The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (4 page)

A man after all, or so he seemed. The billowing was that of his robes, dark in hue and soaked darker with rain. He had come to a stop mere inches away, throat perched upon the tip of the Sword, features twisting in its crimson light. Emotions swept across his skin like the colors of a chameleon—rage and frustration, contempt and loathing, pity and sorrow, until at last they settled into a derisive sneer.

“Behold, the instrument of our doom.”

Before Torin could respond, there came a swift knock from the outer doorway as the posted guardsman stuck his head in.

“My lord? I thought I heard…” He stopped as he took in the scene.

“Kien, call the Shield.”

Torin kept his eyes on the intruder, but heard the other fumbling for his sword.

“Kien! The Shield. I will hold our friend here.”

At last he heard Kien scamper from the room, leaving the door to his chambers open. With the other gone, Torin refocused on the stranger before him, at a sallow face bathed in sweat. He looked like a man staving off some form of illness.

“You will raise a panic,” the scarecrow intruder observed, his jaw clenched in checked fury.

Torin coiled, resisting the urge to shuffle back a step. The man’s breath reeked of decay, rushing down over the cliffs of his craggy beard. His blue eyes reflected the light of the Sword, so that the same flames that swirled within the polished blade seemed to smolder beneath the surface of his orbs.

Questions skittered through Torin’s mind. Despite the stranger’s menacing stance and sudden, unwanted appearance, there was something about him, some sense of familiarity that Torin could not quite place.

“Who are you?” he asked, the Sword lending strength to his quavering voice.

The man seemed to swell in size, even as he withdrew slowly from the radiant blade. “You have no idea. Even now.”

If Rogun’s tone had been accusatory, then this one’s was downright incriminating. Torin felt himself laid bare by its assault. Again the feeling that he knew this man—or should—dug like a splinter at his mind. And yet he refused to lower his guard for an instant, for the haunting notion did nothing to allay his fears.

“My lord, your bath—”

“Stephan, stay where you are,” Torin commanded as the other’s shadow filled the outer doorway. He could hear his master chamberlain sputtering in alarm as they each focused on the unwelcome visitor.

“You’ve not answered my question,” Torin growled, using anger to steady
himself. He took a step toward the intruder, putting him back within range of the Sword’s gleaming tip.

The man’s sneer remained, even as his eyes narrowed. “Kill me,” he cautioned, “and you condemn us all.”

“And don’t think I lack the will to do so,” Torin snapped.

“My lord—”

“The Shield is coming, Stephan. Just stay back.”

The stranger was shaking his head. “A reckless response from a reckless whelp.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender, revealing sun-baked skin and open lacerations as his sleeves fell away. The wounds looked as if they should be bleeding, but were not, and only then did Torin notice that the man’s dripping robes hung in tatters, as though shredded by some wild beast.

“I am your past and your future,” he answered finally, smirking at Torin’s sudden doubt. “I am living proof of the horror your foolishness has unleashed upon us all.”

Again the man’s stench washed over him. Only this time, Torin recognized it. It drew him back to the defining moment of his young life, the moment during which he had drawn the Crimson Sword from the orb and altar into which it had been embedded, deep within the bowels of Thrak-Symbos. Again he watched the shattered pieces of that edifice crumble into the pit that had lain concealed beneath. And again, he felt the stagnant wind that had escaped that pit, the frigid gust that had driven away the lizards by which he and his companions had been surrounded. Its chill ripped through him now as it had then, and abruptly he wondered: What else had escaped from that pit?

His thoughts reeling, Torin was ill prepared for the sweet sound of Marisha’s voice as she came upon Stephan, still frozen in the doorway.

“I just ran into Kien. He said—” Her words ended in a gasp, and Torin turned to find her staring into the room.

“Stephan, get her out of here,” Torin moaned, glancing back and forth between the woman and the intruder.

The chief seneschal, Torin noted, was already doing his best, blocking Marisha with his ample body, an arm and a leg thrust up against the opposite side of the jamb. Surprisingly, Marisha was not fighting him, but continued to stare at the two men without speaking, without blinking. Her face was as pale as Torin had ever seen it.

All of a sudden, she slumped to the floor, sliding just inside the chamber. Torin had to fight the urge to drop his guard and rush to her aid. There she sat, openmouthed, until he feared she was the victim of some sort of wizard’s spell. He didn’t know whether to go to her, or to throttle the stranger.

He chose neither when at last her lips came together to whisper a single word that echoed throughout his chambers.

“Father.”

T
ORIN BLINKED IN THE TOMBLIKE STILLNESS THAT FOLLOWED.
He gaped at Marisha, waiting for her to say something more, to explain. When she did not, and tears began to brim in her eyes, he turned back to the stranger. The man’s wrath had dissipated, it seemed, as he stared back at Marisha in respectful silence.

“What is this?” Torin asked. Confusion reigned, forcing him to grope for words. “Are you…are you her…her fath—”

He stopped abruptly, realizing suddenly why this man seemed so familiar. He squinted, peering not so much at the stranger but into the past at his own memories. The recollection only intensified his bewilderment. For he had been eight years old at the time of their brief encounter, while the other’s appearance had not changed in over a decade.

“Darinor.” He mouthed the name, yet, like Marisha’s quiet exclamation, it seemed to reverberate in the taut air.

“Yes,” Darinor huffed, though his gruffness now seemed forced. “On both counts.”

Torin found his sword arm lowering. Darinor came forward, but moved past him, staring all the while at Marisha. He approached slowly, reverently, this towering, cadaverous man who was at the same time as hale as any Torin had ever encountered. In the outer doorway, Stephan shrank back, his eyes like full moons. Darinor ignored the seneschal as he had Torin, focused still on the young woman whose lip was now quivering. The great man knelt calmly before her, reaching out in a manner both soothing and supplicating. Torin did nothing to stop him, but watched as one great hand cupped her cheek. As it did, she reached forth both of her own hands to catch hold and press it more tightly against her. The dam burst, and she wept.

Torin continued to stare, suddenly feeling as if
he
were the one intruding. He glanced up as Stephan did the same. As their eyes met, the sound of booted feet came tramping near at a hurried pace.

Led by Kien, a team of Fasor—the City Shield—had arrived. Known before as the palace guard, Torin had changed the name to sound less elitist and more inclusive of the general populace. And once again, he’d paid homage to those of his home village by naming them after the position of guardianship that he himself had once held—that of Fason, captain of the City Shield.

After shouldering Stephan aside, they too crowded in the doorway like
a clutch of awestruck children. They might have been watching a flame-swallower rather than the reunion of a father and daughter separated for more than a dozen years.

Torin caught Kien’s questioning eye, and shook his head. He was struggling to recall all that Marisha had told him about her father. There wasn’t much. The man had left both her and her mother when she was but a child—at her mother’s request. Upon his departure, he had bestowed upon her the secret pendant she wore, the pendant that had saved her life—and Torin’s—but that now, with her mother gone, only the young king knew of. Sacred blazes, she hadn’t even shared with him the man’s name. Although even if she had, he never would have assumed it to be the same Darinor he himself had met as a child, the same Darinor whose night of storytelling had inadvertently spawned in him the lifelong desire to one day seek out and recover—

“Whoever is in command here, I don’t think we require an audience,” Darinor said. He made no effort to keep the edge from his voice, although as soon as he had spoken, he went back to consoling his daughter by resting his forehead against hers.

Torin studied Marisha carefully. She continued to be wracked by sobs, but they appeared to be sobs of disbelief, maybe even joy. Though she had never said so, the one thing he had gathered from their sparse conversations on the subject was that she loved her father deeply, reserving for his memory a sacred regard such that she could not even share it with him, her husband-to-be.

“Kien, that will be all.”

To a man, the Fasor hesitated, as if seeking some further confirmation.

“All of you, you are dismissed. I bid thanks for your prompt response.” As they began to disperse, he added, “Kien, resume post, please. See to it that we are not disturbed.”

Kien nodded before remembering his salute.

“Uh, my lord,” Stephan intervened, “the rehearsal?”

“The rehearsal is postponed. See to it, Master Stephan.”

“Canceled would be better,” Darinor remarked.

The seneschal’s jaw dropped, and he looked to Torin in protest.

“As he says,” Torin agreed.

“My lord—”

“Kien, if you please?”

Kien saluted again before drawing the red-faced Stephan from the doorway. The door closed—carefully, so as not to disturb the pair kneeling just inside the threshold. An ensuing silence persisted until Torin wondered if he should excuse himself as well. He was about to do so when Marisha finally withdrew from the apparition before her.

“Father, is it really you?”

Darinor did not respond, but gently reached toward the silver chain barely visible around the neckline of her unfinished wedding gown. Marisha did not resist, but let him pull forth the flaming heartstone that hung from clasp and chain—the Pendant of Asahiel.

From the angle at which he stood, Torin could not quite see the other
man’s face. But he guessed that the look Darinor gave was somehow lacking in approval, based on the guilt that flashed across Marisha’s features.

“I kept it secret, Father. As you warned.”

Darinor turned, just enough to frown at Torin. “And here I half expected to find
him
wearing it.”

Torin scowled, a renewal of both his uncertainty and anger. This was not the kindly storyteller of whom he held such fond remembrances from his youth. What had he done to so fuel the man’s ire? He chewed up any number of retorts, seeking instead to set a tone of civility. “If you
are
Darinor,” he said, “you know that you are welcome here.”

“And yet you still brandish your stolen blade.”

Torin glanced down to where he held the Crimson Sword, half lowered at his side. With another scowl, he set its tip to the floor in front of him and folded his hands upon the pommel. “Will you tell us now why you’ve come?”

Darinor lowered the Pendant softly to Marisha’s chest, then stood, pulling her up after him. “If you’ve composed yourself well enough to listen.”

Despite the calming influence of the Sword, Torin felt his frustration building in waves. “You will forgive me, I’m sure. I am not accustomed to being ambushed in my own quarters.”

Darinor guided Marisha to one of the worn velvet chairs beside the hearth, turned so that she faced Torin. “Is that how you would describe my patient vigil here?”

Torin thought back to their encounter moments ago. “If you intended no harm, why lunge at me like some rabid animal?”

“You appeared to be fleeing,” Darinor replied as he folded Marisha’s own delicate hands in her lap. All the while, she continued to gaze up at him as if worried he might disappear before her eyes. “And I’ve come a long way to see you.”

Torin opened his mouth to object, but realized he could not disprove the other’s account. That it might be true caught him off guard. “Me?”

“But I thought…” Marisha squeaked, eyes glinting with hurt and confusion.

Darinor sandwiched her hands in his and crouched low, gazing deep into her eyes. He said nothing, but held that pose for another long moment. When finally he arose, he kept one hand gripped reassuringly upon her shoulder.

At long last, he turned to face Torin, and at once, the bearded face curdled in accusation. “You are Torin, are you not? King of Alson, savior of Pentania, wielder of the last known Sword of Asahiel.” His lip curled in mockery—and in satisfaction, Torin thought, at his listener’s helplessness. “Thus, it is you I seek.”

Torin’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. Nevertheless, he felt he had to say something in order to deflect the other’s penetrating gaze. “You seem to know a great deal about me,” he admitted. “Once again, you have me at the disadvantage.”

“Perhaps. I know your story, for your countrymen speak of little else.
Then again, I dare not believe this common account by half. Despite certain evidence, there are details of which I am skeptical, and many others that are altogether missing.”

Torin peered past the speaker to Marisha, who still looked betrayed.

“But we’ve not the time needed to explore them,” Darinor went on, his tone made sharper by Torin’s inattention. “Your foolishness has seen to that.”

“Am I to unravel these riddles?” Torin responded crossly. “Or should I but stand here and remain their target?”

Marisha turned in his direction. “Torin, please…”

This time, however, Torin remained focused on Darinor. For a moment, he felt the other meant to strike, and as one hand slipped down from the Sword’s pommel to clasp its hilt, the weapon flared slightly, revealing his anticipation. A slow smirk drew tight the elder man’s thin lips, as he appeared to come to a decision.

“Save your strength,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “You will need it for your journey.”

“And just where is it you think I’m going?”

“To restore that which you have destroyed. Else to the grave, here and now, before you take the rest of us with you.”

“Enough!” Marisha shouted, springing from her chair and seizing her father’s arm in restraint. “I’ll listen to no more of this from either of you. Torin, if you would have your answers, sit and be silent. As for you, Father…” Her voice cracked, yet remained authoritative. “You will explain your presence here, or you will leave at once.”

Torin fumed a moment longer, then dipped his head in apology to his lady love. With a hawk’s eye upon Darinor, he moved to the nearest available chair, across the hearth from Marisha, and sat, laying the Crimson Sword across his lap.

“Then listen closely,” Darinor admonished them, when Marisha had retaken her seat and he alone stood so as to face the pair. “For our enemies multiply as we speak.”

“What enemies?” Torin urged, glancing sidelong at Marisha.

Darinor ignored him, brow twisting as if considering where to begin his narrative. “You must know something of the Swords of Asahiel,” the sallow-faced man determined, “else you would not be holding one now.”

Torin merely nodded, but Darinor’s look prompted him to elaborate. “Forged by the Ha’Rasha and imbued with the divine power of the Ceilhigh, to be used in the shaping of this earth and the shepherding of those who lived upon it.”

“And the Dragon Wars?”

“That’s when the Swords passed from these avatars into mortal hands, given to the Finlorian elves that they might withstand the armies of the Dragon God.”

It was clear that Darinor did not recognize him, nor recall that he himself had once related to Torin much of this mythology. Torin was emboldened by
the fact that he knew something the other did not. In any case, he was always proud to share with others the knowledge of his favorite study. With even this brief overview, his enthusiasm for the topic fortified his voice.

“In the millennia that followed the defeat of the Dragon God’s minions, the Swords were lost, one by one, save that which was passed down along the lines of Finlorian royalty to the high king Sabaoth, some three thousand years ago. Finally, even that blade disappeared, when Sabaoth and the entire city of Thrak-Symbos were buried by an earth-shattering cataclysm.”

Torin waited, silently daring the other to contradict his account. For a long moment, Darinor made no attempt to do so. He stood with that brooding glare, waiting, it seemed, for Torin to say something more. As the weight of his pause increased, a determined Torin held his gaze.

“In other words, you know nothing but what you’ve been given to know.” A menacing smile tugged at one corner of Darinor’s mouth.

Torin frowned, but guarded any further reaction to the man’s theatrics.

Darinor crouched close to Marisha once more. “That is not Sabaoth’s Sword,” he said, indicating the weapon in Torin’s lap. He reached up once again to finger the heartstone Pendant on its silver chain—the Crimson Stone, as they had nicknamed it.

“This is.”

Torin did well to hide his interest. But he was undeniably excited by what he was about to learn. What little Marisha knew of the secret talisman had been revealed to him only guardedly—and only after Torin had discovered for himself the Stone’s existence. Even then she had kept him at arm’s length, clinging to her childhood oath to a man who had deserted her, honoring his memory, fearing for her own safety and that of the artifact. Pretending to understand, he had respected her wishes, allowing the matter to remain a quiet source of bitterness. For he could not help but wonder if she knew much more than had been revealed.

“My daughter was granted no knowledge of the Pendant’s true history or purpose,” Darinor remarked, as if to dispel Torin’s unspoken suspicions. “She knew only a father’s stern command that the talisman never be revealed to anyone.”

Once again, father and daughter shared a quiet moment. And yet Torin noted that Marisha’s features had taken on a stern and demanding cast, as though her own understandable anger was beginning to win over her shock and adoration.

“A charm by which to remember me,” Darinor added, echoing his words of long ago. “A talisman to keep her safe.” While addressing Torin, he continued to stare into Marisha’s eyes, the slightest tremor weakening his voice. “But most importantly, the means by which we might one day be reunited. That I might share with her the truth of her family’s legacy.”

Like the lull in a storm, the moment of tenderness passed. Darinor turned his head, a mask of dark clouds once more.

“Sabaoth was a fool. Like you, a seeker of glories he was not meant to attain. The Finlorian Empire had reached the height of its majesty. Its people
believed that all manner of art and industry conceivable to mortal minds had already been achieved. Thus, their thoughts moved beyond the mortal toward the immortal. They thought to ascend to the heavens, to connect this world with that of the Ceilhigh.”

A strange excitement began to bubble up within Torin at the realization that tragic secrets, centuries old, were about to be revealed. Despite the circumstances, he felt himself leaning forward, unable to deny his growing fervor.