Silverkin, page 31
Sweat stung his eyes as he pivoted low and around, trying to knock the thing from its footing. But it failed, leaving him open to attack himself. He planted his hand and flipped backwards, barely missing the scything dagger coming down at his leg.
What about using the Crossroads again? The thought of it made him sick and he knew he would pass out if he tried it again. And what would it do to Stasy were he to disappear?
Stroke after stroke, he blocked, his strength fading. The Oath magic trembled inside him. Thoughts buzzed through his mind, errant and lulling. The Mages of Safehome could defeat a Vocus. They would simply unmake it. But Thealos was a Ravinir, not one of the Mages. Their higher magic was a different order, one that dated back to the origins of Safehome.
Another cut in his cloak reminded him that losing concentration would kill him. If only the Crimson Wolfsmen were with him. They were enough. A full quaere…ban, even Xenon! Any help. But no, he had left them to die beyond the stone barrier. How many of them were left? How many had survived?
Jaerod. You should have chosen someone stronger. You should never have chosen me. I can’t do this! Even if I survive this, how am I going to use the Silverkin? It will kill me for certain.
Maybe he had expected that. Maybe Jaerod had intended it to happen that way all along. A simple sacrifice to bring about a better good. A willing sacrifice. To take the Nine Oaths, one had to be willing. Resentment churned inside him. It had been a game from the start. The Mages had Foretellings. They knew what was going to happen. They knew it back when they sealed the Silverkin behind the warding. They knew that Thealos would be foolish enough to heed their cryptic words, to follow the lure of the Silverkin’s magic. They had known he would crave to be a Sleepwalker. They had known his parents would be killed, that no one from his family would survive.
They had…
A thought struck him like a splinter of light.
They had known he would bring about the fall of the House of Silver. Pieces jumbled and scattered in his mind, but a single thought of clarity struck. The Mages of Safehome had left a Foretelling. About him. It had stated—could he remember it?—when the Silverkin was used, it would mark the end of the House of Silver. Was that a warning not to use it? Or a whisper into the future of something that would happen. Something that Thealos would cause to happen.
Which meant that they already knew he would survive the tunnels.
They already knew it.
He clung to that hope, that chord of pure knowledge flooding into him. Jaerod had known all along. It was why he had let Thealos go it alone. He knew that Thealos would be successful, not fail. The Mages had known it for hundreds of years.
When he struck the Vocus’ side, he realized something else.
The Vocus was tiring too.
The stroke of his Silvan blade had slit into it, spilling sand-like grains instead of blood. The creature seethed, unable to strike at him. It roiled and attacked even faster. But it expended its power in a quick burst to try and kill him. It had not touched him yet. It was not a creature that could think for itself, to ration its strength. It was something with a single goal—a lonely obsession.
It was losing.
Dagger jabs came haltingly. The Vocus struggled, its wiry limbs flaking and sloughing like snake scales as Thealos struck at it again and again. The Vocus hissed. Thealos swung his weapon around and the arm holding the dagger exploded into dust and fragments. It howled, an ear-splitting moan that ran shivers up his spine. He sensed it start to crumble, to dissolve at the center.
“Please,” it whispered. A man’s voice this time. A voice he didn’t recognize. “Please kill me.”
Thealos swung the blade in an arc, snapping off its head and dissolving the Vocus into a waste of sand. The Life magic it trapped guttered out, passing away like the sigh of leaves.
He lowered his blade tip as its magic guttered out, his entire body clenched with soreness, dripping with sweat, his muscles quivering.
Ticastasy emerged from the shadows of the hall. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand. He took it and gave it a gentle squeeze.
She licked her lips. “Go, Quickfellow. Save us all. Good luck.”
He turned down the corridor leading to the Silverkin and felt the blue light of the warding beckoning him. The call of the Silverkin screeched down his spine, but he did not feel panicked by it. Peace filled him. He knew the Mages of Safehome were watching.
Thealos went down the broken corridor to seize his birthright.
Chapter XXXIII
Flent had died once before—on the blood-slicked floor of the Foxtale Inn at Sol. Back then, he knew he was dying. He knew it again. From the fiery pain in his shoulder, the numbness and heaviness of one side of his body, the loss of sound and senses—these all whispered that death had found him at last. Each agonizing swallow, each spasm, made him sink lower and lower into a feeling of helpless drowning. He knew when it happened, when part of him tugged loose from his body. It was like clinging to a rope and feeling his grip slip, slip and then skid-slide away.
Dawn crested the Shoreland moors, bringing dazzling colors of life to the wildflowers, the tall buds of long grass, and the combs of cedar trees. Vaguely, he looked down at his body, surrounded by various scorch marks from where the witch-woman had overpowered Justin.
A feeling beckoned him, a greeting that was kin to a whisper. The sun was bright that morning. Brighter than he’d remembered seeing it. So bright it stabbed his vision, which was peculiar since he was dead. Wasn’t he? The brightness haloed him, making him cringe and cover his face with an arm. How was he able to do that? The world lurched, spinning like a child’s top.
The brightness winked out and Flent found himself on his back, his arm held up protectively above him.
He blinked.
The pain in his shoulder, the burrowing worm of agony that had slowly stilled his heart, was gone. The numbness was gone. He heard voices.
“Flent?”
“He’s healed. Give him a moment to realize it.”
Flent lowered his arm, amazed that he recognized one of the voices.
“J…Jaerod?”
The Sleepwalker crouched nearby, elbows propped against his knees. His clothes were black—the colors he had always seen him wear—but the medallion against his shirt gleamed. Not just from a polish, it gleamed as if it had just been pulled from a forge fire with tongs.
Jaerod smiled, his expression crooked and pleased. “Welcome back, Drugaen. Can you stand?” He rose himself and extended a hand to help Flent up.
Strength filled his legs as he climbed to his feet, clutching Jaerod’s arm like a lifeline.
“What happened to me?”
He saw another man near Jaerod, a Shae with calm blue eyes and a hooded dark green cloak with a neat-trimmed border and tassels. He looked…familiar. One hand cupped a glassy sphere, as clear as a tide pool. His other hand gripped the haft of a war axe—its double-edge looked sharp enough to hew stones. Just staring at the weapon made part of him hungry.
“I need you to come with me, Flent,” Jaerod said. “We don’t have long. Thealos needs you. He needs you to protect him after he invokes the magic of the Silverkin.” He turned to the green-robed Shae. “How long?”
The Shae’s expression clouded. “Soon, Jaerod. I wish we had one who would call down Safehome. Then both Sorian would be defeated.”
Jaerod shook his head. “The Shae of Avisahn are rebellious still. They will not ask for our help. This is the best we can give them, though Quickfellow will suffer the worse for it. Ai killiam keneen, ravin sor torbell.”
“I didn’t get that last part,” Flent said, scratching his head. “What was that?”
The blue-eyed Shae shrugged. “Keneen do may, keneen do ro. Until they are ready then. Until your calling here is complete.” He stooped slightly to look face-to-face with Flent. “I give you this weapon, Flent Shago, that you may protect the Heir of Quicksilver and all his family, his friends, and especially his queen. If you accept this charge, its magic will serve only you. Its magic will destroy those barriers to your duty. Only do not use it in such a way against another living thing. No tree, no grove, no man or Shae or Drugaen either. If you do, the magic will fail. Do you accept it?”
Flent stared at the man’s eyes, a rich sky-blue color. “I do swear it, upon my…”
The Shae smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “An ‘aye’ will do, Flent. It is enough. The weapon is yours.” He thrust the war axe into Flent’s hands. The jolt of its magic sent trembles of gooseflesh up his arms. Something…alive…in the weapon. Something that could think. He stared at it, the shimmer of the blade, the wreath-like runes sculpting its inner stock.
“It is time, Jaerod. I will send you there.”
Jaerod looked down at Flent. “You won’t see me when we get there, but I will be near you until we enter the city. Find Thealos. Protect him until he’s himself again. It will take…time.”
“Aye,” Flent said, nodding gruffly. He clenched the axe haft, savoring the bulk of it, the heft of it. He stared across the open moors at the smoke billowing from Landmoor.
“Is that where we’re…?”
The blinding light overpowered him again. It came from the glassy orb held by the Shae, but it overwhelmed him to look at it. The swell of magic jumbled and jostled him. He staggered and went down, striking his hand against paving stones. Looking up, he knelt before a gatehouse, the iron portcullis wedged firmly down in the tooth-grooves. Jaerod was not there, but he felt a prickle across the back of his neck, as if someone had teased him with a feather.
“Hold there!”
“How in Hate did he get down…”
“Who are you! Is it a Drugaen?”
Soldiers roamed the upper battlement walls, spilling murmurs and choking the air with their garbled talk. There were easily a hundred soldiers, maybe more. All staring at him as if he were nothing but a stool left alone amongst the tables.
“Now,” Jaerod whispered.
Flent stared at the portcullis and knew what he needed to do. The weapon spoke to him, revealing the right way to grip it, to swing it, to let it fly loose. He brought it up with both hands, propping it against his chest as he took a deep breath.
“Take him down! Bring him down!”
Crossbow bolts hissed and struck around him, clattering and breaking as they rained down, but missed him. He raised the weapon high over his head, feeling it draw in magic in a flood of warmth and prickling pleasure. Shouts of warning, cries of alarm, split the air. He swept the blade around in three full circles and let go.
The Silvan weapon went end over end, pin-wheeling perfectly, humming against the thunderclaps of crossbows and spears. It struck the barricade of iron and woodworks, letting off a clap that deafened him. The earth jolted with the impact of it, stones rattled loose and plummeted. Soldiers stumbled and fell. Flent stared, his jaw slack.
The southern doors of the city had shattered.
A pang of watchfulness flicked through him as a whir resounded in his ears. On instinct, he held up his hand and the war axe came back to him like a dove.
The rush of magic left him and he sagged to his knees for a moment, the tugs and ripples of it washing through him. Then mounting back to his feet, he marched through the inner gates of Landmoor as war trumpets sounded from the valley lowlands behind him. He paused, disoriented, and whirled around.
“What in Achrolese’s…”
It was the Shae army.
* * *
Thealos entered the blinding blue warding and the chamber of the Silverkin. Again he was struck by a feeling of absolute peace and an awareness of the filthiness of his clothes, his blood-spattered weapon. He sheathed the blade as he crossed to the center of the room, noticing once more that the blue gems, serving as the chamber’s only lights, did not leave shadows on the floor. The Silvan magic whispered hungrily to him.
–Claim me–
As had happened before, stepping into the bowl of the inner room caused a shimmering shaft of light to erupt from the center of the floor. He licked his lips, wondering if he would receive another Foretelling. His answer came as fast as the thought had.
The voice whispered to him from the center of the rotunda.
“Son of Quicksilver, welcome. Follower of the Way of Ice and Shadows, greetings. Keeper of the Oath magic. Are you ready to claim the magic of the Silverkin?”
A chill ran through Thealos’ body. He dropped into the kneeling position that Jaerod had taught him, the position required to learn the Nine Oaths. The lives of the wellspring murmured soothingly.
“Aye,” he whispered.
Something akin to a breeze came as a draft through the rotunda of stone. It rustled his clothes and cooled him.
“To be a Ravinir is to be broken. To have the power to destroy the kingdoms of this world, one must bear the burden of the Oath magic. The kingdom you will break is a kingdom that has dwelled in the heart of a Sorian since the Dawn of Time. To break it, you must be broken. It is the law of the Oath magic. It is the price of the magic you wield. Suffer it, Son of Quicksilver. It will teach you many truths.”
–Claim me!–
“Look into the light that you may see the first truth.”
Thealos’ head was already bowed, so he leaned forward and plunged his face into the shaft of brilliance. The magic seized him as it had before, the sickening lurching feeling like plunging into an ice-crusted pond. Part of him fought against the surge of coldness, but he embraced the chill despite its burn.
The Foretelling washed over him in waves, speaking in soothing folds of magic as it buoyed him along. It was a different experience this time. It was not the river of magic bringing him to the past, but a glimpse into a single moment in time. The exact moment of him kneeling in the Silverkin’s lair. Like flower petals touched by the sun’s warmth, the thoughts and images unfolded as one, yet he could see them all individually.
Ticastasy clutched herself in the dark hallway, alone in the fetid tunnels, blind to even the glare of the warding that her human eyes could not see. She paced fitfully, chewing on her lip, fearing he would die invoking the magic and wondering if she should have confessed her feelings for him—wondering if she would ever be able to bring herself to do it.
Another petal. Xenon’s two quaeres were decimated. He alone survived of the Crimson Wolfsmen, and he fought like a Sleepwalker who had trained for a century. The Life magic of his companions sustained him, and dozens of Bandit soldiers had fallen like wheat to the scythes. His mind was a jumble of emotions, but a single thought shoved him along—his hatred for Thealos Quickfellow. His consuming hatred.
Then another—Flent Shago with a Shae war axe waving over his head as he bellowed at his full voice. He was just inside the gates of Landmoor, having brought them crushing down with a gift of the Mages of Safehome. A throb of pride went through Thealos seeing him hale and hearty. The Shae army advanced on the southern gates of the Landmoor. He could see them through Flent’s eyes.
The petals were all different. Tsyrke Phollen, clutching a bleeding scalp with one hand and holding his broad sword with the other, staggered down the tunnels, searching for Ticastasy and Mage, wondering why his carefully laid plans to surrender the city had collapsed in a heap of his own undoing. Thealos saw the truth of it blazoned in the darkness. It had not been a deception. Stasy was right about him. She had no idea how deeply his heart bled for her.
Justin, hands charred and screaming with pain, struggled against the Sorian named Mage in the tunnels beneath Landmoor. Justin’s mind was not his own, stolen and twisted by Miestri to serve her will. A minion of sacrifice to increase her own power while she waited safely in the Shadows Wood, well beyond the influence of the Silverkin’s magic. There was Exeres too, haggard and sweating, clutching a sphere the color of crimson and raising it above his head. Before him, on the floor, was a thing of the darkest magic, a Firekin orb—the source of a Sorian’s power.
“Now!”
He knew the truth instantly. Exeres destroying the Firekin would destroy the entire city too, killing everyone but Thealos, who was sheltered within the warding. The moorlands would be devastated for years, a stagnant hollow where evil would gather because of the taint of the land. A place of shadows and death for generations.
As he watched Exeres’ fist fall, he plunged his own hand into the center of the floor and grasped the cool shape of the Silverkin’s magic. He raised it from its nest as the magic sighed with freedom. The lights within the warding winked out, but the Silverkin itself shimmered with impatience, blazing in his hand like a fist of stars.
–You have come at last!–
The Silverkin jolted his arm with the strength and rush of its magic, dazing him with its ferocity. He remembered gripping a Crimson Wolfsmen blade for the first time, the Silvan blade he had tricked from Tannon’s band. It was a drop of water compared to the ocean of feelings that awoke all at once inside him. The sea-swell of power broke loose from the rotunda room, as if a banked up river had shattered free. Magic flooded the tunnels, carrying a part of him as it went down every aisle and twisting passageway, slamming and splashing, bursting through the seams of the rocks.
Though it felt like an ocean, the magic had a sound to it—a chorus of notes pitched high and low, and some in between, building to such a crescendo of piteous beauty that tears pricked his eyes at the hauntingly sweet sounds. The magic spread, deeper and deeper through the tunnels, spilling up into the streets, tumbling down the slope of the hill until it engulfed every Kiran Thall poised at the brink of a slaughter. It stole every mote of Forbidden magic, every speck of it, smothering its stink. The Firekin orbs recoiled with shock as the Silverkin doused them, plunging their dark flames into its cool waters. The links between Justin, Exeres, and Miestri snapped apart—of Mage as well. Nothing could stop the Silverkin’s power, nothing could halt the flood as it shuddered the very foundations of Landmoor and exploded in the sky outside its walls.
