The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (48 page)

Now and again they came upon the tracks or discards of the various hunt
ers, trappers, and other Wylddean frontiersmen known to trek this mountain wilderness. But none of these appeared recent, and not once did they encounter another human soul. Birds and squirrels and insects seemed in endless supply. He spied wolves and rabbits and a great bull elk that nearly startled him from his feet before drawing close enough for Annleia to stroke its mane. When thoughts of venison steaks and sausages entered Torin’s mind, the animal snorted and took its leave.

Their lunch consisted instead of a broadleaf salad filled with sprouts and mushrooms and a sprinkle of nuts. A far cry from fresh elk meat spit-roasted slow and tender, but tasteless was better than foul, and anything was better than nothing at all. They consumed it in a clearing that bore signs of having served before as a campsite, though the rain-washed fire marks on the ring of stones looked to be seasons old. Torin stared at them as he ate, so as to escape his companion’s gaze and thus remain alone with his inviolable reflections.

“It must be a great comfort, to be able to eat again,” Annleia ventured.

Torin glowered at the old fire pit, though all at once he felt his jaws begin to slow. The simple act of feeding himself was indeed something he had taken for granted. Were it not for the woman across from him, he might never have been able to do so again.

“And your color is returning much swifter than I might have imagined.”

He was indebted to her; that much was certain. Present misery notwithstanding, he would forever be grateful for the second chance he’d been given—no matter how painful, guilt-ridden, and ill-fated his new life promised to be. And yet…

What did he truly know about this woman? Only what she had told him, which was little enough. He didn’t care for the fact that she knew his entire life’s story, while he knew next to nothing about hers. It further gnawed at him that she should absolve him so readily, or that she should show no fear at sharing this trail with him alone, when she might have allowed her grandfather to send at least a few soldiers in escort. None of these, perhaps, was enough to warrant his mistrust, but why should he put his full faith in her when so many others of late had played him false?

“Do you feel any different?” she asked. “From before, I mean. Did the Illysp…
scar
you in any way?”

She could see the cuts and scrapes and bruises for herself. And she had already inquired as to his wounds, and made mention of his physical recovery. So what was she
really
asking?

“You don’t need to speak of it if you don’t wish to,” she said. “But it would seem important to know if…whether it affected you in other ways.”

“Are you trying to ask if I’ve gone mad?”

“There are horrors yet that lay ahead,” she replied carefully. “And you’ve already experienced a great deal.”

Perpetrated
,
you mean.
Was her sympathetic view meant to heal him in some way? Or did she truly not understand? “Men are strengthened by the trials they overcome. Is that not so?”

“Else worn and weakened by damages unseen, until even a lesser hardship is enough to break them.”

Torin spat a nutshell from his salad. How was he to answer
that
? He knew not what strength of will he had left, or if his possession might return to haunt him in unforeseen ways. Wasn’t that
her
province? To tell
him
how these sorceries worked?

“I am neither witch nor elf,” he replied. “I cannot fathom these matters as you do.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I passed your grandfather’s test, did I not?” he snapped. “I am prepared to do whatever is asked of me. If you’d rather seek another who might serve better, then by all means, take the Sword and do so.”

That quieted her. She even looked away, granting him a temporary relief from that soulful gaze of hers. For all of that, he did not feel better. He had treated her crossly, he knew.
No more than she deserves
,
with inquiries such as those. Have I been
scarred
in any way?

But his anger curdled in his stomach. For nearly three days, he had done naught but grunt and murmur when required, scowling as if he might somehow change the world by doing so. Annleia had given him all the time she could. With luck, they would reach Yawacor’s eastern shore this very night. It was not a battle they would face, if the gods were good, but near enough that they should make ready as if it were.

And that meant gauging the condition—both mental and physical—of one’s comrade.

He might have apologized, but wasn’t sure how. It seemed pointless, besides. What understanding could the pair of them come to that might possibly prepare them for what lay ahead?

Still, he had to say
something
to dispel the guilt of his outburst. Frustrated by her questions, he decided to turn them back on her. After a moment’s thought, he settled upon one that might help put one or more of
his
concerns to rest.

“Darinor told me in the very beginning that a body’s essence is enslaved by the Illysp that possesses it.” He looked up to find Annleia’s waiting gaze and patient expression. “If I am the first to be purged, as you say, how would he know this? Aside from being a victim himself, I mean.”

“I did not claim that you were the first Illychar ever examined. My ancestors made extensive studies of those they battled, and our kind has never been so blind as yours in matters of body and mind and spirit. They would have shared what they knew with Algorath.”

That made sense enough, Torin supposed. He wasn’t certain where to go from there. “And the gosswyn?” he decided, staring at the pouch upon her waist in which it was stored. “If the Illysp that claimed me is trapped within, why keep it? Why not grind it into dust?”

If confused by his abrupt shift in thought, Annleia did not show it. “Because I was instructed to preserve it.”

“For what purpose?”

“She did not say, or would not. Only that there may come a time when it is required.”

“She. Necanicum.”

Across the clearing, his companion’s eyes glimmered. “Yes.”

He wished now that he hadn’t broached the topic. He rather preferred thoughts of the Dragon God to those of the mysterious woodswoman. Annleia had told him already that the former Fenwa had passed away upon delivering the phial of his blood and her instructions on how to use it. To have made that journey, to have forfeited her life to see his restored…The whole matter raised questions of prophecy and foresight that he had found much easier to brush aside as insanity.

He shook his head. “What was she, do you suppose?”

“A witch, if I am to hear you tell it.” Annleia smiled wanly. “Mine are not the only people in this world to channel nature’s forces. As to what force guided Necanicum, I cannot say, though
its
purpose was clearly to further
yours
.”

An unsettling prospect, in more ways than he cared to count. Another life for which he was responsible…A fate foreshadowed—and perhaps even predetermined—so soon after he had weaned himself of such childish beliefs…A world of powers and energies affected by
his
choices,
his
actions,
his
failures…

“Would that some force simply tell me what I must do,” he huffed.

Annleia frowned, the first truly sour look she had given him. “Would you pretend not to know?”

“I
thought
I knew when I unearthed the Sword in the first place. Clearly, I was wrong.”

Her sun-dappled features smoothed. “Ravar will tell us.”

Else devour us. Or both.
But he kept that to himself. His gaze slipped to the Sword’s pommel, then to the flaming heartstones that lined its grip and crosspiece. “You’ve magic to summon a god,” he said. “Have you none to unlock the Sword’s fire?”

He could sense Annleia shaking her head. “Only the very first Vandari—those who accepted the divine talismans from the Ha’Rasha—were given to know how to do so.”

“So Darinor told me, though it still seems you must have
some
idea. Can one magic be so different from another?”

“What you call magic is simply the manipulation of natural energies that exist in the world—both around and within us. But just as some rivers flow swifter than others, making them difficult to ford, the Sword is a vessel of such magnificent power that anyone seeking to direct its flow would have to possess a strength beyond mortal reckoning.”

“But mortals
have
wielded them,” Torin insisted, “and commanded that power.”

“If we are to believe the legends, yes.” When he gaped at her, she added,
“I do not say it is impossible, merely that I cannot fathom the strain exacted upon the wielder.”

“Strain. Like that which you bore when stealing Killangrathor’s life force.”

Annleia nodded. “Patience versus passion—the fundamental theory governing magic’s use. Exercising patience, I was able to briefly absorb a measure of Killangrathor’s fury. But I had to let it go through a release of passion—which I did against the Illysp who controlled you.”

It was still me. I have the injuries to prove it.
Was he to bear no culpability whatsoever?

“Consider how you breathe,” she continued, misreading the scowl upon his face. “Inhale, exhale. All of life—and therefore magic—is ebb and flow, the transfer of energy from one state to another. Nothing is created or destroyed without a consequence of equal measure. It is how the universe maintains its balance. Without this balance, everything around us, all of this—our very existence—would fail.”

“Everything?”

“Think of it. Push, pull; rise, fall; defend, attack; action, reaction. None of these exists without its antithesis. Yet few who practice magic exercise patience in a measure equal to their passion. The resulting imbalance is why most sorcery—in any form—exacts such a toll. Physically, yes, but mentally and spiritually as well.”

Her words brought to mind an image of his brother, so hate-filled, consumed with vengeance, intent on sharing his pain with others—personal cost be damned.

Annleia went on. “Some can maintain the imbalance longer than others. Dragons, for instance, are the purest form of the material elements, the perfect embodiment of their strength and power, which is why these creatures have such an affinity for—and command over—the fundamental laws that govern their use.”

“
Had
. I was led to believe Killangrathor was the last.”

“Just so, perhaps. And had strength aplenty to fuel his wrath. Yet even he, I imagine, was a creature much wracked in life, living with an inner torment only hinted at by the external scars. A dragon, according to my people,
was
the greatest creature to have ever lived—envied for its majesty, yet pitied for its life’s curse as perhaps the most passionate creature throughout time and creation.”

And once tried to exterminate your kind
, he thought.
Twice now
,
actually.
She seemed to have forgiven
that
, as well. “So how does one learn to…influence this flow of energy from one source to another?”

“The ability is within you, the secrets locked within your own mind. You must merely learn to free them. Tokens and artifacts—such as my wellstone—can serve as aids. Sound vibrations, incense, ritualistic movements—all can help the individual to attain the necessary focus. There is no single, universal answer. Nor could I simply teach you a quick word or gesture and expect you
to be able to call forth power as I might, using the same. It is a discipline like any other, requiring study and practice. No different than swordplay, really, only the work is less physical, and more mental and spiritual.”

“My head hurts already,” Torin complained.

Annleia laughed, a quick, delicate burst. “So does mine, endeavoring to explain. No one has all the answers, especially since much of it is subject to an individual’s point of view. Higher beings than you and I have been working at it since the beginning of time. The critical thing to remember is that one cannot expend passion without exercising the patience required to restore what is lost. Nor can one hoard power through endless patience without a release of passion. An extreme of either measure is destructive and, for even the most powerful beings, ultimately fatal.”

Torin mulled it over. “I don’t see where that is of much help concerning the Sword.”

“Perhaps it isn’t. What little I know of the talisman stems from legend—and from you. But I have a strong notion of how power of
any
kind works. If you would have my guess, it’s that the Sword is governed by many of the same principles I’ve just shared.”

Then the weapon was truly beyond him. If what Necanicum had told Annleia was to be believed, their hour had grown short already. He did not have time to solve the mystery of the Sword
and
riddle through the inner workings of his own mind.

Annleia spoke as if sensing his thoughts. “In any use of magic, the first step, along with desire, is to believe you can do it. With true faith, most anything is possible.”

“A pleasing notion,” he granted, then set to finishing his meal. The conversation had done nothing to rouse his spirits. No matter what he believed, Dyanne and Neak-Thur were still behind him; while only Ravar and a forbidding future lay ahead. The sooner he resumed his cursed trek, the sooner he would be done with it.

Annleia’s words, however, lingered in his thoughts as she led him from the clearing. She was trying to strengthen him, he supposed, the way Marisha always had. The notion irritated him. He was not some child in need of constant encouragement. The doubts and pains and questions that plagued him were well earned. Trading them all away for a few hollow platitudes would not serve to bolster him in whatever he must do. She and others seemed to think that his melancholy made him incapable. True or not, he wasn’t going to armor himself with false smiles.