Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 (41 page)

Diran’s face and hands had long ago gone numb from the constant buffeting of frigid sea winds, but he scarcely noticed. He’d taken no food or water since Asenka’s burial, but as a priest he was used to privation, and so he ignored the empty ache in his stomach, the weakness in his limbs, and the pounding in his head. He concentrated on the waves ahead of them, mentally ticking off the miles as the
Turnabout
raced toward Regalport, going over the visions the Fury-demon had revealed to him and attempting to divine some insight into Nathifa’s ultimate plan.

“Punishing yourself isn’t going to help make Asenka’s loss hurt any less.”

Diran didn’t turn to look at Leontis as his fellow priest joined him at the prow.

“Ghaji has already tried to speak with me several times since we departed Trebaz Sinara,” Diran said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you that I’m poor company right now.”

“Who do you think suggested I take a turn at you?”

The two priests stood for a time, listening to the waves breaking against the ship’s hull and the wind whistling past their ears. Eventually, Leontis spoke again.

“Though I did not spend my youth near the sea, I must confess that I find its sights and sounds soothing. The water seems almost to be calling me, whispering something that I can’t quite make out …” Leontis shook his head. “But you’re a Lhazaarite born and
bred. The sea probably holds little mystery and even less attraction for you.”

Diran gazed out upon the slate-gray surface of the water, knowing that this time of year the Lhazaar was cold as liquid ice. “You might be surprised …”

Leontis changed the subject. “Ghaji is a good man, and the two of you make an effective team. He’s worried about you, and truth to tell, so am I.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m preparing for the battle that lies ahead of us … weighing various strategies, calculating odds …”

Leontis laughed. “I hope you were a better liar back when you were an assassin.”

Despite himself, Diran smiled. “I guess I’ve fallen out of practice.”

“It’s not your fault that Asenka died, Diran. If I wanted to, I suppose I could blame myself. After all, if the werewolf hadn’t gone after Haaken, the wereshark wouldn’t have thrown him across the crypt, and he wouldn’t have collided with Asenka—”

“That’s ridiculous!” Diran snapped. “You had no control over your lupine half, and you certainly had no control over what Haaken did or didn’t do.”

“And you had no control over whether Asenka was bitten by a spiderling.”

“I should’ve checked. If I’d known …”

“She would’ve died anyway. Her injuries were too severe. Without the benefit of healing magic, it was only a matter of time. Though you didn’t mean to end her life, by doing so swiftly, you saved her from suffering any further.”

Diran’s tone hardened. “That’s cold comfort, Leontis.”

“Do you remember what Tusya used to say about that? ‘Sometimes cold comfort is the only kind we get in this life.’”

“I remember. I found it a rather facile saying at the time, and I find it even more so now.”

“As an assassin, your training centered entirely on control,” Leontis said. “Control of your emotions, your body, your weaponry,
your victim, and the circumstances under which you would confront him … Control is also vital to the Purified. We attempt to purge ourselves of negative emotions and desires, and strive to adhere to a strict code of moral behavior. Control is even more important for priests. It allows us to open ourselves to the power of the Silver Flame so that we might become effective conduits for its holy energy. But we mustn’t forget what Tusya taught us.”

Diran didn’t want to say the words. He wanted to hold onto the icy fury that had encased his heart. But he found himself speaking them nevertheless. Words he’d first heard years ago around a campfire near the bank of the Thrane River. “Fire consumes wood for its fuel, and in so doing, the wood is transformed. It becomes one with the fire, fulfilling its true purpose. To serve the Flame well, we must willingly give ourselves over to its heat and light.”

“I’ve been thinking about this a great deal lately—for obvious reasons.” Leontis gave Diran a rueful smile. “Evil attempts to control the fates of others for its own selfish ends. That’s what you did when you were an assassin. You killed because Emon Gorsedd accepted money for your services and sent you forth to slay whoever his client chose. Good, on the other hand, seeks to preserve the rights of individuals to choose their own fates. It tries to teach by example, rather than force others to order their lives as it wishes. That’s who you are now, Diran. You are Purified, a servant of the Flame, and a force for Good in a world that sorely needs people like you. Don’t let your grief turn you back into a heartless killer. You have a choice in this matter. Some of us do not.”

Leontis put his hand on Diran’s shoulder and squeezed once before turning and walking away.

Diran remained standing at the prow for some time after Leontis’s departure, thinking over all that his fellow priest had said. He had a good idea what Asenka might say if she were present, could almost imagine hearing her speak the words.

We had little time together, Diran Bastiaan, but what we had was good. Don’t spoil it by turning my memory into a millstone around your neck. There are people—good people—depending on you. Don’t you dare let them down because you’re too wrapped up in sorrow and self-pity. You’re a
Lhazaarite, and you know our way: Live hard, love hard, die well. As far as I’m concerned, I did all three. Mourn me if you must, but you’re still alive and you have work to do. So get to it!

Despite his grief, Diran smiled. He then turned away from the sea and the wind and headed off toward the passengers’ quarters.

Diran knocked on the door to Tresslar’s cabin.

“Go away! I’m busy!”

“It’s me,” Diran said.

Tresslar opened the door. The artificer gave the priest an appraising frown. “Did you finally realize you aren’t to blame for what happened?”

“I could ask you the same, holed up in your cabin, working feverishly on your magic items …” Diran smiled to take any sting out of his words. “You aren’t to blame, either. None of us are.”

Tresslar’s frown eased, and he looked haggard, far older than his sixty-odd years. “If I hadn’t lost the Amahau, none of this would’ve happened.”

“My former teacher used to say that
if
is like a double-edged blade: it cuts two ways. It can spark imagination and creativity or cause regret and sorrow. It all depends on how you wield it.”

Tresslar smiled. “Wise words.” The artificer let out a long sigh. “Very well. Let us look to the future, eh? I’m still working on restoring Ghaji’s elemental axe. I think I’ve found a way to infuse a fire elemental within the metal, but I still need some time.”

“That’s good, but I’ve come to speak with you about a different magical artifact. One that I believe you removed from Thokk before we buried him.”

Tresslar looked suddenly uncomfortable. “You speak of the Oathbinder. To an artificer, burying a mystic object with the dead is a terrible waste. We would rather our greatest enemies take the devices we create than have them never used again. It’s a way for a small piece of ourselves to live on after our deaths.” He lowered his gaze. “I didn’t say anything about taking the Oathbinder because I
didn’t want anyone to think I was robbing the dead. None of you are artificers … I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

“I do understand,” Diran said, “and I’m glad you had the foresight to salvage Thokk’s medallion. I think I know how we might put it to use.”

Ghaji found Yvka in their cabin. She sat cross-legged on their sleeping pallet, her left sleeve rolled up to expose her dragonmark. She gazed down upon the swirling design, the fingers of her right hand poised above it, as if she wanted to touch the mark but was afraid to.

She looked up as Ghaji closed the hatch and crossed over to the pallet. The cabin was small, but compared to the cramped quarters on the
Zephyr
, it was nearly palatial. Ghaji sat next to Yvka. He wanted to give her a kiss and put his arm around her, but he didn’t. They had things to discuss, and one kiss would lead to another, which in turn would lead to something else, and before long all thought of talk would be forgotten. Better to maintain a certain distance for now. But before Ghaji could say anything, Yvka spoke.

“This changes everything, you know.”

Ghaji understood that she was talking about her dragonmark, but that was all he understood. “No, I
don’t
know. Tell me.”

Yvka looked at Ghaji for a long time, her face unreadable, but her eyes revealed the inner struggle she was going through. Finally, she told him everything—about going to the Culinarian to meet with Zivon, how the Fury struck while she was there, and how her dragonmark had manifested during her fight with the half-elf.

“Zivon not only wanted me to regain possession of the
Zephyr—
for though I’ve used the vessel for decades, she belongs to the Shadow Network—he also wanted me to deliver Tresslar’s dragonwand to them … as well as Solus.”

Ghaji wished he was shocked by Yvka’s words, but he wasn’t. The Shadow Network had a reputation for absolute pragmatism in all things, but most especially when it came to the acquisition of the organization’s twin loves: power and profit.

“And what did you tell him?” Ghaji asked.

“I tried to put him off by pretending that I wanted to negotiate a better reward for myself. But then the Fury overwhelmed Zivon and our discussion ended when he tried to kill me. After Diran exorcised the Fury-demon, Zivon regained his senses. He was so pleased by the appearance of my dragonmark that he said no more about Solus or the dragonwand.”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten about them, does it?”

Yvka shook her head. “The Network never forgets anything. If they want Solus and the wand, they will stop at nothing to get them. Whether I deliver them or not. They’ll simply send someone else, and if that person fails, they’ll keep sending new people until someone finally succeeds. But a dragonmark, even a Lesser one, raises my status in the Network. I may be able to bargain with the Hierarchs so that they’ll …
overlook
their interest in Solus and the dragonwand.”

Ghaji didn’t like where this was headed. “Bargain with what?”

“My services. I’ve worked hard for more years than you’ve been alive to earn the freedom to roam the Principalities as I wish. And the Network has allowed me to retain my liberty as long as I furthered its interests. But dragonmarks are a valuable commodity, and the Hierarchs prefer to keep a tight rein on those individuals who possess them. I’ve given the Network both Grimwall and Mount Luster. Now I will give them myself—but
only
if they’ll leave Solus and the dragonwand alone.”

“It sounds like indentured servitude! I admire that you want to protect Solus and Tresslar—assuming the artificer ever gets his wand back for anyone to take it away from him again—but do you really believe the Network will live up to its end of the bargain?”

“It may be difficult for someone not part of the Network to believe, but once the Hierarchs make a bargain, they keep it. Especially within the organization. We have a saying: ‘True loyalty is the only item that cannot be bought.’ That’s why it’s so highly prized in the Network.”