Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles (27 page)

Reverently, Tyrnen gazed at the scepter. “Follow me,” he snapped to the party behind him. He stalked through the doorway and disappeared.

Aidan leaned back slowly in his chair, staring at the Prophet, saying nothing. Several minutes passed. Finally he stood and walked to the fireplace.

“Is that why I was born with all of
Ordine
? Because The Lady of Dawn’s champion would need to be equally as strong to stand against the champion of Destruction?”

“You are partially correct. In truth, all Gairdens are born with both sides of
Ordine
. When a Gairden child is conceived, only one half is unlocked. The other lies dormant.”

“But why? So many lives could have been saved if this power had been available to my ancestors. Dimitri and Luria Thalamahn could have been stopped before corrupting Sallner.”

“What if
Ordine
were to be abused? What if a Gairden became obsessed with greed, and with power? It’s entirely possible,” she said when he shook his head in denial. “The Lady of Dawn took a chance giving your family such power. She had to take precautions in case a Gairden were to choose the wrong path.”

“No one in my family would ever do anything like that,” he said, his voice hard.

She gave him a soft smile. “What I am about to tell you is known only to the Gairden bloodline, and not until they undergo the Rite of Heritage. Yours was delayed, but the time has come for you to learn your family’s true charge, and the reason for the creation of Heritage and
Ordine.

“Following the end of the Serpent War and the executions of Dimitri and Luria Thalamahn, it became known to Ambrose and Anastasia that the souls of the Thalamahns had been secreted away.” She raised a hand at Aidan’s sound of surprise. “The details of how this came to be will be made known to you; for now, please just listen.

“You know that Heritage was created by the Lady of Dawn. It has two equals: the Serpent’s Fang, a black blade wielded by Dimitri; and Terror’s Hand, a scepter carried by Luria. The Thalamahns performed many dark experiments to give them an edge in the Serpent War. Terror’s Hand and the Serpent’s Fang were the results of two such experiments. Dimitri and Luria imbued their weapons with all manner of magic, but none trumped their primary purpose: to store their souls when they perished. Unfortunately, this magic was known only to the tyrants who used it.

“To walk the world again, Dimitri and Luria would have to find host bodies for their souls. Using a powerful form of coercion, their souls call from within the artifacts to those strong of might and magic, yet weak in will. Those who touch the weapons sacrifice their souls and receive the soul stored within the weapon. Ambrose and Anastasia discovered the Fang and Hand, and were tempted by the souls of the entrapped rulers.”

Aidan paled.

“They resisted temptation,” the Prophet continued, “but barely. They recognized the malevolent forces that called to them and attempted to destroy the weapons, but not even Heritage proved mighty enough to shatter the two vessels. It was then that your ancestors summoned the Disciples of Light. When their attempts also failed, the disciples conferred with Anastasia. They decided that if they could not destroy the weapons, they should at least mute their calls of temptation. They formed a circle of light, combining their gifts to wrap Terror’s Hand and the Serpent’s Fang in magical bindings that gagged the fallen king and queen.

“It was decided that two Touched of strong will must dedicate their lives to guarding the artifacts, for if they were found and the bindings removed, Dimitri and Luria would return. Your family insisted that they not be told of the weapons’ whereabouts; they feared that they or their descendants would fall to temptation. The Prophet, the first of my line, took the Serpent’s Fang and disappeared, telling no one his destination. Terror’s Hand was taken away by a holy man named Mathias Emerson. Eight hundred years ago we vanished, seen by no one. Until now.”

Aidan needed several moments to digest her words. “You said a Champion of Destruction has emerged, but that I am the first to find you. That means someone else has found...”

She smiled sadly. “Terror’s Hand. Luria Thalamahn’s soul has subverted a powerful Touched—powerful in magic. His will proved bendable indeed. Now she walks Crotaria again, determined to find a host for Dimitri Thalamahn.”

A coldness, piercing and terrible, swept through him. Aidan clasped his hands together to keep them from quivering. “Who is it?” he asked softly. “Who is the Champion of Destruction?”

“Not yet. There is more you should know first.”

After several moments of silence, he said, “I appreciate the Lady’s faith in me. But I believe it’s misplaced.”

Her face softened. “I know what you are referring to: your actions at Sharem. What you did was wrong. You thought that by following orders, you would make up for the shame you caused your family. Instead, you shamed yourself. But did you not repent? You did. And you did more than ask for forgiveness. You recognized wrongness and turned your back on it.”

“Yes, but only after I—”

“What you did cannot be erased, Aidan,” she said. “It will always be with you. But you rejected destruction. You chose to give up everything you knew—your parents, your way of life, even your freedom—if it meant never again complying with that wrongness. Time cannot be reversed and so those events cannot be altered— but in your heart, you are good. You can lead peace against destruction. You must. The battle has already begun.”

A shriek, high and otherworldly, echoed from the Duskwood.

“Our time together grows short,” she said tightly. “I have told you all I can. The time has come to finish what began on your birthday. Are you ready to complete your Rite of Heritage?”

He let out a breath as he stared at the sword lying on the table. Was he? Even knowing what he now knew, could he do this? Was he worthy, no matter what she said? Then he laughed.

“You’ve got yourself into trouble asking those sorts of questions,” she said.

He nodded. “Plenty. A lifetime’s worth.”

“We know how you answered then. How do you answer now?”

He took another breath, and shrugged. “I will prove myself worthy. I accept this charge because it is mine, and because my people—all Crotarians—depend on me.” He looked her in the eye. “I am ready.”

She smiled, then looked at his Cinder Band and drew back with a hiss.

“What is it?” he asked, looking down at his hand in alarm.

“Would you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

She held out a wrinkled hand. “Give me your ring.”

“My Band? But why—”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then please,” she said softly, “hand it to me. When you return, it will be here waiting for you—if you still want it.”

He hesitated, then handed her the ring. She placed it on the table in front of her and kindled. The fire in the hearth drained away as she drank from it. Raising a quivering finger, she touched the Band. All at once it grew brighter. The Prophet slumped but shooed Aidan away.

“I’ll be fine, and now so you will.” She waved off his questioning look and gestured at the sword. “Please raise Heritage and gaze into the Eye.”

He picked up the sword and stared into the large stone. The jewel flared, then faded, growing darker. He felt as though he was falling, as though the world around him were receding...

The door exploded, showering the room with splintered wood. Tyrnen barged in, his face a thundercloud, his eyes crimson. Aidan began to look over his shoulder when the Eye flashed. His eyes glazed and his body went slack. Heritage clattered to the table as the Prophet shot to her feet and to his side, moving like a woman in her twenties.

Tyrnen raised one glowing palm. Raised above his head in his other hand was a golden scepter. Lightning uncoiled and sprang at them, bright and thick and terrible—and sailed harmlessly through where the Prophet and Aidan had been standing to blast through the wall.

She reappeared moments later to find him sitting at the table, Aidan’s discarded Band in one hand, the scepter in the other, Heritage on the table. Calmly, she took a seat and nodded toward the ring.

“I found the shadow you wove into the ring. We both wondered how you managed to dog him all this way, and through the Duskwood as well. Clever. Not clever enough, but clever.”

Face twisted in rage, he flung the Cinder Band away and towered over her. “Where is he?”

“Where are your manners? Hello, Luria,” the old woman said.

He smiled. “If it pleases you to think so.”

Cocking her head, the Prophet studied him. “Interesting. How did you resist her?”

He began to speak, then clapped his mouth shut. His face darkened. She thought he looked like a child reprimanded by an adult in front of his friends. And she understood.

She looked to the scepter he gripped in a trembling fist. “ Eight hundred years of carrying that thing around, struggling. Why, your mind must be in tatters by now, my old friend.”

For a moment, Tyrnen’s eyes went wide with a silent plea for help, for death. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Then he shook himself as if a cold wind had passed through him. His eyes narrowed at her. Color seeped back into his face.

The Prophet smiled sadly. “Your hold on free will is tenuous at best, Mathias.”

“Where is Aidan?”

“He is safe, in a place you cannot reach him. He will come for you, soon.”

Tyrnen’s complexion paled.

“Are you frightened, Mathias? You should be.”

Tyrnen threw the scepter aside and shot to his feet. She didn’t flinch. Tyrnen muttered a prayer to the Lord of Midnight, raised his open hand, and squeezed it into a fist. The Prophet gasped as her body went rigid. Thin red marks like deep fingernail imprints appeared on her arms. Blood oozed from each cut.

“I will ask one last time,” Tyrnen said, his fingers pulsing with dark red energy. “Where is he?”

A single tear trickled down the old woman’s cheek, but she did not speak.

With an angry bellow Tyrnen threw his clenched fists wide. Her body tore in two. Blood sprayed across the room and splattered Tyrnen’s robes. Both halves hovered in the air; blood dripped to the floor like water from soaked rags. Tyrnen relaxed his hands; the crimson glow of his fingertips slowly subsided. The fleshy pieces dropped and slapped against the floor.

“Garrett!” Tyrnen bellowed.

Garrett crashed through the entrance. “Yes, master?” he said, wringing his hands. His eyes darted between his master and the ripped carcass on the floor.

Tyrnen handed him Heritage. “Take this. It’s yours.”

Garrett stared at it. “Don’t you want the sword, master?”

Snatching the scepter up and stuffing it in his robes, Tyrnen turned to look at him, and Garrett shrank back.

Tyrnen swept outside, strode up to Christine, and slapped her across the face. She stumbled and fell back. Tears welled in her eyes but she lifted her head and glared at him. Two of the three vagrants stood still, staring passively ahead. The third had not been so quick to step from the cascading pools of light that had appeared on the ground within the Duskwood.

“He will come for the sword,” Tyrnen said as Garrett scurried to his side. His eyes were hard as stone. “Delay him.”

“Master,” Garrett said hesitantly, and again shrank back when Tyrnen turned to glare at him. “Master, Aidan Gairden is very powerful. How can I—?”

“The harbinger will aid you,” Tyrnen said as the creature that had helped him tie Christine stepped around the cabin to stand by his side.

—My beloved calls,
Luria whispered in Tyrnen’s mind. Her voice was unsteady, as if a shiver had worked its way along her body.
Send them away,
she continued.
They must not see our work.

“Into the cabin,” he snapped, not even glancing over his shoulder. He heard Garrett shove Christine toward the structure.

The vagrants followed. Moments later, the door slammed closed.

Kneeling, he stroked the grass, which was slowly turning a dead, diseased shade of brown all around the cabin. He kissed his hand and touched it to the grass. Luria was silent for a long time. Tyrnen grew afraid, yet he dared not speak until she was ready. He had made that mistake only once over the past eight centuries.

—The hag’s death has weakened the shielding over this place,
she said.
But she placed stronger bindings over my beloved’s blade. It cannot be removed without dire consequences. I would gladly sacrifice you to experimentation, but I have need of you, yet.

Contentment settled over him. She needed him. He found himself grinning.

—We will return
, she said after several long moments.

He grew cold.
But mistress, what if the Gairdens—

—They will not find the Fang. Bring me a blade.

“Garrett!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet. The door of the cabin crashed open and the Lorden boy practically tumbled out.

“Yes, master?”

“I need a sword. Not Heritage. Take one from the vagrants. Go!”

Garrett raced back inside. When he returned he handed his sword to Tyrnen. The blade was marked with abrasions and the leather wrapping around the hilt was dark from years of accumulated sweat.

“Leave me,” Tyrnen said.

Garrett fled.

—Now listen carefully,
Luria said,
and do exactly as I say.

Chapter 25

Lake Carrean

T
HE WORLD FLASHED RED
for an instant, then all went dark. Wind battered his face and plastered his clothes to his skin. Aidan opened his eyes and saw his feet planted on a wide stone platform. He walked to the edge and peered over. The platform had no base; it simply hung in the sky like a chandelier. Clouds flowed around him. Some streaked as fast as lightning; others crawled across the blue expanse.

Instinctively—Aidan was surprised at just how quickly the action had become instinct—he reached for Heritage. His fingers brushed his sheath, but... He looked down. Heritage was gone. He shook his head. He would not let worry overtake him. He cleared his mind, trying to focus. The last thing he remembered was staring into the Eye of Heritage. Then he’d felt drowsy, and the Eye had rushed toward him. There had been a flash of red, and then... Flash.