entient spanned three or four centuries, Maventhrowe had lived already more than five. Too long, perhaps. For such years taught patience of an uncommon variety, filling one with an assuredness that while the earth and its inhabitants might crumble away, he would go on. When older than the founding of the first human city on these shores, one tended to lose sight of the potential significance of daily events.

Or maybe the others were right, the old man thought as he continued down the empty corridor. Maybe it was
he
who lacked perspective. Maybe he did just enjoy the seeds of excitement blown on the winds of calamity. It was entirely possible, he admitted privately, that he was making canyons of wallows.

The air in the tunnel thickened, growing warm and damp. Its wetness gleamed on the rough surface of the granite walls. Moments later, he reached what appeared to be a dead end, with the cave closing about a portal of solid stone.

Almost without stopping, he waved a hand before the marble slab. The barrier shimmered and disappeared, and he stepped through it as if it were smoke.

Across the threshold, a vast cavern was revealed, filled with ledges and outcroppings whose many tiers were connected by winding stairs chiseled from stone. Earth-warmed mineral pools dotted the many shelves and spilled over the ridgelines, forming a dazzling array of falls. Steam rose in curtains from each of the bubbling hot springs, filling the great underground chamber with a sultry mist.

“Ah, welcome, Htomah. You are late.”

Htomah scowled in the direction of the voice. Though it was nearly swallowed by the immensity of the cavern, he knew where to find it. Several of the pools were occupied, filled with the bodies of his brethren, who came here often to bathe and relax, to revitalize tender muscles and aching joints. Many of the Entients had their favorites among the springs, and Maventhrowe was no exception. He had long ago laid unofficial claim to the largest in the complex, a bean-shaped pond up two levels and only slightly right of center, directly beneath the shadow of a giant amethyst that jutted from the ceiling above. The pool was of a size to hold twenty men or more, but seldom did it host even half that.

On rare occasion, Maventhrowe held council here with his inner circle, those Entients who served as representatives of the order. Today was such a time. In addition to the unmistakable white mane of the head Entient, Htomah spotted the bald pates of Barwn and Sovenson, the hunched shoulders of Uthan and Alganov, the toothy grin of Quinlan, the necklace worn by Prather, the earrings of Oreshand, the tattoos of Merreseth, and the peppered beard and chiseled frown of Ranunculus.

Htomah stalked toward them, taking his time so as to catch his breath. Beads of sweat cut across the furrows of his brow and the lines of his cheeks, to catch in the coarse grass of his beard. His nose wrinkled in the sulfurous air.

“Where are the others?” he huffed, once he had reached the side of the pool.

“Wislome is trying to cage a rather nasty craggobite, and Jedua is working to plug a breach in the primary celestial chamber.” Maventhrowe beckoned with a dripping hand. “Please, join us.”

Htomah crossed his arms before him. “He has been captured.”

“Who?”

“Torin. By pirates, a week out from his destination.”

“Htomah, please—”

“They deliver him now to his brother the wizard.”

Maventhrowe’s next words were lost to the same silence that stilled the others. For a moment, all that could be heard was the bubbling of the waters and the rippling of others in their distant pools. Htomah gritted his teeth to hide his satisfaction. At last, he had their attention.

“And what would you have us do about that?”

“I fear it’s too late already,” Htomah complained. “I see not how Torin
can escape his brother’s vengeance, unless we conjure a storm to blow his ship off course—which would but leave him in the hands of brigands.”

“Now, now,” Maventhrowe droned with intractable calm. “I do not think we need do anything so dramatic.”

“We need not do anything at all,” said Uthan. “Come, Htomah, we have been over and over this.”

“And yet done nothing!” Htomah snapped, glaring at the other.

“Htomah, soak with us,” Maventhrowe urged. “Your emotions carry off with you.”

“How can all of you be so blind?”

“Maventhrowe,” Ranunculus grumbled, “must we listen to this?”

The head Entient raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, everyone, have patience. Let us hear what our senior brother has to say.”

Indeed,
Htomah thought. For other than Maventhrowe, he was eldest among those present. Even in some of the most barbarous societies, that meant he should be accorded some respect.

“I say again,” he began, glaring at Uthan, “the time for action is long past. Whether any here will admit it or not, we are the ones who prompted Torin to seek the Sword of Asahiel in the first place—”

“Not I,” Ranunculus snarled. “I was against this from the first.”

“As was I,” Htomah reminded him. “And Merreseth, as I recall. And the absent Jedua. But that does not erase the part we all played. The responsibility for Torin’s retrieval of the Sword and this ensuing madness must be ours to share.”

Oreshand’s earrings jingled as he shook his head. “Torin’s actions were and continue to be his own. I will accept no blame for them.”

“Nor I,” agreed Prather.

A murmur went up as each of the others echoed this sentiment. Only Quinlan remained silent, his smile slipping. And Maventhrowe, who, as always, sat back with an air of mild amusement, as if none of this were of any concern.

“Our influence was minimal,” Alganov claimed. “You cannot possibly hold us accountable.”

“For the decision you make now, which may lead to the end of mankind, I most certainly will.”

The murmurs grew louder. Many scoffed. Some were angry. All appealed to Maventhrowe to end this.

“My friend,” the head Entient cautioned, “we must not make a habit of affecting the lives of those we were born to study.”

“Not even to rectify that which we have already affected for the worse?”

“Our purpose is to observe and chronicle, not dictate.”

“They are only mortals,” Ranunculus muttered.

Htomah snorted. “Darinor was right. We are not Ha’Rasha. We may expect to outlive these mortals, but we share their world, and will in fact, each of us, come to our own end. I fear that if we ignore this blight any longer, our end, and that of our human flock, may be one and the same.”

“Then I ask again,” Maventhrowe offered calmly, “what role would you have us take?”

“That is what we must discuss.”

But Maventhrowe shook his head, the ends of his great mane floating in the waters around him. “The truth is, we have no knowledge with which to combat this threat. Though there may come a time when we must act, we must not do so in haste.”

“Haste? Haste would have been for me to take measures the moment I learned of what Torin had set free. Or upon the return of this renegade Entient. Long before Ravar’s awakening and certainly before Torin’s capture. Already, any action we take may be too late.

“And do not speak to me again of forbearance,” he added hastily, heading off Uthan’s next protest. “Had we done so in the beginning, as I and others insisted, none of this would have happened.”

Uthan smirked. “I was only going to remind everyone that Torin has surprised us with his resourcefulness in the past. I say we let him do so again.”

Several of the council members softly hailed their assent.

“You may be right,” Maventhrowe conceded, “in suggesting we were wrong in our prior endeavors. I will not be so foolish as to defend a decision born of foresight against an attack based on hindsight. I might argue, however, that we would have come to this crossroads sooner or later. Knowledge is preferable to ignorance, is it not? We have uncovered an unexpected danger, but at least now we realize it exists, and will not, therefore, be caught off guard. I encourage you to observe these matters closely, since they trouble you so, and to keep us abreast of the situation. Should cause and opportunity coincide, we shall decide then if action on our part is warranted.”

“That is not good enough,” Htomah growled.

Maventhrowe raised a bushy eyebrow. “No? Remember, according to the tale this Darinor tells, our forebears did not act when begged by the ancient Finlorians to do so. And yet, here we are. We survived, as did the Finlorians, who managed to contain the threat on their own.”

“Only with the help of Algorath,” Htomah pointed out.

“I submit,” Maventhrowe continued, “that we not so readily accuse our ancestors of blindness. Rather, we should respect them enough to trust that they acted in wisdom, and that we, therefore, should be slow to overrule their decision—which is what it would mean for us to behave now in a contrary fashion.”

Htomah held his tongue, considering carefully what his response should be. His brethren already thought him an overanxious fool. No reason to lend additional weight to those accusations.

“I would like to know more,” Maventhrowe assured him. “Especially with regard to this Darinor.”

Htomah grunted. “He continues to shield himself from scrying eyes. I can mark his comings and goings only in the presence of another.”

“Then so it shall be. Do your best, and it shall be more than we require.
Now please, join our council. Let us engage your mind with less-worrisome matters.”

“If it pleases you, my brothers, I think I shall return to see if the Sword of Asahiel has yet fallen into the clutches of the wizard Soric.” He bowed, then turned toward the chamber exit.