The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (6 page)

“There was of course some opposition,” Darinor proceeded, heading off Torin’s next question. “One among them, who had spent years studying the Sword with Algorath, decided to give chase, and was permitted to do so. It was agreed that if he retrieved the talisman, he would be allowed to return and take the place of Algorath in their records. If not, then he would be exiled and erased along with his former mentor. The rest would continue to devote their time and energies to matters of their own race and their own lands.”

Something wasn’t right, and Torin knew it. When he shook his head, Darinor went on with the frustrated sigh of someone instructing a dullard. “The order was in its infancy at that time, its focus narrowed, its attention drawn by man’s own wars. They had neither the inclination nor the resources to expend recording the trials and history of faraway lands. It was therefore left to the hunter to capture these events, if any record was to be made.”

“And how did Algorath learn of this?” Torin asked, brushing this last bit aside as he realized why the explanation didn’t work. “Or did he just take for granted their response?”

Darinor leaned forward, a haunting black shadow. “He learned it from the hunter’s own lips, before making sure that the other failed in his endeavor.”

Torin swallowed thickly.

“The Entients were left to assume that both had perished in this Finlorian war of which they kept no record. Most likely, it was not until their descendants began colonizing these lands, more than two thousand years later, that they began digging into its past—too late to have any recollection of what had actually occurred. For by that time, the only surviving history was that which had been altered by the Vandari. Clearly, their support of your quest indicates an effort to uncover at least part of this missing truth—as blind as any to the consequences.”

Though sitting forward, Torin felt as if he were sinking into his chair. His mind was a maelstrom, thoughts and emotions swirling ever faster in a sucking spiral that threatened to pull him under. Questions gathered at its edge like mosquito swarms on the shore of a lake.

“If everyone forgot, then how do
you
know all of this?”

Darinor relaxed, if only slightly, from the aggressiveness of his stance. “Have you not already guessed? After the war, the remnants of Sabaoth’s shattered Sword were buried by the Vandari in a sacred shrine. Except for one small piece, a heartstone from the ruined hilt, seated in a clasp and fastened to a silver chain. It was presented to Algorath as a token of appreciation. But more than that, it was a tool with which to monitor the integrity of the Illysp seal. An enchantment woven upon its links connected Pendant and seal, so that if the magic of the seal were to fail, that failure would resonate with the bearer of the Pendant.”

Darinor’s expression softened predictably as once again he turned his focus to Marisha.

“Like the Finlorians, so too did Algorath abandon the shores of Tritos, departing for a secluded island far to the southeast. As the seventh great-grandson of the renegade Entient, I came eventually to serve as guardian of the Pendant and gatekeeper of the Illysp seal. I refused the charge at first, rebelling against my father and all that he expected of me. I left his island to journey far and wide, eventually settling upon these shores, where I met your mother.” He paused with open mouth, looking as if he were about to say more, before shaking his head.

“When later I accepted my calling, your mother refused to accompany me or permit me to stay. As a pure mortal, she felt it best to say our farewells then and there, before suffering the indignity of growing old long before I.”

Indeed, that would explain the man’s unchanged appearance, Torin thought. A life measured in centuries, rather than decades—whether by mystical or divine embrace. He glanced at Marisha with fresh wonderment and a twinge of fear.

“She understood, however, that you, my daughter, might one day come to question the unique nature of your own existence, and that I would be the one to best explain it to you. She permitted me, therefore, to leave the Pendant with you, knowing little more than what I had shared with you, that it was a sacred talisman that would protect you as long as you protected it.”

He reached into the tatters of his robes and, from a hidden pouch, pulled forth a small length of silver chain. “Only she and I knew of this, the token I kept, links from the chain you now wear. Without the attached heartstone, the power of the enchantment is latent, but can be called upon by one who knows how. Thus I could not only check on the status of the seal, but could use it to track you down when the time came.”

His eyes shifted back to Torin. Sure enough, their gaze hardened.

“Never did I imagine my return would come under these circumstances. Even after I discerned that something had gone wrong with the linking magic, I rejected the notion that the seal itself might be broken. Nonetheless, I came with all haste to inspect it for myself. As you can see, that decision nearly cost me my life.”

Marisha gripped Torin’s arm with reflexive concern. “The Illychar?”

Darinor nodded. “The first had emerged and scattered weeks before. But in the ruined depths, a large brood lay in ambush for those they knew must come. I escaped only narrowly before coming for the Pendant in search of answers—many of which I found along the way.”

“Hold on,” Torin said. “You mean to suggest that the same Illychar who were trapped three thousand years ago are still alive today?”

The other flared with impatience. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? They do not feed. They do not age. They kill among themselves, certainly, but for every coil that is felled, innumerable are the legions of Illysp just waiting to raise it up again. As long as the seal held, they could do no further harm. But you, my young fool, have single-handedly let loose their horror upon all of us.”

Torin felt Marisha’s restraining hand as he tensed in bitter frustration.
“What about you?” he demanded. “If the secret of the Sword was to be so closely guarded, why did you go around telling of it?”

It was Darinor’s turn to betray uncertainty, and Torin relished it.

“Or do you not remember? Twelve years ago. Not long, I’m guessing, after you abandoned your daughter. You came to my village, Diln, in the Kalgren Forest west of here, where you spent the night telling stories of the Dragon Wars, the ancient Finlorians, the Swords of Asahiel…”

A squinting Darinor waggled a crooked finger at him. “You. You’re the youth who asked me afterward if the Swords remained, or if they were merely legend.”

It was a small triumph, but Torin took it. “Had you told me then that the blades did not exist, this might never have happened.”

Darinor chuckled, a subtle, scoffing sound that barely carried past his own beard. “Then cast upon me a measure of your blame,” he agreed. “Although I daresay such common myths have been shared countless times and by many others besides me. With you alone did it result in the plundering of the Sword.”

Torin’s scowl deepened. He considered pressing the attack, but decided against it. His gaze slipped to the proof of his guilt, resting in his lap, and he lost himself in its flaming depths. The Sword’s crimson radiance bathed him as he studied the eternal fire that swirled within the polished blade.

“You seem to have all the answers,” he said, “so tell me this. In the fight against Sabaoth, how did Algorath trigger the Sword’s wrath?”

Darinor shook his head. “My ancestors and others have spent centuries pondering that question. None have found an answer. The first Vandari, those who served as generals during the Dragon Wars, are the last to have commanded the full force and fury of the blades. They did not share that knowledge, even among those who followed in their footsteps, for fear of the destruction to be wrought by their misuse. As they died out and disappeared, their secrets vanished with them.”

Torin sagged. He should have expected as much. For it was the one riddle he most wanted answered. Still, there were plenty more where that had come from. “Well then, what of—”

“No more questions!” Darinor barked, with such sudden force as to startle his listeners. “I have told you already more than you need know. The Illysp are upon us. The only question that matters now is this: What do you intend to do about it?”

T
HE ANSWER TO THAT HAD SEEMED OBVIOUS ENOUGH.

Between the two of them, Torin and Marisha uttered only a handful of protests to the plan that Darinor laid out for them. Despite a host of unreconciled concerns, Torin saw little room to argue. For he believed the man’s account. Despite a great many details which they had not the time to discuss, the renegade Entient’s story fell into place so snugly with what he already knew, filled in so many of the gaps that had long existed in this land’s history, that he dared not doubt it. There were at least as many questions as answers, but this much he understood instinctively: Though he had yet to meet his enemy face-to-face, he could not wait to do so before taking action against it.

He had begun his preparations straightaway, as soon as their clandestine meeting had come to a close. Breakfast was forgotten; he had no appetite for food. Taking Stephan aside, he instructed the chief seneschal to lay out provisions as quietly as possible for an expedition party scheduled to leave on the morrow. Torin wanted no word to be leaked of any of this until he’d had a chance to meet with the Circle. He gave a rough estimate of numbers and emphasized the need for swiftness. He tried not to be cross, but Stephan plied him with questions he did not then care to answer, forcing him to send the steward off with his tail between his legs.

By then, Allion had returned from his morning rounds. Torin went to his Fason at once, skipping over the daily report on the welfare of the city in order to relay all that Darinor had told him. He did so in search of the man’s counsel, but at the same time, worked to impress upon his friend the need to do as the mystic suggested—much as he had months earlier, following his surprise reunion with Queen Ellebe and the charge he’d been given then.

As before, Allion was not easily convinced.

“He looks and smells like a corpse himself,” his friend complained.

The pair had been briefly introduced just before Marisha had whisked her estranged father into a private council, allowing king and captain to do the same.

“He nearly was, to hear him tell it.”

“Then how can we trust him? How do we know he’s not one of these Illychar himself?”

Torin motioned for the other to keep his voice down, even though they
had found their way into a private audience chamber and posted a pair of guardsmen outside.

“Because,” the king replied, his own voice lowered, “if he were Illychar, why would he have come to warn us like this?”

“To get you out of the way, it seems,” Allion snapped.

“Why? Why not just kill me and take the Sword for himself?”

“Perhaps he means to do just that.”

Torin shook his head. “I already offered him the blade.”

“What?”

“You think I want any part of this? I bade him take it before I make things any worse. I’m merely a foolish human, after all, while he’s an Entient—or at least, close enough that I don’t know what else to call him. He turned me down.”

Allion hesitated. “Why would he do that?”

“He said mine is the greater need. The Sword is vital to this quest, not only as a matter of survival, but to convince those who must be found. He, on the other hand, must stay here in order to marshal the land’s defenses.”

“He’s not going with you?”

“He alone knows how best to direct our armies so as to contain our enemy’s numbers.”

“That may be, but how does he expect you to accomplish this other task without him to guide you?”

“I asked him that very question.” Torin sighed. “He said that since I am the only living man to wield the Crimson Sword, I am the most qualified person to do so. It’s my mess, he said. I should be the one to clean it up.”

“And what if you or the Sword are lost? If any of what he says is true, it seems to me that’s the best weapon we have. He’s not concerned about that?”

“I—” Torin stopped himself. He was about to say that he would be wearing Marisha’s Pendant as well. Darinor was indeed concerned about tracking his whereabouts during his journey, and more especially, those of the Sword. The mystic assumed that should one of the artifacts fall into a thief’s possession, both would. By exercising his control over the enchantment that connected his links of silver chain to the necklace from which they’d been taken, the Entient should be able to give chase and retrieve the talismans, should it become necessary.

However, Torin had not yet told Allion about the existence of the Pendant, omitting any such references from his narrative. He assumed it was only a matter of time now before others found out about it, but he preferred not to be the one to violate Marisha’s long-held secret.

“
He,
I mean.” Torin coughed, covering his misstep. “He claims to have some means of tracking me, as he tracked Marisha. Some form of magic, I would guess.”

Allion’s brow wrinkled in distrust. “And is it by magic that he expects you to find these so-called Vandari?”

The Vandari. Those who lay at the heart of his quest. For Darinor had
reiterated that as gatekeeper of the Illysp seal, he was but a lookout. It was the Finlorians, and more specifically the Vandari, who had so long ago served as its architects. If any could rebuild what Torin had destroyed, it was they.

And yet, by Darinor’s own admission, the Finlorians had abandoned these lands ages ago at the conclusion of the Illysp War. The only elves known to still exist upon these shores were the Mookla’ayans, those savage tribespeople secreted away in the jungle marshes of Vosges. When Torin, against his better judgment, had suggested he go first to them, Darinor had quashed the notion as he might an insect. Only the Finlorians could help them—and among these, only the Vandari.

“I wish that were so,” Torin admitted. But it would not be that easy. Not even Darinor possessed a charm or cantrip that would reveal the whereabouts of the missing elven nation. He knew only what he had learned from his forebears, that most had fled westward across the Oloron Sea, there to tame the lands of Yawacor while leaving their own to be reclaimed by wilderness.

“This is preposterous. How long does he expect you to search?”

“As long as it takes, would be my guess.”

Allion’s brown eyes fixed him with a glare that was every bit as immutable as the earth they resembled. “And if they no longer exist?”

A shiver traced the edges of Torin’s spine. He did not want to consider that possibility. For if Darinor was to be believed, the Vandari alone might hold the key to salvation for the peoples now occupying their former lands. If not—if their light had been extinguished, or if Torin could not find them, or if they had not the knowledge or powers with which his people could arm themselves against this scourge—then, as the renegade Entient had promised in that ominous manner of his, both Torin and those he loved were about to face a gloom and misery such as his mortal mind could not fathom.

But they did exist, Torin assured himself, and would not be told otherwise. The empire of Finloria was no more. But the Mookla’ayans had survived, despite centuries of effort on the part of man to drive them to extinction. And Yawacor, it was told, was yet home to many of the older races, those deemed undesirable by Pentanian standards and long since swept from her lands. While such reports were largely disregarded as superstitious hearsay, Torin refused to presume that the Finlorians no longer lived simply because he had never met one.

“You wondered the same thing about the Sword, remember?” Torin said. “Whether I could find it. Whether it existed at all.”

“Exactly my concern.” Allion, whose attention—like his—had been drifting inward, came back suddenly. “Don’t you see? It’s your quest for the Sword all over again.”

“I was successful, wasn’t I?”

“Were you?” his friend challenged, pinning him again with those eyes. “And what of the cost? What of Diln? How will you feel if something like that were to happen again, here at Krynwall?”

Torin tensed. Allion had assured him over and over again that he did not blame Torin for what had befallen their home village while he had led them
off in search of the one weapon that might allow them to defend it. But it hardly mattered what his friend said. Despite every attempt to rationalize the decision—then and now—Torin blamed himself, and was tortured every day with thoughts of what might have been had he acted differently. His Fason and others could say what they wished, but deep down, they all held him accountable.

Allion must have recognized his darkening mood. “All I’m saying is, are you honestly willing to take that risk?”

“Aren’t you the one who likes to trumpet duty over desire? I’d only be doing what has been asked of me.”

Allion shook his head. “Too much is unknown. About this Darinor. About these Vandari.” Torin sighed, for his friend was already repeating his arguments, but Allion pressed on. “I have a bad feeling, a viper in my gut. Don’t do this.”

Torin glared. “I guess I don’t see where I have a choice.”

“Of course you do. It’s one we all have. Stop risking everything to change the world in one fell swoop, and work instead little by little, day by day, like everyone else. You were raised a cultivator, not a monarch, remember? Stay, and we’ll face together whatever dangers arise.”

It was difficult to argue. Even if he found the Vandari, he had no guarantee they could or would agree to help. But there were times when one had to be guided by instinct rather than logic. Despite his own reservations, the gnawing sense was that he had to do this.

“I don’t think Darinor will see it that way,” he said.

“Then make him see it that way. Your duty is to your people, not some raving madman wandered in from the rain. And he’d have to be mad,” Allion hurried before Torin could cut him short, “not to see that there are too many responsibilities for you to leave behind.”

“Those can be handled by someone else,” the king muttered.

“And they will. Mark my words, if you leave now, Rogun will have usurped your throne by the time you return.”

In this, at least, his Fason was probably correct. Allion had constantly chided him for giving the general too strong a voice on the ruling council. Torin had done so in an effort to placate the overbearing commander and quiet his objections. Instead, it had made him all the louder, giving him a platform from which to shout his agenda, allowing him to drive a wedge of dissent into the foundation of all that Torin hoped to accomplish. With Torin away, Rogun would move swiftly to wrest control of the kingdom from the Circle and its speaker.

“Rogun will come around,” Torin replied, feigning confidence. “In the meantime, that’s why I need you to stay here as regent in my stead.”

His friend’s eyes widened in shock. “Hah! There’s a fanciful dream, even for you.”

“Come, Allion, you said it yourself. My mission means nothing if this city and its inhabitants are not kept safe until my return.”

But Allion was shaking his head emphatically. “This is madness. Complete
and unwarranted. But if you insist on leaving, you know I’ll follow, with or without your commission.”

Torin scowled. He knew. It had happened before, hadn’t it? But Allion understood as well as he the challenges this land faced. Torin’s honeymoon as king was over. Expansionists from neighboring Partha, as well as nationalists within Alson, had already begun to question his authority. Few did so as openly as Rogun, unwilling to risk their political futures in debate against a man who was still deemed a hero by a majority of the populace. But the rumblings were there, and pressure had begun to build as the more powerful guilds and factions made their demands known, probing for weaknesses like ivy upon the wall. Rogun, a popular figure, was a spearhead for many of these efforts. But without a strong counterpresence to keep them in check, the audacity of all was likely to grow.

“Allion—”

“Call upon Nevik, if you must. Just don’t think for a moment that you can weaken my resolve in this.”

Torin’s jaw locked with frustration. Of course he would like to call upon Nevik. When first they had arrived at Krynwall, the loyal baron had spent weeks lending him invaluable assistance, aiding in every way his assumption of royal duties. He was, in truth, the one noble thus far to whom Torin would happily entrust his own welfare and that of Alson. Time and again he had tried to abdicate to the more-qualified baron, but Nevik had refused him just as often, focused as he was on healing his own lands to the south. The young man was in much the same position as Torin, and the king knew that it would be unfair to ask of the baron more than he had already given.

“I’ll send word to Drakmar at once. But there isn’t time to await Nevik’s response, let alone his arrival. And I would feel terrible about forcing this upon him in any case.”

Allion threw his hands up in mock surrender. “But you care nothing about forcing it upon me.”

Torin’s chest tightened with regret. They had both been forced to grow up so quickly. Not yet twenty, Allion, formerly a village huntsman, was now captain of the City Shield, chief defender of the capital city of Alson. Was that any less of a leap than Torin himself had taken from village guardian to king? But circumstances were what they were, and any control he or his friend might have was limited to their response.

“You’re the one, Allion. The one I most depend upon. The best man I know to defend this kingdom against its enemies—both within and without. Most of all, you’re the only person I trust to watch after Marisha while I’m away.”

Allion, who had been rolling his eyes and preparing any number of retorts, halted wordlessly. For a moment, he seemed uncertain of himself, and Torin figured the argument was won. Then a slow, smug smile spread across the other’s face.

“You’ve no greater chance of keeping her here than you do me,” he declared.

Torin looked to the closed door of the audience chamber, as if his gaze might somehow track the corridor beyond and settle upon the room in which Marisha was even now beginning to reacquaint herself with her long-lost father.

“Part of me would like to believe that,” he admitted. “But something tells me she will remain here with Darinor. I can’t see him permitting her to accompany me, and I don’t see her challenging him on it.”