Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1) Read online

  In that moment it was fortunate he hadn’t yet retrieved Rikar Bladesong’s sword from where it lay on the forest floor, such was the anger her words sparked within him. Turning his back to Jenzara, he now did so, stooping to retrieve the weapon, shaking forest debris from the blade. Without looking back, he stalked off in the direction of a path leading out of the small clearing. A set of deep wagon ruts began abruptly at the head of the path, no indication of the wagon that had made them having turned around to explain why the tracks just stopped. It was almost as if the thing had just dropped from thin air and gone off into the woods.

  “Ferrin.”

  There was a tender note in her voice that influenced him to turn back, though he kept his eyes from hers.

  “Why would father have a shadow portal in his study? And one that leads to the middle of nowhere?”

  He thought he knew, but she wouldn’t like it. Now wasn’t the time.

  “I’ve no idea. But what I do know is that we’re not going to accomplish anything standing here. This road must go somewhere. Why else would there be the portal?”

  He began to head off in that direction, but when Jenzara made no move to follow, he turned back again. Her hands were on her hips.

  “Have you considered I might not want to be seen traveling with a fifth?”

  The fingers of his blade hand twitched.

  “Look,” he snapped, “I wasn’t part of the Betrayer’s plan. I didn’t kill your mother. Blood and boulders! I’d never even channeled the shadow until about ten minutes ago. If your hatred runs so deep that you’ll cast away all our past experiences over a single fact that changes nothing about them, well...”

  He paused to take a breath, surprised—and then surprised that he was surprised—to find his heart nearly springing from his chest.

  “Then nothing I say will change your mind. But I hope you’ll follow. You’re still my friend and I’ve an awfully lonely path before me, I think.”

  With that he turned and moved away through the gap in the trees. Jenzara said nothing, but after what seemed a decade she began to follow, twigs snapping beneath hesitant steps. He exhaled, heart still pounding like a smith’s hammer on the anvil.

  They carried on for some time in silence, him leading and Jenzara trailing a dozen paces behind, as if whatever he had was catching. But at least her silence allowed him time to think.

  Raldon must have known, or at least strongly suspected, he was shadow attuned. Why else tell him of a shadow portal in his study? Anger surged through Ferrin at the thought that Raldon had concealed the knowledge of his true nature all this time, but the rage quickly fizzled. What else could Raldon have done in a world governed by the Edicts? Shades! He hadn’t known about his attunement for more than a minute before someone had tried to kill him over it. And Raldon had died to protect him, even knowing what he was.

  Raldon had been the only person who knew anything of Ferrin’s parents. And the only person who’d ever been anything like a parent to him. Now the man was gone, and it was quite possible Ferrin would never be able to return to Ral Mok. Never learn what had become of his true parents.

  The full weight of the situation descended upon him like a mountain. He’d never bought the Temple’s bigotry towards the shadow. But his objections had always been in an abstract, philosophical sense. Now it was personal. His own best friend was treating him like the spawn of the Seven. How would strangers treat him?

  It was a foolish question. He needn’t look any further than the way people had turned their noses to the Parents’ shadow children in the courtyard—as if they’d stepped in dung and just identified the smell. Yes. Ferrin knew exactly what they’d do; how they’d treat him. But that didn’t make it right. He was no different now than he’d been before the elemental examination. Why should something about him that people couldn’t even outwardly see make a difference in how he—or anyone else—was treated?

  An inquisitive hum from Jenzara interrupted his thoughts.

  “What’s that?” he asked, turning around.

  “Take a look at—”

  She never finished. Instead, Jenzara let out a startled yelp. He turned in time to see the ground about her erupt in a cloud of dead leaves and dirt. The sharp twang of a snapping rope rang out and a net closed around Jenzara, hauling her into the air. She hung suspended in a tangle of rope and plant matter, swinging back and forth in a way that made him queasy. Her purple eyes flashed in a mixture of surprise and panic.

  Ferrin resisted the urge to rush to her, lest there be more traps planted on the trail. He treaded to the spot where the net had lain hidden amongst the detritus, staring intently at the ground before him all the while. Jenzara struggled against the net above him, but only succeeded in tangling herself further.

  “Stop thrashing before you cut off circulation,” he rasped, looking about.

  “Easy for you to say from down there.” She spoke too loudly, but at least she stopped moving. Under different circumstances he might have burst into laughter at the sight of her, hanging impossibly tangled from the treetops.

  “I’ll go find the end of the suspension rope and lower you down.”

  He turned away and started in surprise. A man stood not three paces away, face hidden beneath a hooded cloak. He was between Ferrin and where he figured the end of the rope must lay. He hadn’t heard any suggestion of the man’s approach.

  “Are you with the Temple?” The man’s tone was ambiguous, giving no hint as to the answer he’d prefer.

  Ferrin hedged, remaining silent. The man’s cloak was coarse. A rough-spun fabric, possibly handmade. Nothing like the channeled finery worn by the Parents. But the Temple employed many agents. He wasn’t about to give the man any information before he knew more about him.

  “I need to get my friend down,” Ferrin eventually replied. “Can you help?”

  “Help?” the man said. “That’s my trap, boy. I don’t like strangers coming through my woods unannounced. Don’t like them coming through at all. Explain your presence.”

  The man made no move, but Ferrin sensed danger emanating off him like stink from a sty. He considered telling the man where he could stick his explanation when Jenzara cut in.

  “My father would be furious if he saw how you were treating us.”

  “Why would I care what your father thinks?” the man replied, his head never moving. Ferrin could feel his eyes on him, though the hood continued to obscure his features.

  “Because he told us we’d find help here,” Ferrin said before Jenzara could give the man any more details. Until circumstances showed otherwise, he had to assume this man wasn’t on their side.

  Ferrin felt more than saw the stranger’s eyes momentarily flick up to Jenzara. But otherwise, he remained implacable as a granite pillar. His quiet stretched on for so long Ferrin began to wonder whether the man had actually turned to stone.

  “Impossible,” he finally said. The man might not have turned to stone, but his voice was nearly as hard. “Few know of this place, and they told me nothing of visitors. Or refugees.” He inclined his hooded head in what Ferrin interpreted as the man eying them up and down. The hood continued to hide most of his face.

  “And I know it for true that a troupe of Parents arrived at Ral Mok not two days past. Their arrival and your presence cannot be mere coincidence.”

  “You’re right,” Jenzara shouted from where she hung. Her feet were now tangled in a position above her head and she had to crane her neck back to look down at the stranger.

  “There is a connection, but not the one you might think. If you could just—”

  “Enough.”

  The man uttered the word no louder than any other, but it carried command enough to part seas. Ferrin stepped back a pace, as if physically struck. Jenzara seemed stunned into silence above him.

  “Leave this place, boy. You’re not welcome. I’ll take care of your friend.”

  An irrational wave of fear ran through Ferrin at the mere thought
of disobeying the man. But his thoughts quickly turned to Jenzara, trapped and defenseless. He certainly wasn’t going to abandon her to this hooded stranger, no matter how much acquiescence his voice demanded.

  So rather than obey, he drew his sword. Or rather, Rikar Bladesong’s sword, which had been gifted to Raldon and now unexpectedly fallen to his possession. It was the sort of grand action he’d always dreamed of as a young boy, baring steel in the face of a threat. But here in the moment all he felt was grim determination. Jenzara protested from above, but he barely heard as the Focus overtook him. Birds chirruped without care as he squared his shoulders to the man, settling into River Flows Over Rocks, an aggressive variation on a classically balanced stance. This ruffian wouldn’t know what to do with it.

  But the man showed no ill ease. He remained still as a boulder balanced at the edge of a precipice.

  “Where did you get that blade, boy?”

  Ferrin hoped his surprise at the question didn’t show. Unless he grossly misjudged the stranger’s tone, the man recognized Bladesong’s sword.

  “It was given to me.”

  “Do not lie to me.” The anger in his voice was the first emotion the stranger had allowed to seep into his otherwise flat tone. “One does not just give away such a weapon. Leave it and leave this place. Or I will take it and your life from you.”

  Ferrin only narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the blade’s hilt. The man remained still for a time, then let out what might have been a sigh and shrugged out of his cloak, letting it slide to the ground. Dark hair fell around his shoulders. He was taller than Ferrin. And perhaps at one time had been broader. But now he was all lean muscle, the sort that came from hard, repetitive work. And yet, Ferrin didn’t need to see the man move to know he was both strong and quick. It showed in how his muscles coiled like springs.

  The man’s eyes were covered by a pair of solar specs, the type often used by Northern miners and, as such, a style utterly eschewed by Southerners. But even that odd detail paled in comparison to the second, for at the man’s hip hung a sword the likes of which Ferrin had only ever read about. A slender profile with glowing runes that ran across its length like veins. No other material could be so thin yet still fashioned into a workable weapon.

  An ebon blade. Made of the forbidden material from the North that drove all who came too close to sickness and death. All but those attuned to the shadow, that was. Ferrin nearly laughed. If the man expected the blade to give him an advantage, he was in for one shadow of a surprise.

  “Curious,” the stranger murmured, almost as if Ferrin weren’t there. “I see you understand what this is, and yet you don’t fear it. You’re either very foolish, or...”

  The man drew faster than Ferrin could blink and pointed the weapon straight at him. The runes etched down its length began to glow an angry red. The man hesitated.

  That was all the invitation Ferrin needed. The late-morning birds chorused as he reached out to the shadows about him. The resulting hex was still an ugly splatter, but at least it was more targeted than his earlier attempt.

  The stranger pulled back his sword and, well... Ferrin wasn’t exactly sure what he did. Caught the channel was the best description he could muster. And he’d reacted with no more urgency than if he’d been holding a basket and Ferrin had just tossed him a melon. The hex seemed drawn to the blade like metal filings to a magnet. Deep purple reflections danced up the length of the man’s sword. Then the stranger flicked the shadow power from the blade like droplets of water. The grass immediately yellowed where the failed hex fell.

  Before Ferrin had time to be surprised, the man countered. He was quick as a fox.

  Rain Slides Down the Mountain.

  Ferrin barely managed a parry. The man attacked again, shoving Ferrin back all in one flash of motion.

  Crops Spring with Life.

  At least, that’s what Ferrin thought the man’s next stance was. It was all so fast.

  Slash. Shove.

  Ferrin gulped air.

  Parry. Stumble.

  Then, as if he hadn’t just doled out enough offensive power to leave Ferrin panting and haggard, hands ringing from the clash of their blades, the man resumed his stolid posture, not even assuming one of the five basic stances. His breathing hadn’t even quickened.

  “There is still time for you to stop this foolery and go.” The stranger’s voice hit Ferrin like hail. But intermingled with the pelting syllables was something else. Regret?

  No matter. Ferrin reset his feet and came at the man again.

  Rocks Tumble Down the Mountainside.

  The stranger’s feet blurred into a wholly foreign stance, meeting the attack with ease. Ferrin leapt back, assuming Boulders in a Cairn. He’d have been embarrassed if he weren’t so deep in the Focus. It’d been years since someone had forced him into such a defensive posture. But this stranger, while displaying flashes of the classical forms, largely employed techniques Ferrin had never seen. Something that looked like Birds in a Meadow slid seamlessly to a blow that seemed aimed at both his head and waist at the same time. Ferrin began to curse the limitations of his training at Ral Mok.

  But despite the man’s unfamiliar forms, and what Ferrin could only assume was his equally obvious unfamiliarity, the man didn’t press any advantage. Whenever Ferrin retreated, the man simply resumed his almost nonchalant posture, as if his flurry of blows tired him not at all.

  Ferrin shifted to Blaze in a Dry Meadow, lunging. The man’s riposte nearly took his arm off. But now Ferrin saw a weakness in the man’s defense; an opening on his weak side. Ferrin shifted once more—Stone Crab in the Shallows—inviting the man to take the offensive. And the stranger fell for it, lashing out at his midsection.

  Ferrin parried the blow, spun to his left, and whipped his blade at the man’s exposed flank. Perfectly timed. The man was off balance, the momentum of his slashing attack still carrying him away from Ferrin. He didn’t have time to block Ferrin’s blade as it sped at his exposed left side. Instead, the man stuck out his hand in a futile gesture that would surely leave him maimed.

  And turned Ferrin’s blow away.

  His sword slammed into the man’s wrist as if he’d swung at a block of marble. The shock sent vibrations up Ferrin’s arm, into his sinus cavity, and he nearly dropped Rikar’s blade. Ferrin now saw—much too late—that it wasn’t the stranger who’d been duped.

  And finally, the man seized the initiative. His speed was breathtaking, and it took every bit of training Ferrin had just to keep his head upon his shoulders. Falls Over the Rapids was the only one of over a dozen stances Ferrin recognized as the man came at him. Again. And again. Worse yet, Ferrin had an uneasy sense that if the man truly wanted to kill him he could strike even faster. As it was, the ebon blade whistled through the air, streaks of scarlet light leaving after images in Ferrin’s vision.

  He felt like a child, holding a sword for the first time, being knocked down time and again by the Master at Arms. He wouldn’t be able to keep up with the rapidity of the man’s strikes much longer. So he did the only thing he could think of.

  He dipped under a powerful thrust, letting the tip of his own blade drag through the trampled ground as he’d done the day before in the sparring ring. The earth’s power streamed up the blade to him, more than enough to summon a cloud of dust. It billowed up, dark and angry, obscuring his view of the stranger.

  Ferrin lashed out, whooping in triumph. Then his stomach dropped as the swipe met only air. A moment later, the man’s booted foot struck him in the small of the back. Air gushed from Ferrin’s lungs; pain down his legs. He tumbled to the ground, losing his sword. It clattered against a stone, the sound thrumming through his bones. He fought to keep his vision as the dust from his own summoning burned his eyes. Grit sucked all moisture from his mouth, a cough rasping in this throat.

  He rolled over. Pawed the ground. Useless. The stranger was on him before he’d even had a chance to take a single, pained breath. He
rolled Ferrin over with a kick to the ribs, angled his blade down, and pressed the glowing ebon to Ferrin’s throat.

  20

  Devan

  And they laid red flowers on his grave.

  -The sole excerpt from Tragnè’s Oral Histories regarding Agar’s funeral

  DEVAN TRUDGED UP THE narrow, cobbled road, shrugging his shoulder to adjust the slender pack weighing on his back. He muttered something about Northerners and their superstition about peregrination, wondering not for the first time why he was bothering to respect it. He shook a line of sweat from one of his scar-laced arms, the perspiration splattering onto the sculpture of a quaffing man that stood outside a tavern that seemed long abandoned, windows smashed in, door hanging on a single hinge.

  A man rushed past him, chasing after his hat, caught in a sudden gust of wind. Devan nearly smiled, the scene calling to mind a similar one from his past. He’d taken those times for granted. Now he wished he’d savored every instant.

  That wiped even the thought of smiling from his mind and he toiled on, spiraling ever upward to the mountain’s peak, muttering with such frequency that passersby stayed well clear of him. Good. Though he’d no right to be complaining. It was little more than a hill, really. But his scalp itched in the heat. It’d been weeks since he’d shaved his head before leaving the Conclave for the last time, sheering away the aggressive hairstyle his people had favored. The burn of the razor had since left him, only to be replaced by the interminable itching of new stubble.

  More time would have passed for the dwarf and Bladesorrow, of course. He’d chosen exactly how much, in fact. One year’s local time. That ought to be sufficient for the High Emissary to have taught the Grand Master Keeper what he needed to know of his shadow attunement.

  Devan’s original intent had only been to spend a few days of his own time away. But the Path had dictated otherwise. Each time he shut his eyes and returned to his vision of the Path it was worse. Some parts had virtually no shore, rocks avalanching into its depths, creating dams where none ought to be. Tributaries the size of rivers branched off at various points, any one of them of such a size that Stephan would have called upon multiple Aldur to address them. Now, Devan merely had to ignore all but the greatest of them.