From Darkness Won (54 page)

Yes, she must. But instead, she crouched at her father’s feet and took hold of Eagan’s Elk, the blade Achan had wielded
w
hen she had first seen him. The blade her father called Rhomphaia. The leather-wrapped grip felt odd, worn down by hands larger than hers.

“Averella, please!” Sir Eagan yelled over the screeching birds.

“Now, kill your father.”

No, she wanted to say. She stared at Eagan’s Elk’s copper and ivory crossguard, the carved ivory dagfish, the symbol of Tsaftown. Years ago, Sir Eagan had won this sword from her cousin Sir Eric. Now it would take his life.

What defeatist thoughts were these? She could not allow this evil man to manipulate her. She glanced at her father’s eyes, so blue and bright.
Arman, help me!

Heat melted over the top of her head, dripped down her spine and legs until she burned. Not at all painful. And yet the overwhelming, fiery euphoria stole her breath.

T
HE
O
NE WHO WAS BORN OF
G
OD KEEPS HIS BELIEVERS SAFE
, A
ND THE EVIL ONE CANNOT HARM THEM
. G
REATER IS HE THAT IS IN YOU THAN HE THAT IS IN THE LAND
.

Averella trembled. Tears wended their way down her cheeks.
Thank You, Arman. I love You!

A
ND
I
YOU
,
CHILD
.

Vrell gripped the sword’s hilt in two hands. Macoun was still holding out his hands, expelling his misty magic, but it had no effect on her.

I am free, Sir Eagan,
she said.
Arman freed me.

Wonderful! He has not released my bonds, though. You must be the one to stop Macoun. Can you do it?

She stared into her father’s eyes.
I can.

She stepped back, crouching into position and holding Eagan’s Elk at middle guard. Macoun’s laughter and the
g
owzals’ cries fueled her resolve. She recalled Achan’s lesson that this was a cutting blade. No use trying to stab Macoun, which would be harder, anyway. She raised Eagan’s Elk to side guard, stepped back a bit farther, and swung at Macoun’s head with all her strength and—by the fire still flowing in her veins—Arman’s strength, as well.

She barely heard a sound. She completed her swing and stared at him, ready to take another slice. Had she missed him?

She’d thought her aim was—

Like a toy toppling off a shelf, Macoun’s head tipped off his neck and fell to the floor. His body collapsed as well, leaving black ash drifting on the air where he had stood.

The gowzals shrieked all at once. Several flew out the window, raising a dust of feathers and ash. Two flew to Macoun’s body and began pecking.

Averella intended to look away, but movement caught her gaze. A near-naked man stood in Macoun’s place, though she could barely see him. His milky white skin was a coating of gossamer over hard muscles. He had black horns on his head and a mouth full of jagged teeth. The creature hissed at Averella like an angry cat, and leapt through the wall.

Averella turned to her father. “Did you see—?”

“I did.” His wide-eyed stare refocused on her face. He smiled and swept her up in a tight embrace.

She wilted there, never having felt so safe and secure in her life.

“Well done, Averella,” her father said. “Well done, indeed.” Achan’s elbow struck the side of Silvo’s blade.

23

Achan’s elbow struck the side of Silvo’s blade.

A gust of heat sizzled over Achan’s head, and Silvo vanished with a squeak. The sword fell. The flat slid over Achan’s chest and off his side. Sand rained down. He held his arm over his eyes and pushed himself to sitting with his other hand.

“I come in peace!” a familiar voice said.

Achan lowered his arm to see Lord Nathak dismount a horse that was slick with sweat and breathing hard. Toros and another soldier trained their blades on Lord Nathak.

As always, Nathak wore a molded brown leather mask over half his face to hide his ruined skin. His hair was white on the right side and black on the left, as if a young man and an old one had been sliced down the middle and stuck together. It reminded him of the tree in
Allowntown that had been
b
oth dead and alive. It reminded him of all of Er’Rets.
Lord Nathak’s short, pointed beard was split and had been twisted so the black and white spiraled together like the snail shells that washed up on the beach east of Sitna Manor.

Shung and Sir Caleb crouched to help Achan stand. His legs were shaking so hard he kept hold of the men for fear he would fall over. “You are well, Shung?”

“Cheating black knights and their rocks.” Shung spat on the road. “I am well.”

Achan grinned and patted Shung’s shoulder. “I am glad to hear it.” He turned to look on Silvo but saw nothing but charcoal smoke pouring off the remains of the wagon like water in a rocky stream. “Silvo?”

Sir Caleb motioned to a drift of black ash on the dirt road. “Gone.”

Achan looked back to where Lord Nathak stood beside his horse, arms lifted in surrender to Toros’s sword. “And Lord Nathak?”

“Saved your life.” Sir Caleb pointed to the remaining black knights and Lord Nathak, then addressed Toros. “Bind these men and put them with the captives.”

“Don’t take me away. Not yet!” Ragged desperation choked Lord Nathak’s voice. “I must speak with the prince first. Please!”

Achan brushed the ash of Silvo Hamartano off his chest. “Say what you must, Lord Nathak. You have my attention.”

Lord Nathak swallowed, his gaze shifting over the surrounding soldiers. “I am tired, boy. Tired of living. Everything I’ve worked for is out of my hands. Always has been, I suspect. My son betrayed me. He answers to a new master now.”

“The Hadad?”

Lord Nathak groaned. “Macoun is a liar, as was Jibhal. But so am I, and so is my son. When you keep company with liars, at some point you will be deceived.”

Seemed obvious to Achan. “And the Hadad deceived you?”

“Oh, yes. They all did. Jibhal played on my weaknesses from the start. Knew too much about me. Used that.”

Achan narrowed his eyes. “What did he know?”

“Everything.”

“Did you really find me in the fields near Sitna?”

“No. I pried you from your dead mother’s arms.”

The words jerked the ground out from beneath Achan’s feet. “You were there when the Hadad killed them?”

Another wheezy chuckle. “Jibhal lied, you see. Promised I’d be free if they were dead. Free from the anger and pain. Free to take my rightful place as king…” Lord Nathak coughed. “I was never free. And it nearly killed me.”

Achan could only stare. He could barely comprehend what he was hearing.

“I’ve explained this to my son time and again, but he never listens. He doesn’t understand the consequences.” Lord Nathak tugged a finger at the ties under his mask. They came loose, and he pulled off the mask and tossed it on the ground. The skin on the right side of his face was withered and smooth, like a dried apricot. A saggy eyelid hung over his empty socket.

A murmur tore through the crowd. Achan shrank back.

Lord Nathak fixed his good eye on Achan. “My son has let his obsession with you overtake him, as I once let my obsession with my father overtake me. It has been my ruin, just as you shall be Esek’s. You have the gods’ protection.” He removed his
g
love and held out his hand. “I’d like to show you my memories. It’s the best way for you to see the truth.”

Achan glanced at Sir Caleb.
What do you think?

I don’t like it. What does Duchess Amal say?

Achan reached for the duchess again.
My lady? Are you here?

I am, Your Highness. Macoun left me suddenly.

Can this request of Lord Nathak’s be a trap?

It could. But if Shung stands with you to give you strength to close your mind quickly, you should be safe.

It’s worth the risk, Sir Caleb.
Achan gripped Shung’s wrist, then held out his other hand to Lord Nathak, who gripped it tightly.

Images flooded his mind. Flashes of memory. Lord Nathak’s memories.

Sitting on the knee of a young King Axel.

The scowling face of Queen Dara.

A boy riding in a wagon, looking back at a castle on a lake.

Macoun Hadar, mid-age, coaching a young man in a bloodvoicing exercise.

A young, unscarred Lord Nathak kneeling before a man shrouded in black. Being knighted by the same man. Training alongside black knights.

Slitting Queen Dara’s throat. Stabbing King Axel and staring into his shocked, yet loving eyes as he died.

No! Lord Nathak had killed Achan’s parents? Achan tried to pull away, but Lord Nathak’s other hand clapped on top of Achan’s and held him there.

Dragging a toddling boy out from under an allown tree. Raising the bloody knife. Stabbing down. Lightning striking the tree, striking Lord Nathak. Falling.

Watching two small boys play together in a field.

Watching a young Myet brand one of the boys. Watching him brand
Achan.

Giving the child to Poril.

Standing before Lord Levy and the Council of Seven, masked, holding the other boy in his arms.

Lord Nathak released Achan then.

Achan pulled his hand away and met the eye of the man who’d taken his childhood, enslaved him, killed his mother and father. He lunged to pick up Ôwr and thrust it at Lord Nathak.

The man jumped aside, elbowed a soldier in the jaw, and stole the man’s sword. Achan took Ôwr in both hands and stepped to the middle of the dirt road. Lord Nathak crouched, ready to fight.

“You’re my own… brother?” Achan recalled Toros’s story of the Battle of Gadowl Wall. The rumor of an illegitimate child born to King Axel. Eighteen years before Achan had been born. Nathak was about that much older than Achan.

And the way Lord Nathak had just shared his memories. The chill that came whenever he was around. “And you can bloodvoice.”

Lord Nathak smiled. “It was best if no one knew.”

“Then my mother—Queen Dara—was not your mother.” Achan knew this now, but wanted to hear Lord Nathak explain, for none of it seemed possible.

“The inability to produce a child shames any woman. But Queen Dara, pressured by the crown on her head, felt it more than most, I suppose. Especially when one of King Axel’s mistresses conceived before she did. The young woman gave birth to a boy, whom the king named Luas.”