The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (2 page)

And yet, how long could she hold out? Annleia and the others who dwelled within this valley already suspected much. Their keifer had been murdered by none other than an agent of Lord Lorre—led here by the lone individual entrusted to serve as guardian to their lands. Given that, how could they think themselves safe?

Rather than confirm their fears, Laressa had done what she could to allay them. Crag’s betrayal had wounded her more deeply than any of them, and none could argue otherwise. At the same time, the Tuthari dwarf had made sure that none would be able to follow his trail. Shallow grounds for forgiveness, perhaps, given the damage already sustained. But the dwarf had had his reasons, she had argued. Her life being not without its own misdeeds, she was in poor position to judge another’s.

“If you wish to be free of your grief,” Annleia admonished, “you cannot keep it trapped inside.”

Laressa nodded, but refused to meet her daughter’s gaze. She wasn’t sure that she
wanted
to be free of it. In some ways, her grief seemed the only way to keep Eolin alive. Though it went against many of the fundamental life principles of her Finlorian people, she was not yet ready to surrender her temporal claim upon the man she had loved.

“You cannot persist like this. Our people need you.”

Laressa responded with a look of annoyance before quickly turning away. The girl was only trying to help, not knowing that this matter was beyond her. Or was it? If the truth was more than her daughter could handle, then why was she so afraid to meet the young woman’s gaze? Could it be that she feared Annleia might be
too
perceptive, that if she shared even one small thread, the girl might unravel the rest? Perhaps it was not her daughter’s weakness, but her own that kept her silent.

“In time, child. I will be well enough in time.”

Annleia must have heard the doubt in her voice. “You cannot deceive me, Mother. Nor can you expect to shoulder this burden alone.”

Again Laressa tried to evade the other’s gaze. But the child hooked a finger beneath her chin and forced their eyes to meet.
Eolin
, Laressa told herself.
She speaks only of Eolin.

“Your father was a good man,” she forced herself to say, in an attempt to escape the other’s scrutiny.

“The best,” Annleia agreed. “But you are also angry with him. Why?”

Laressa put on her most indignant expression, even as she caught her breath. “I…Why would you say that?”

“Because I know you as well as you know yourself. I sense it, in your words and in your posture—with me and with others. Do you feel he brought this somehow upon himself?”

Eolin himself had raised that argument, though it was not one Laressa shared. He had viewed his death as a punishment for allowing bitterness to overrule duty—for taking delight in Torin’s travails. He should not have spurned the outlander as he had. He should have at least talked things through with the wielder of the Crimson Sword, to confirm what the other knew and offer any solution Torin and his allies might have missed.

Laressa had not cared to debate the issue at the time. Bad enough that their final moments had been spent revealing secrets that should never have been kept from her. Worse yet would have been to waste breath arguing over what to do about them, and whether her husband’s fate was deserved.

“I blame your father’s murder on none but those who committed it,” she stated plainly.

And yet, that had not stopped her from accepting Eolin’s suggested action. It made no sense to let her people perish as a result of their contempt—justified or no. And while a proper sharing of knowledge with Torin may have merited nothing, there was too much at stake not to take the chance.

By then, however, it had been too late. Her first act as keifer had been to send forth scouts on the trail of Torin and his friends—even before she had overcome the raw sting of her grief. But Torin’s departure from their lands had been swift; Crag had seen to that. And her scouts had been strictly ordered not to jeopardize themselves by treading beyond the exits of the caves that led from Aefengaard. In accordance with her wishes, they had followed as far as they dared, only to return empty-handed.

“Then why do you torture yourself over what is done?” Annleia asked, refusing to let her dwell alone in her thoughts.

She had not, at first. When the news had returned that Torin had escaped their reach, Laressa had decided it just as well that they be rid of him forever. But that had been before the nightmares, before the roiling waves of heartache had subsided enough to reveal the truth.

“Mother, what is it you’re not telling me?”

Laressa felt the threat of tears, of pride and of pity. Not yet twenty years of age, this girl, and already so wise and strong. The child might not have survived with anything less. Though born within this valley, she was an outsider in many respects—the daughter of a half-elven woman and a human male she knew nothing about. In this world, her mixed heritage was a scar, no matter how much they might pretend otherwise. The Finlorians had accepted her out of deference to their king, just as they had Laressa when, as a prince, Eolin had brought her to live among them. Since then, she had taught Annleia not to condemn herself, as others might, for her unique appearance. Human blood may have deprived her of sharpened ears, angled brow, and a pointed jawline. It may have granted her a full head of thick, lustrous hair. But it could never change the fact that she was an elf at heart. In the end, nothing else truly—

Laressa choked on the thought, and pulled away in horror. So obvious. The solution to her dilemma. The answer to her prayers. There in front of her, where it had been all along.

“Mother, what is it?”

No. She would not allow herself to even consider it. They still had the Sword, did Torin and the others, the last unbroken Sword of Asahiel. With it, they would find a way. Anyone who could have hunted the Finlorians here, to their secret location, was resourceful enough to put a stop to the Illysp on his own. As long as he wielded both the divine talisman and the knowledge descended from Algorath, the human king of Alson stood a chance. As did they all.

But Laressa knew she could not leave it at that. For the sake of her people, for the sake of her own sanity, she had to know that something more was being done. Whatever the act, wherever it might lead, however useless and inconsequential the effort might seem, she could not sit idly by if it was within her power to help.

“Mother?”

The smooth, earthen walls of her burrow seemed to close in around her. It was the only way. These walls could not protect her. Nor could the walls of their valley protect her people. If they remained here and did nothing, Aefengaard would become as a mass grave. And a temporary one at that, as, with the Illysp, not even the dead were safe.

Slowly, as if dragging against the weight of the world, Laressa turned once more to peer into her daughter’s eyes. The truth was affirmed, and her heart fell. It would seem her people were not quite as powerless as she had believed. All she needed was someone who could pass for human when set to rove the barbaric world of men.

Tears welled. She could not allow it. She could not permit her daughter, so innocent and fragile, to venture into the outer world. Not when any escort Laressa might send—herself included—would only endanger the child further. Alone and unprotected, the girl would surely perish, and, for Laressa, nothing could be so devastating. She had already lost her husband. She would be damned before letting go of her daughter as well.

She meant to look away again, but Annleia squeezed her hand, and those emerald eyes held her. Again Laressa had to fight off the nightmare image of those eyes as the living light left them. Should she send the girl on this quest, she would be condemning her—because of her appearance, no less. And yet, could keeping her here end in anything but a death sentence?

Annleia remained silent, the child’s luminous eyes seeming to bore right through her. Perhaps it was not her decision to make, Laressa thought suddenly. Should her daughter not be given a chance to at least discuss her own fate? She was not so young, Laressa reminded herself—nearly the same age
she
had been when deciding to leave her father and run away with Eolin to live among the Finlorians. How might she have felt had Lorre or anyone else successfully prevented her from making that choice?

Besides, she did not wish to wait, as Eolin had, to deliver these secrets with her final breaths. Though she had sworn no oath, and inherited their cause only through marriage and catastrophe, she understood the sacred honor of
the Vandari and what they had been called upon to do. Rather than risk letting their secrets die with her, perhaps she should share them now. Armed with a full knowledge, her daughter might even recognize a solution that she had not. Either way, Laressa would not be alone in deciding upon the best course for all concerned.

Even now, she could scarcely imagine exposing her child to such terrible responsibility. But Annleia’s eyes seemed to challenge her, pleading for her to trust in her daughter’s strength.

The Ceilhigh only knew how little she had left of her own.

Breathing deeply to steady herself, Laressa stared warningly into her child’s brave visage, offering her one last chance to escape before the truth descended upon her.

Annleia’s eyes shone.
Tell me
, they seemed to insist.

“Dear child,” Laressa sighed. “Let me tell you a story.”

A
LLION LOOKED UP AS THE
double doors to the council hall split wide. Around the table, whispered chatter died into stillness.

General Rogun had arrived.

Flanked by a pair of lieutenants, the grim-faced general strode forward with an imperious air. As always, the rattle of spurs ushered his approach, and ceased only when he had come to a stop at the table’s edge.

Seated at the opposite head, Thaddreus raised a hand in welcome. “Good of you to join us, General,” the First Elder grumbled. “We were beginning to wonder whether you meant to attend your own summons.”

A few murmurs swept through the Circle’s ranks, whether in support or opposition of Thaddreus’s remarks, Allion couldn’t tell.

“Please,” the old man continued, “take your seat.”

Rogun refused, as Allion expected, choosing instead to lean forward and plant his fists upon the table’s surface. A posture meant to dictate, not debate.

And yet, the general did not speak. He forced his gaze around the table in a slow and steady circuit, staring at each of those assembled. When Allion’s turn came, he felt as if he was being measured for an unpleasant task.

Thaddreus, speaker of the Circle of City Elders, cleared his throat in annoyance. “What is it you wish to report?”

Rogun finished his sweep, then let his gaze fall squarely upon the First Elder. “Our engagements beyond the walls are ended. The Illychar come to sack our city have been sent away in full retreat.”

The man’s face shone with sweat, and his armor was painted with blood and grime. The chief commander of Krynwall’s forces had not merely watched the conflict from afar.

“That is most welcome news,” Thaddreus allowed, while seeming not at all pleased, “but word that any page might have delivered.”

Indeed, Allion thought, the battle had been well in hand since dawn of the previous day. Rogun had called this gathering with some other purpose in mind.

“The fight was more brutal than expected,” the general went on. “My men outnumbered the enemy five to one, but our opponents fought as if the opposite were true.”

Allion did not miss his use of the phrase “
my
men,” and glanced quickly around to see what the others thought of it.

“Still,” Rogun said, “the troops performed admirably, particularly given
the number of fresh conscripts and recruits among them.”

Thaddreus dipped his head in salute. “They have our gratitude, as does our general. Your rest and theirs is well earned.”

“Not quite,” Rogun argued, and Allion’s stomach tightened. “There is still the matter of our safety here within the city.”

A few among them grumbled. Thaddreus’s frown deepened.

“But the Illychar have been driven out, as you yourself have assured us,” the speaker remarked.

“Those who took up arms against us, yes,” Rogun corrected, peering back coldly. “But they chose to dwell among us for some time before doing so. It may be that there are others yet to be rooted out.”

That set off a string of murmurs, though Thaddreus moved quickly to cut them off.

“We know you to be a man of action, General. What are you proposing?”

“I mean to implement a citywide cleansing, to weed out any who have fallen prey to our enemies’ foul influence.”

Just like that, the murmurs gave way to uproar. Allion, like Thaddreus, remained silent, marking carefully the reactions of the other Elders. Some lauded the general’s decision, while others cried out in fierce refusal.

“You would have soldiers, many untested, serve as judge and executioner over an entire populace?” Thaddreus demanded.

Rogun weathered the storm of protests, scowling patiently while the arguments bled themselves out. “It is the only way to ensure we do not again face the kind of attack we have just so narrowly survived.”

His stern words and pitiless tone had the Elders shouting once more. Allion continued to hide his own uncertain emotions. This afternoon’s council was the second Rogun had called since the Illychar ambush two nights past. The first had been unexpectedly brief, meant mostly to get a grasp on events and to reassure everyone of their relative security before the general set forth again on military duties. This one, clearly, was to be spent asking the hard questions and taking the appropriate actions.

But had the general come to
ask
them, or
tell
them what those actions would be? As he looked again to Thaddreus, Allion thought the First Elder appeared uncharacteristically nervous. If so, who could blame him? Rogun controlled the army, after all. Torin was dead. Should the general use this opportunity to impose martial law and demand the crown for himself, who could stop him?

Already, half of the City Elders seemed to be urging just that, by happily agreeing to the general’s suggestion. The rest had turned to Thaddreus, balking at the notion and exhorting the speaker to make their voices heard.

“People will panic,” Thaddreus shouted. “You will cause greater unrest than there is now.”

“Those with nothing to hide have nothing to fear,” Rogun countered with dead calm.

“You know as well as I, General, that people do not respond rationally in a climate of fear. How do you think they will react when you begin taking husband from wife, brother from sister, parents from children? They will call it a witch hunt and rise up against us.”

“It is the only way,” Rogun said again, “to ensure the safety of all.”

Thaddreus glowered, but did not respond right away. Fearing him defeated, the dissenting Elders roared again their various protests.

“You would extract from our people a heavy price,” the First Elder summarized finally. “With such an invasion of privacy, you take from them their most basic freedoms.”

“Privacy or security,” Rogun offered. “In this case, it is impossible to have both.”

Again the debate raged, with many of the Elders angered by the way in which the headstrong general could so easily dismiss their concerns. Allion wasn’t sure which way to lean. Having fought the Illychar himself and suffered greatly the depths of their cunning, he was inclined to side with Rogun. And yet, a
cleansing
, as the general described it, would almost certainly lead to more chaos and bloodshed, as Thaddreus feared. Rogun might not have any qualms about that, but Allion did. Especially when their efforts right now needed to be focused outward, toward the Illychar still laying siege to their lands, not on harassing and containing the residents of their own city.

Besides, Rogun was loyal to none but himself. A hero he may have become in saving Krynwall from an unexpected attack. But he had done so through defiance and manipulation, ignoring a direct edict of the Circle and risking the lives of many in order to wage his own secret defense campaign. Hindsight might validate those actions, but that didn’t mean the man could be trusted.

“And where will it end?” Thaddreus asked, as if attuned to Allion’s thoughts. “What guarantee do we have that the innocent will not be condemned alongside the guilty?”

Rogun’s lip curled—a cruel smile. “Is there something you wish to accuse me of, old man?”

“I feel your very presence here merits discussion, yes,” the speaker replied. Though his voice remained steady, his shifting gaze betrayed his nervousness.

“Your actions have saved us, but if our people are to stand trial for no offense at all, then why not our chief commander for his insubordination?”

Another outcry ensued. Only, this time, the loudest voices were those who sided with the general, aghast that Thaddreus would even suggest that he be vilified for his heroism. Others murmured an assent, but, with the general glaring down at them, were much less vocal.

Rogun let the notion play out, then smirked with cold amusement. “Should this body wish to waste time in pursuit of such allegations, I will be more than happy to address them. Were it not for me, this city would belong already to the enemy. A wiser man would keep that foremost in his mind.”

Grunts and murmurs were drowned out by raucous approval.

“I wonder what our king might say,” Thaddreus mumbled when the wave of noise had subsided, “were he still alive.”

An obvious slight, meant to remind Rogun’s supporters that the general’s victory had not come without a terrible price.

But that was not Rogun’s fault. Nor did he appear overly troubled by it.

“Even Torin, I’m sure, would recognize the need to comfort our citizens, by demonstrating to all that the conflict is well in hand.”

“And is it?” Allion scoffed, raising his voice at last. “Krynwall may be safe for the moment, but our southern lands are evacuating to Kuuria, and we have yet to receive word from those farther out.”

For more than a day now, messengers had been riding fast and furious across Pentania, bearing official tidings amid much rumor. News of events at Krynwall would just now be reaching the outer territories of Partha and Kuuria. The only return word had come from the Alsonian barony of Drakmar—and that word was less than encouraging. Apparently, both Nevik, baron of Drakmar, and Ghellenay, baroness of Palladur, had agreed to lead their people south for the protection of Kuuria and the coalition force assembled there. The decision had come after a conference with Commander Troy of Souaris, who had led a mounted division north on Allion’s heels when it was believed Rogun—and perhaps Nevik—were planning an ambush against Torin and the crown. On even this count, details were sketchy. Of matters beyond, Allion knew nothing at all. Given the attack his city had faced, it might be that others had already fallen.

“Your friend’s death is unfortunate,” the general agreed after a moment of contemplation. Even this small concession took Allion by surprise. “For all our differences, the lad showed promise. Regardless, I daresay his loss is not as great as it could have been.”

Allion glared, growing hot with anger. “And how is that, would you
daresay
?”

“Torin may have been the son of Sorl. But we all know it was the Sword that truly crowned him king.”

Allion’s hand slipped instinctively to the hilt of the Crimson Sword, sheathed at his waist. “What are you implying, General?”

“Only that Torin’s greatest asset is still with us. Remind our people of that, and they will have less cause to mourn.”

“A blade is nothing without its wielder,” Allion reminded the other harshly. He would tolerate only so much disrespect, even from the dangerous general.

“Indeed,” Rogun agreed, his narrowed gaze sending chills down Allion’s back. “And it occurs to me that you are an archer, not a swordsman. Perhaps, for the sake of all, the weapon should be given over to one who can best use it.”

Allion fought down a flutter of panic. “Such as?”

“If we are accepting nominations, I would suggest that the blade go hand in hand with the crown.”

That raised mutters all around from those who had grown silent. Despite the general’s unassuming tone, most understood what Rogun was really saying. Allion himself had known from the moment he learned of Torin’s death that the general would make a bid for the Sword—and the throne. He just hadn’t expected it to come this soon.

Still, Rogun had just uttered the best argument
against
surrendering the Sword to anyone at this juncture.

“I have no quarrel with that,” Allion replied. It was what Torin himself had wanted, should the Sword’s more immediate beneficiaries, Marisha and Allion, agree to it. “But we are in no position yet to elect a new king.”

“Doubtless, there will be much discussion,” Rogun sneered. He returned his attention to Thaddreus. “Only, bear in mind, every moment we delay is a moment in which we grant our enemy renewed confidence. To build upon our victory here, we must act swiftly and without hesitation.”

A debate ensued, which the First Elder moved swiftly to quell. “Our regent is right,” he offered hastily. “We must not rush a decision of that magnitude. Surely, even the general would have us wait at least until Baron Nevik arrives.”

Rogun glared, then relented with a slight bow. Allion wondered what to make of his reaction. Was it only that he did not wish to appear overeager? Or did it suggest a specific confidence where Nevik was concerned? As the land’s highest-ranking nobleman, Drakmar’s baron would seem to be the general’s chief rival. But Nevik had aided the general in his secret plot, after all, and thus far Allion had only Rogun’s word as to why. Perhaps the pair had already conspired for this eventuality.

“So be it,” the general allowed. “As I understand it, the baron will soon be en route?”

“If not already,” Thaddreus affirmed. “He was said to be waiting only until Baroness Ghellenay had arrived at Drakmar to help escort their refugees alongside Commander Troy.”

“Until then,” Rogun said, “I recommend we appoint a military task force to ensure the Sword’s safekeeping.”

All eyes turned to Allion.

“Until then
,” he echoed sternly, “the Sword remains in
my
possession, or in the possession of those I deem fit to carry it.”

“That talisman is our standard. We cannot risk—”

“You know well that our king willed the Sword to Marisha, and, as regent, I bear it now at her request. On this matter, I will not be challenged, General.”

He was hanging by a thread, he knew. Rogun was but a step away from securing the support of the populace, with or without the blessing of the Circle. But Allion was still the land’s appointed regent and, as such, had no intention of letting Rogun walk away with things. That included keeping the Sword until such time as he felt comfortable relinquishing it.

He forced himself to match stares with the general while the others observed in strained silence. To his surprise, Rogun was the first to blink.

“As you will,” the general conceded, “though my recommendation stands.”

Allion breathed a sigh of relief the moment Rogun looked away. Evidently, his strength of conviction had persuaded the general to let the matter lie—for now.

“I require an answer, then, to my initial demand,” Rogun said, without a moment’s loss of control. “Have I this body’s commission to begin testing for the undead hiding among us? Or would you permit them to once again spread their disease?”