Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (32 page)

Trevin shook his head. “I knew he wanted a harp.”

“But you didn’t know he would murder to get it,” said Dwin.

“I knew what he was capable of.” Trevin stood and steadied himself on a wooden crate.

“I don’t hold you responsible for my brother’s sins,” said Benasin, “but I wager you’ll have to tell Jarrod and Melaia before the guilt will loose its choke hold on you.”

Trevin swayed toward the prow. He knew Benasin was right, but he dreaded facing Jarrod and Melaia.

A husky voice spoke from the shadows. “I would have done the same myself if I had been—”

“The fool that I am,” Trevin finished.

Ollena grabbed his upper arm with a grip that could have dislocated it if she had tugged.

Trevin glared at her.

“You interrupted me,” she said. “Stop beating yourself up, or we’ll be down one more man, and that will only make the enemy’s job easier.” She eased her grip. “As I was saying, I would have done the same if I had been in your situation. I am loyal to the one I serve. I follow her orders. You did the same. It just happened you were on the wrong side.”

“And I knew it,” said Trevin. “There’s the difference.”

“It’s also the reason you changed sides, hmm?”

Trevin stared out at the endless sea as Ollena headed toward the back of
the ship.
Is that why you serve Melaia … support the Angelaeon? To atone?
He clenched the side rail. He could answer the first question. He had loved Melaia long before he knew she was Dreia’s daughter. As for supporting the Angelaeon, he had no answer for that.

Dwin swayed up beside him. “Now I see why you were upset when I told you I wanted to be a spy.”

For a moment they stood in silence. For the first time Trevin sensed that he and Dwin were peers. It felt oddly comforting.

“There’s something you should know,” said Dwin. “In the Dregmoors I discovered you can claim an angel as your father.”

“I know. I learned about Arelin in Eldarra. He died rescuing Windwings.”

Dwin snorted. “Arelin didn’t die. Arelin is the Asp.”

inds remained steady throughout the night and into the next day. The ship captain sent word that he expected to make Qanreef by late afternoon or early evening.

Trevin paced to the stern. As sailors adjusted the steering oars at the sides of the vessel, he watched trails of white foam scatter in the waves. The Dregmoorian coast was long gone. So was the harp. So was the opportunity to meet his father.

Although Trevin had plied Dwin with questions about Arelin, Dwin had been tight lipped. He would say only that Arelin was a good, astute angel, crippled from the battle for the Windwings.

Trevin flexed his right hand, free from pain. He had always thought missing a finger made him less than whole. All the while his crippled father had been traveling the tunnels of the Dregmoors like any able-bodied man.

Benasin placed a hand on Trevin’s shoulder. “Thinking of the harp—or the Asp?”

“Did you know he was my father?”

“Not until Dwin told me last night. I see the resemblance now. How I missed it before, I’ll never know.”

“He was so close in the corridor,” said Trevin. “Didn’t he want to meet me?” The boat pitched, and Trevin gripped the top of the bulwarks.

Benasin grabbed a guyline. “I wager Arelin stayed aloof for the same reason I keep my distance from Jarrod. My presence exposes him to danger. Your father probably wanted to make sure you left the Dregmoors alive.”

Trevin hoped that was the reason. Being a spy, his father probably knew how shamefully his son had bowed to the hawkman and how he had been
duped into entering a drak’s cage. “What do you know about Arelin?” he asked.

“It’s ironic. The Asp probably knows all there is to know about me and my brother, but I know very little about the Asp.”

Trevin studied Benasin’s profile, set in a determined gaze eastward, and said, “I know a half-truth when I hear one. I’ve told enough of them myself.”

Benasin shot a startled glance at Trevin, then chuckled. “The Asp will enjoy you. But I’m not at liberty to divulge his closely guarded secrets.”

“Even to his son?”

“Even to his son.”

Trevin huffed. “All right, then. Tell me about yourself.”

Benasin turned and swayed toward the bow.

Trevin followed. “You asked me last night if I serve Melaia to assuage my guilt. The answer is no. I’m involved now, Benasin. I mean to support Melaia to the end—and my father too. What should I know?”

“What will be of use to you?”

“Anything about the Dregmoors and Rejius,” said Trevin. “What should I expect when I return for the harp?”

“Trouble.” Benasin tapped his fist on the bulwarks. “I foresee nothing else in the Dregmoors.”

“Then tell me about Rejius’s past.”

Benasin scratched his beard. “You know the story of the Wisdom Tree?”

“I do.”

“Then you know that Rejius, Stalia, and I ate the seeds of the Tree.” Benasin leaned against a barrel of nets. “At first we had no notion that we were immortal. We knew only that the souls of the dead were gathering at the site of the Tree, grabbing at us, asking where the stairway was. We knew of nothing to do but lead them into the caverns of the Dregmoors.”

Trevin sat on a cask. “Isn’t that Earthbearer’s domain?”

“It is. Earthbearer welcomed the spirits, but he made it clear that Rejius and I were responsible for them. He said his duties as Archon did not include playing nursemaid to the souls of the dead. Besides, it was our fault they couldn’t cross the stairway. So Earthbearer allowed us the Shallows and gave us limited access to Mid-Realm as well. Not the Deeps, though. The Deeps are his dwelling place.”

“What about Stalia?” asked Trevin.

Benasin lifted the corner of a net and fingered a frayed knot. “Poor girl. Stalia was the first to realize we were aging so slowly you could hardly call it aging at all.”

“The gift of the seeds.”

“Or the curse. We outlived family and friends. Their souls entered the Shallows, and what could we do but let them wander? But a wandering shade is a misery to behold. We got the idea that we, being immortal, might be able to restore life to the spirits, so we began exploring earth elements, experimenting with alchemy.”

“You and Rejius together?” asked Trevin. “I thought you were always enemies.”

“We weren’t friends. For a time we lived under a tense truce, but we could never overcome our old rivalries. We tried to outdo each other. I created the draks and leatherwings as a way to free the spirits of the dead. Rejius turned them into prisons for the living.” Benasin dropped the net back into the barrel. “Feel free to push me overboard.”

Trevin looked away. “If I pushed you over, I’d have to take the leap myself. You heard my confession last night. I’m in no way pure enough to condemn you.”

“Nor I you,” said Benasin.

The wind sang through the rigging. Gulls shrilled and skimmed the waves. The Camrithian coastline sprawled low and gray across the horizon.

Trevin cleared his throat. “Who decided to entomb spirits in stone statues?”

Benasin blinked as if his mind were returning from far away. “The statues were Rejius’s creation, as well as the nets that fuse souls to rock.”

Trevin shuddered at the memory of the cave paintings.

“Rejius did it to keep the souls from wandering, to maintain control,” said Benasin. “You can’t imagine it. The dead never stop coming.”

“What about gash?”

Benasin snorted. “I suggested we might reduce the number of dead if we found a way to extend the lives of the living, maybe give everyone immortality. That’s what inspired Rejius to concoct gash.”

“I’ve seen gash-drunks.”

“A few drinks and you crave it. You’ll do anything to get it. Many serve Rejius for the drink.”

Trevin clenched his jaw. The relationship between Varic and his grandfather Rejius was dangerously clear. Melaia could not, would not marry into the tyrant’s dynasty.

“You’re turning red,” said Benasin. “You might try to breathe deeper.”

Trevin inhaled the brine-laden air, but his fists remained clenched as he scanned the horizon. Nearer now. One hour more? Two?

Dwin sauntered up with a flask. “I heard you speak of gash. Thought you might be thirsty.”

Trevin narrowed his eyes. “Tell me that’s not what you’re holding.”

Dwin saluted with the flask. “It’s the captain’s best wine. In honor of smooth sailing all the way.”

“We’re not home yet,” said Trevin.

“Near enough.” Dwin handed the flask to Benasin, who took a swig. Dwin lolled against the bulwarks, watching the immortal. “I thought you had always been running from Rejius. The Asp said I was wrong.”

Benasin corked the flask and handed it to Trevin. “I tried as long as I could to live peaceably with my brother and Stalia. But I couldn’t stomach Rejius’s experiments. What’s more, his grudge against me only grew. As I said before, I learned early on that he would take from me anything I loved. I was desperate for a way out and could think of only one who might provide it.”

“Dreia.” Trevin sipped the spiced wine.

“She was my last hope,” said Benasin. “I left the Dregmoors for good—or so I thought—and searched for Dreia. But Rejius hunted me. Tracked me with draks. He dragged me back to the Dregmoors more than once before I became skilled enough to evade him.”

Trevin held out the flask to Dwin.

Dwin shook his head. “I’ve had enough.”

Trevin raised his eyebrows. “I never thought I’d see you turn down wine. Especially the captain’s best.”

“The Asp says a spy needs a clear head. Your life can be at stake.”

Trevin grinned. He could have told Dwin the same. In fact, he
had
told him. The life-or-death part had obviously become reality for Dwin.

“So, Benasin, you found Dreia?” prompted Dwin.

Benasin nodded. “I hadn’t seen her for more than a hundred and sixty years.”

Dwin’s jaw dropped. “A hundred and sixty years! What kept you in the Dregmoors that long?”

“Guilt,” said Benasin. “I believed the destruction of the Tree was my fault and the dead were my responsibility—facts Rejius relentlessly brought to my attention. Besides, I thought I could be a moderating influence on my brother’s excesses.”

“What about Dreia?” asked Trevin.

A sense of wonder softened Benasin’s face. “I swear I’ll never know why, but she forgave me and told me the debt could be repaid. She had been journeying, mostly dividing her time between the Erielyon in the north and the western tribes, which is where I found her, just as beautiful as the day I first saw her. She showed me three harps she had hired a craftsman to create from the wood of the Wisdom Tree—kyparis wood. She had saved a few pieces when the Tree was felled. She told me that the three, when united, would restore the Tree. I asked her why she hadn’t united them.”

“Because the stars must be aligned,” said Trevin. “Which happens only once every two hundred years.” He watched the coastline draw nearer.

“That’s one reason,” said Benasin. “The other reason is that no angel can unite the harps. Nor can any human. Dreia was the angel at fault for giving me the fruit of the Tree. I was the human to blame for failing to return the seeds. So the debt must be repaid by one who is both angel and human.”

“Breath of angel, blood of man,’ ” said Trevin.

“Just so,” said Benasin. “And who but Dreia and I should bear the child, we thought. So we bore a son for that purpose. But we failed to take my immortality into account. We had hoped that when our son came of age, the kyparis harps would resonate in his hands as they did for Dreia. By the time he was sixteen, we knew our hopes were in vain. Jarrod is a new breed: breath of angel, blood of immortal.”

“So you lived with Dreia and Jarrod for a while,” said Dwin.

“Oh no,” said Benasin. “I had to stay on the move. I feared Rejius would find Dreia and Jarrod. They journeyed. I journeyed. We met a few weeks a year at secret locations.”

“And the harps?” asked Trevin.

“I advised Dreia to hide them well.”

“But you kept one in your quarters at Navia,” said Trevin.

“Dreia insisted on it,” said Benasin. “She hoped one day to send the chosen ‘breath of angel, blood of man’ to fetch it.” They ambled toward the prow. “It was in Navia that I was able to settle for a time before Rejius started hunting me again.”

Trevin ran his hand along the bulwarks. “Do you think Rejius will tire of immortality as you did?”

Dwin laughed. “Rejius thrives on immortality. He loves the power. Even the malevolents are in awe of him, because when he dies, he returns to flesh. When they die, they’re entombed in stone like any other spirit.”

Trevin stepped out of the way of a deck hand carrying a rope. Sailors scurried about, preparing for their arrival at Qanreef.

“Rejius is disgusted with me,” said Benasin. “He thinks I’ve backed down and become weak.” He looked to the open sea. “Perhaps I have. I’m weary, friends. I’m weary.”

Trevin felt he should offer an encouraging word, but he had none. In Benasin’s place he would be weary too. They stood at the bow in silence, watching Alta-Qan appear, looming up from the chalk bluff.