Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (22 page)

Livia leaned forward. “That’s exactly why she needs our help. She was born ‘breath of angel, blood of man’ for the express purpose of restoring the Tree. Those of us who know her are confident she’ll do everything in her power to fulfill her task, with or without our help. Wouldn’t it be better to lend our aid and take part in the Tree’s restoration?”

“I agree,” said Toryth, the arrowsmith from the trial council, her concerned face creased in wrinkles. “We can affect the balance of power so Dreia’s daughter can succeed.”

“Will we go to war?” asked a white-haired man. “I lost more than half my friends in the Angel Wars after the fall of the Tree. I’ve no desire to repeat the experience.”

Ollena stepped forward. “If I may—”

King Kedemeth nodded.

“War is a valid concern.” Her husky voice filled the room. “But I heard from a reliable source that when Arelin invaded the Dregmoors, Rejius lost a devastating number of his malevolents. I should think the immortal Firstborn would be reluctant to commit to a full-scale war, hmm?”

“A reliable source?” asked the white-haired man. “How many malevolents did the Firstborn lose?”

“I can’t give you a definite count.” Ollena stepped back to her place.

“Nor can I,” said Livia, “but we know they usually work in squads of six. Rejius sent two squads to attack Dreia.”

Trevin wiped sweat from his forehead. Two squads to attack an unsuspecting caravan. It was a slaughter. He wished he had never heard of the Firstborn.

“By the Asp’s estimates,” said Livia, “there are twelve squads in all. That’s fewer than one hundred malevolents. If enough of us organize—”

“The Asp!” Nevius snorted. “Is that your
reliable
source? You trust information from an informant no one knows? His reports are likely disseminated by the Firstborn to entice us into a war we can’t win. Besides, if we’re to believe reports from Camrithia, the Firstborn has plenty of Dregmoorian raiders. We’d be badly outnumbered if he sent them into battle.”

“The raiders are gash warriors,” said Livia, “kept alive by drinking gash, a poor experiment gone awry. They’re not angels, and they’re not indestructible.”

“They’re not completely human either,” said Nevius. “I’d not like to come
upon a contingent of them. Perhaps they couldn’t kill you, but they’d take you to someone who could.”

Trevin sank into his seat, disappointed. He knew that angels did not always agree with one another, but he had expected more unity at this meeting.

Ollena stepped forward again. “My mother, Toryth, and I are Exousia.”

Trevin glanced at Toryth. Mother and daughter, warrior angels both.

Ollena glared at Nevius. “We are ready to fight and die so
you
can ascend the stairway back to Avellan. For
your
freedom, sir.”

“And if you lose?” grumbled the white-haired man. “You’ll be forever entombed in stone in the Under-Realm.”

Livia stood, her eyes smoldering. “Where is your courage, man? We’re servants of the Most High, father-mother of the universe. The breath of the heavens has been breathed into us.”

“Tell me,” said Nevius, “where was the Most High when the Tree was destroyed? During the Angel Wars, where was our creator? Our father-mother left us abandoned. Orphaned.”

Flames appeared above an unlit brazier and swirled into the form of a dark-skinned woman with wild copper hair. Trevin straightened, hardly breathing. He knew she was an Archon, for Melaia had described her along with Windweaver and Seaspinner.

King Kedemeth rose, as did several angels. Queen Ambria gripped the table, and others leaned forward. Nevius glared down his nose, his face set.

“Flametender,” said Livia. “Welcome.”

“Do I hear voices of rebellion?” Flametender scanned the room.

“Not rebellion. Reason,” said Nevius. “Returning to Avellan is a worthy goal, but we are few and unsupported by a higher power. Why don’t we admit that it’s unlikely we’ll ever return?”

“You cease to strive for yourself and the rest of society?” hissed Flametender. “Suit yourself, but you should know I’ve spoken with Earthbearer.”

The angels exchanged glances as they murmured the name.

“Earthbearer is on our side?” asked the white-haired man.

“Earthbearer is on his own side and supports others as it pleases him,” said Flametender.

“It pleases him to play god,” said Livia.

“That could be to our advantage.” Flametender paced around the room.
“I will start with some elementary facts for the benefit of those here who are not Angelaeon.”

Trevin felt a hot draft as she passed by.

“The Under-Realm is divided into the Shallows and the Deeps,” she said. “When Rejius, the immortal Firstborn, destroyed the Wisdom Tree and its stairway to heaven, he became responsible for the spirits of the dead who could no longer ascend to Avellan. He led them into the Shallows through caves in the Dregmoors, where he created an entire kingdom.”

“With Earthbearer’s permission?” asked King Kedemeth.

“Earthbearer welcomed Rejius as he welcomes all who enjoy exploring the beauties of the underground,” said Flametender. “But over time Rejius stripped the Shallows of its precious gems and minerals and used them to experiment with alchemy. He uncovered the dark arts and applied his discoveries to the spirits of the dead.”

Trevin rubbed his right hand. He had seen the results of Rejius’s dark arts: shape shifting, draks, gash warriors.

“While Rejius has been toying with spirits,” said Flametender, “Earthbearer has been toying with Rejius, unaware that the Firstborn has grown tired of experimenting on spirits. I informed Earthbearer that Rejius no longer waits for people to die but uses the living—even children. Gash is most effective when it’s mixed with human blood.”

Queen Ambria shrank back.

“Children?” A red-cheeked woman gaped.

“Until they stop growing,” said Flametender.

Trevin squeezed his eyes closed. At least Resarian never had to face that fate.

King Kedemeth’s fist hit the table. “What the blazes keeps you from going after him, then?” He glared at Nevius, who paled.

“Surely Earthbearer will destroy the Firstborn,” Nevius said tentatively.

“I suggested it,” said Flametender, “but Rejius is immortal, made so by the seeds of the Tree. He cannot be destroyed unless the Tree is restored.”

“By breath of angel, blood of man,” said Trevin, staring at her.

“Precisely,” said Flametender. “Still, Earthbearer will no longer countenance the Firstborn’s cruelties. He wants Rejius out.”

“To where?” asked Livia.

“Upground,” said Flametender. “Earthbearer is pressing Rejius to take himself and his charges into the world.”

“How?” asked King Kedemeth.

“By forcing fires and molten rock upward,” said Flametender.

“Landgash?” asked Trevin.

“For a start,” said Flametender.

Nevius rubbed his bulbous nose. “This changes things.”

“Your mind, I hope.” Flametender’s fiery gaze swept the group. “It may be easy to ignore the Firstborn when he is underground two kingdoms away. It’s another matter when he is upground on your own doorstep. The time to stop him is now.”

She paused and narrowed her eyes at Trevin. “You’re the one who walked the circuit with Windweaver.”

Trevin straightened.

“He’s Arelin’s son,” said Ambria.

Flametender extended her hands to Trevin. “Place your palms on mine.”

Intense heat radiated around Trevin, and he hesitated. But the request was no more strange than Windweaver telling him to step off the plateau, so he pressed his palms to hers.

He felt as if he were touching a flaming brazier. He expected to feel searing pain but instead felt only an intense heat that swam up his arms. His fingers, hands, and wrists glowed like molten metal, like the image in the sword. Sweat poured down his face and chest.

Flametender murmured softly as if in prayer.

It was the old tongue, Trevin was sure, the same language as the runes on the harps, which he couldn’t read.

Flametender backed away, and Trevin stared at his hands, expecting to see them charred beyond healing. But they looked the same as always, even the space where his small finger should have been. He looked up, wordless.

Flametender swept to the brazier, faded like a dying fire, and was gone.

n the last day of mourning, Trevin crouched alone in the library, rummaging through a trunk of ancient-looking scrolls, searching for one that might contain a key to translating the old tongue. Even Livia, the only other one close enough to hear Flametender’s words, did not know the old tongue. She said it had been handed down orally and only a few knew it these days.

“A lost cause,” Trevin muttered, tossing the final scroll back into the trunk. “I can’t even remember all the words anymore.
Cia eo toccia
something.”

He closed the lid. The other angels who had witnessed Flametender’s touch agreed she had given him some sort of gift, though no one knew what. At swords with Ollena, he showed no sudden remarkable improvement. He borrowed Haden’s bow, but Ollena still hit more bull’s-eyes than he did. He even tried a slingshot but completely missed the target. He was baffled. Ollena suggested there were other kinds of gifts just as valuable. Trevin thought he detected a trace of relief in her voice at knowing her prowess would remain unchallenged.

Pym had consoled him with the thought that the gift might be a greater measure of courage or wisdom. Trevin hoped for both as he moved to the window and peered through the intricate lattice. He could see King Kedemeth and Queen Ambria standing below in a grove of marble headstones, two black-gowned figures arm in arm by Prince Resarian’s tomb. As they made their way back toward the palace, Trevin knew he too had to visit the grave.

He took a last look at the library, the gaming table, the pouch of pebbles that would go unused tonight because of the court dinner signifying the end of the days of mourning. He would ride out on the morrow, and who knew if he would ever return? He would miss Flauren.

The heady fragrance of roses filled the air around the tombs in the burial garden, and the colors of the blooms rivaled a room full of Angelaeon. A beautiful place to rest in peace. Though if the Angelaeon were right, Resarian’s spirit, which should have crossed the veil by the stairway to heaven, had instead entered the Under-Realm. All the more reason to help Melaia unite the harps and restore the Tree.

“Resarian,” Trevin whispered, kneeling by the rosy granite obelisk inscribed with the prince’s name. “Forgive me.” Trevin bowed his head as the full weight of his guilt bore down on him.

The dinner that night was an occasion of restrained joy, a celebration of Prince Resarian’s life but respectful of the sadness that would remain for some time to come. As the homage to the prince came to a close, an attendant brought Trevin a summons to the royal apartments.

After Trevin made his farewells to council members, courtiers, and servants he had come to know at Flauren, the attendant led him to the king’s spacious private sitting room. On the west wall, a wide window stood open to the night sky. Along the north, brass lamps hung over a table that held travertine goblets and a bowl piled with fruits. Lamps on stands shed light on the south wall, where fresh flowers filled the summer hearth, gracing the room with the fragrance of a garden.