Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (15 page)

“You served Rejius, the immortal Firstborn, for some time,” said Windweaver.

Trevin rubbed his hand. Would his past never let him go? “I and my brother.”

Windweaver handed him the flask and untied the bundle. “Rejius drew you into his vengeful game of hawk and hare. He allows Benasin to escape, then hunts him down.”

Trevin took a gulp of chilled springwater, relieved the Archon understood that he and Dwin had been pawns. “Doesn’t Rejius ever tire of his game?”

“On the contrary, he delights in it. The challenge is different each time Benasin escapes. Besides, the time required to find his brother is of no consequence to Rejius.”

“Because he and Benasin are immortal,” said Trevin.

“Just so. However, we of the Angelaeon are determined that this game will be Rejius’s last.” Windweaver handed Trevin a fist-sized round of bread.

Trevin took a hefty bite and was surprised to find a tangy golden jam inside. Apricot. He eyed Windweaver, wondering if the Archon had seen him give Melaia a dried apricot at Treolli as a guilt offering.

But Windweaver lay on his back, gazing up at the stars. His face was inscrutable.

Trevin licked at the jam. The dried apricot at Treolli had cost him dearly in coin—and this trip was costing him dearly in time. He needed answers. “I’ve been told the stars will soon align,” he said, hoping to turn the conversation back to the harps.

“The time is right,” said Windweaver. “The game will be lost or won not only for the Angelaeon but for this world, for if the stairway is not restored, if the Wisdom Tree is not rerooted, the opportunity will not return for two hundred more years.”

“So we’ll get another chance.” Trevin picked a pit out of the jam and sucked the fruit off it.

“In two hundred years, yes. But by that time the blight will have decimated the world, and the immortals’ game will have destroyed thousands upon thousands of its inhabitants.”

“In that case my most pressing task is to find the harps. Do you know where they are?”

Windweaver leaned on one elbow. “You think I’ve given you no answers, but it’s you who have not answered me, Seeker.”

Trevin turned the pit around in his palm.

“Main Trevin?”

Trevin looked into Windweaver’s searching eyes.

“What do you seek?” asked the Archon.

Trevin closed his fist around the pit as the question sank in. “Myself,” he murmured. “I seek myself.”

revin awoke on the plateau the next morning in a blanket of fog heavy with the smell of rain. He couldn’t see Windweaver, but as he looked toward the indistinct shape of the mist-shrouded grove, he could feel the Archon’s presence. He saluted with the sign of the Tree.

In answer a stiff breeze riffled his hair. Then Windweaver was there, handing Trevin’s sword belt to him. “I walk the wind again today,” he said. “You will move on. But we’ve not seen the last of each other.”

Trevin fastened the scabbard to his belt. “Then you’ll hear if I call to you?”

“I am not omniscient. If I’m nearby, I’ll hear. If I’m not”—he shrugged—“I may catch a snatch of your voice on the wind. Or not.”

“But I can return to Windsweep, and you’ll hear.”

“Only if I’m nearby. Not everyone hears from the Oracle at Windsweep.”

“I heard you in the aerie,” said Trevin, “and in the woods near Drywell.”

“I often greet you when I pass.” Windweaver held three fingers to his heart. “You’ll feel me in the wind.” He turned and vanished.

Wind gusted, fog swirled, and the voice whispered.
Hold faaaaast to the search, Seeeeeker
.

Trevin stood listening until the gray world around him grew still. Since the edge of the plateau hid beneath fog, he crept toward it, feeling his way to the sapling that had supported his climb up. Belly to the ground, he clutched the thin trunk with both hands, edged his legs over the rim, and lowered himself until his toes felt the top rung of the ladder, slick in the wet air.

After the first few rungs, the fog thinned, and Trevin chanced a look straight down at the canyon floor. It was a shadowless maze. Near the foot of the ladder lay a banked campfire and Trevin’s staff, but Pym was nowhere in
sight, nor were the horses. Three days was no doubt longer than Pym had expected to wait, but surely the armsman would not have given up yet. He had probably led the horses to water.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Trevin jumped the last few rungs to the ground. He took up his staff and poked the ashes of the campfire. Recently used. Pym would return, and he would have questions: Did the Oracle speak a message for the king? What about the harps and comains?

Trevin sighed. He was returning as empty headed as he had gone.

Voices echoed off the cliffs.

“Pym?” called Trevin. The talking stopped. He circled the base of the plateau. “Pym?”

As he rounded the west side of the cliff, he saw a horse tethered to a scrub tree, but it wasn’t Pym’s roan or the sleek black he had ridden. A few more paces brought a large stone into view.

On the stone sat Prince Resarian, his chin raised proudly but fear in his eyes. Beside him stood Varic, inspecting the edge of his sword.

“See?” Resarian said. “I told you Main Trevin was somewhere around here.”

“Of all your fool ramblings, it’s the only intelligent thing you’ve uttered,” said Varic.

Trevin leaned casually on his staff, but his mind raced. Where was Pym? Haden? Varic’s companions? “What are you two doing here?” he asked.

“I am having my adventure,” said Resarian.

“Indeed,” said Varic.

Resarian folded his arms. To keep them from trembling, Trevin suspected. “I slipped away from camp in the early morning just as you did, Main Trevin. A clever strategy. I wanted to return your horse to you. I rode him to the edge of the canyon, where I was accosted by Prince Varic and his surly friends. They’re most ill humored.”

Trevin winced. No doubt Resarian felt free to salt his talk with barbs now that his favorite comain had shown up to rescue him.

“We were more than happy to accompany this jabber-jaw to find you,” said Varic.

We?
Trevin looked around. A crackling streak of thunderlight jagged across the clouds.

“Hesel and Fornian have gone after the fellow who chased your horse,” said Varic. “When they return, Hesel will escort the prince to the Dregmoors while Fornian and I return your dead body to Camrithia so the king will know justice has been meted out to the murderer of his personal servant.”

Resarian’s eyes widened with alarm.

“How did I get accused of murder?” Trevin slid his right hand down his staff and nearer his sword.

Varic tested the heft of his blade. “Hesel was accused of gash running and forced to divulge the name of his contact in Redcliff.”

“And he named me,” said Trevin.
Turn the tide
, he thought.
Move swiftly. One good cut to Varic’s leg, and hold the jackal hostage. When Hesel and Fornian return, trade Varic for horses and leave the Dregmoorians to find their way out of the canyon on foot
.

“Murder is just one in a long list of your crimes,” said Varic. “Thief, informant, turncoat. Not even animals are safe from you. Prince Rattle-Tongue told me what happened to my dog.” He pierced a stand of desert pears with his sword. The juice oozed out and puddled on the ground.

“How did Hesel get off free?” asked Resarian.

“He didn’t,” said Varic. “Fornian and I led him out of Redcliff in chains, destined for the Dregmoors, where he will be justly repaid. We decided to take the northern route to find his murderous accomplice.”

“You’ve found me,” said Trevin, “so let the prince go.”

“And forfeit the bounty paid for his blood? Hesel would be none too happy about that.”

“Why the prince’s blood? Take mine. Now, if you want.”

“Yours won’t do. You see, gash can’t maintain youth unless it’s mingled with blood. The younger the blood, the better the results.”

“Tohdlit.”
Trevin’s stomach churned. “Children.”

Varic’s eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed.”

“I am not a child,” rasped Resarian.

“You’re on the old side, I’ll admit,” said Varic, keeping his eyes on Trevin. “But with royal blood, who knows?”

Trevin steadied his breathing. This was not the best place for swords. Boulders, scrub trees, stands of desert pear, and the sides of the plateaus jagged at dangerous angles. But Hesel and Fornian could return at any time. Not the
odds Trevin wanted, but his fingers itched to draw his sword. If Varic would turn his attention to the prince …

“Where’s my horse, Resarian?” asked Trevin.

“He bolted to escape a net thrown by Prince Goon here.”

Varic punched Resarian in the stomach. It wasn’t the kind of attention Trevin intended, but he took the opening. As the prince slumped to the ground, Trevin dropped the staff and swept out his sword.

Varic grabbed Resarian, who gasped for breath, and thrust the tip of his blade at the prince’s throat.

Trevin froze, sword poised, muscles tensed. “If you want me, take me in a fair fight.”

“A fair fight?” Varic shoved Resarian aside and slipped his sword into its scabbard.

At the unexpected move Trevin eased up. In a flash Varic swept off his silver mesh sash, whirled it in the air above his head, and let it fly.

Trevin knocked the net away with his sword, but the mesh jerked the blade out of his hands, and both weapons fell to the ground, the pommel of the sword under the net.

Varic drew his sword and lunged.

Trevin dodged, grabbed his staff, and blocked Varic’s next strike. The staff wasn’t sharp, but it was longer than Varic’s sword, and between parries, Trevin struck Varic, connecting once with a shoulder, once with a thigh.

“You four-fingered misbegot …” Varic seethed. “I know you’re after the throne. You thought you could hide. No longer!” He struck back.

Trevin parried with the staff. Its length was a hindrance around the boulders. He had to make sure he didn’t get boxed in, unable to maneuver. In addition, he didn’t know how long the staff could take the sharp edge of Varic’s sword. With every hit he expected it to splinter.

All the while, Trevin was aware of Resarian trying to rise. Then the prince seemed to give up and simply crouched there, holding his belly.

Trevin ducked a wild swing from Varic. He could see why Hesel and Fornian did Varic’s fighting for him. Varic was not a skilled fighter. His right defense was weak, though he made up for it with an overabundance of ferocity. His swipes were vicious. Trevin stepped sideways, alert. If he stumbled or dropped his guard, he knew Varic would lunge in for the kill.

Resarian began crawling slowly across the ground. Hoping the prince would run or at least take refuge behind a rock, Trevin twisted left, leading Varic’s attention away from the prince.

Then he saw where Resarian was headed. As the prince slipped Trevin’s sword away from the net, Trevin took heart. Two against one. Even though he had been punched, Resarian would be the fresh man in the fight.

But Resarian did not take up the sword. Instead, he tried to slide the blade to Trevin. Resarian clambered back to his boulder and motioned to Trevin, pointing at the sword.

Trevin would have to move to a weaker position to retrieve the sword, his back to the cliff face. But he saw no other choice.

He dodged Varic’s cut, wove around a scrub tree, tossed the staff aside, and grabbed the hilt of his sword. The pommel was as flat as a piece of parchment and as cold as frost. The balance felt strange. But Trevin met Varic’s next swipe with a strong stroke.

With new courage Trevin went on the attack, concentrating on Varic’s weak right. He felt hemmed in, with boulders on each side and the cliff face behind him, but he pressed Varic, looking for an opportunity to wound his legs or lunge and skewer him through the chest. Either way, the fight would be over. And Varic was tiring. So was Trevin, but if he could stay alert, he would find his advantage.

Then Varic made a desperate swipe to his right. His weak right. Trevin met Varic’s blade and sent it flying.

The sky rumbled. Trevin cut toward Varic’s legs, but Varic dodged, reversed direction, and grabbed Resarian, holding him as a shield.

“Let Resarian go.” Trevin panted. “Your quarrel is with me, not him.” Trevin kept his sword pointed at Varic, ready to run him through as soon as he released the prince.

Varic’s beetle-black eyes glittered hatred. In one swift move he rammed his living shield toward Trevin’s sword.

As Trevin jerked back, his elbow hit the stone face of the cliff.

Resarian’s eyes were wide, his mouth open as Trevin’s blade slammed through his chest, but the cry came from Trevin.

Resarian coughed and shuddered.

Varic staggered back.

Trevin slumped to the ground with the prince. His head buzzed; his whole body shook. The sound of galloping hoofs seemed like a distant dream.

Then Varic yelled, “This devil attacked Resarian! I tried to fight him off, but he knocked my sword from my hand and turned on the prince.”

Trevin looked up, gaping as Haden and Dio rode in with three horsemen. Haden leaped from his horse, tearing off his cloak. He reached the prince in two strides, pulled the sword from his chest, and pressed his cloak to the wound.