The Saints of the Sword (50 page)

“I am sorry for you,” said Jahl Rob. “Truly, I am. You don’t deserve this curse. But it frightens me.”

“It’s not a disease, Jahl. You won’t catch it from me.”

Jahl smiled sadly. “What is it then? Do you know?”

Alazrian was silent.

“Of course you don’t, because that is the way of magic. It is secret, dark. It never reveals its true nature.”

“You know what scares me, Jahl? People like you. You’re a priest, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to help people, not turn them away. I’m afraid every time I run into someone like you, because I never know what they’re
going to think of me, or what they might do if they find out I’m half Triin or that I have magic. That’s what
I’m
afraid of. You try living with that for awhile, then talk to me about being scared.”

Across the fire, Jahl Rob looked at Alazrian, his face flushed with embarrassment. “You shouldn’t be afraid of me. God is love. There is room in His heart for everyone. Even you.”

“All the prayers and stained glass won’t change what I am, Jahl,” said Alazrian bitterly. “They won’t make people fear me any less.”

“Oh, you have it wrong,” said Jahl. “Don’t mistake cathedrals for God. That isn’t my faith. Churches and hymns are the poetry of my faith. They give me comfort, but that is all.” He shifted a little closer to Alazrian, coming around the fire to sit an arm’s length away. “I find God in every grain of sand,” he said. “Not in the works of man.”

“But you loved the Cathedral of the Martyrs. I know you did. I remember, from when I touched you.”

“It was a wonderful place,” acknowledged Jahl. “I don’t think a more splendid place ever existed.”

“My mother loved it, too,” said Alazrian. “She wanted to take me there someday. I think she wanted me to marry there. Oh, but Elrad Leth never would have allowed that. He despises Nar City, and the church.”

“How well I know that,” said Rob.

Alazrian sighed. “I loved my mother very much. Now that she’s gone, I don’t seem able to find myself. She was the only one that loved me, besides my grandfather. And he’s, well … you know.”

Jahl Rob didn’t say a word. He simply watched Alazrian in the dancing light, letting him confess the poison in his life.

“Elrad Leth is a monster,” he whispered. “He used to beat my mother. She even had a scar across her forehead from a ring he wears. I always tried to defend her, but I was so much smaller than him. I couldn’t fight him.” Alazrian’s lips began to tremble, and he felt his throat constrict. “One time he tried to strangle my mother. I jumped
on him and I told him I was going to kill him. I was really young then, about twelve I guess. He …”

Alazrian’s voice quit on him, forcing him to look away.

“What?” coaxed Jahl. “What happened?”

“He took off his belt and beat me until my back was bloody,” Alazrian whispered. “It didn’t matter how much I screamed or how much my mother begged him to stop. He just kept at me for an hour. I could hear myself crying. It was like it wasn’t me, but someone else, just crying and crying.” Alazrian shook his head, wondering how such a horrible tale could be true. “When he was done beating me he dragged me upstairs into my bedroom. There was a little closet in my bedchamber, hardly big enough for a man. He locked me in there. I was in that closet for two days before he let me out. And when I got free I couldn’t see because of all the darkness. My eyes …” Alazrian put a hand up to his eyes. “I was blind.” He looked around the dark cavern. Sometimes small spaces still made him scream.

“Sweet heaven,” said Rob. He gazed at Alazrian, stricken, and Alazrian, who hadn’t told that story to anyone, felt depleted by the catharsis.

“You know what the worst part is, Jahl?” he asked. “He’s the only father I’ve ever known. No matter how much he beat me, part of me always wanted his acceptance. But he never wanted me.”

Alazrian closed his eyes. The confession nearly brought him to tears. It was a sick thing to admit, but he really had wanted Elrad Leth’s love. It wasn’t right to have only a mother’s affection, not when a father was so near.

There was an appalling silence in the cave. Alazrian could feel Jahl Rob’s gaze burning into him. If not for the storm, Alazrian would have bolted.

“Alazrian, get up,” said Jahl Rob suddenly. Alazrian opened his eyes and saw the priest standing over him.

“What?”

The priest’s face was expressionless. “Get up. I want you to come with me.”

Alazrian got to his feet warily. “Where are we going?”

“Outside.” Jahl headed for the front of the cave,
stooping to pick up his bow and quiver. He paused in the mouth of the cavern, looking at Alazrian. “Well? Are you coming?”

Alazrian was speechless. “It’s raining …”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the priest softly. Then he walked out into the rain, heedless of the clouds and the distant groan of thunder. Alazrian didn’t move. Was this pity? he wondered. He hurried after the priest. The rain had slackened, but he was quickly drenched anyway. Jahl Rob stopped in the middle of the muddy road and glanced around.

“There,” he declared, pointing off toward a fat pine tree cracking through the rocky earth. “That’s our target.” He handed the bow to Alazrian. “Take it.”

“But I don’t know how to shoot,” said Alazrian. “What do I do?”

“I’ll show you. Just take it.”

So Alazrian took the bow, holding it the way he had seen Shinn hold it, then plucked at the string with his right hand. Jahl Rob produced an arrow from his quiver. His hair was already soaked with water. Alazrian could feel his boots filling with rain. But he didn’t care at all. Jahl Rob moved up behind him and wrapped him in his arms. The priest took Alazrian’s hands in his own, guiding the fingers around the bow and string. The warmth of his touch made Alazrian tremble. How long had it been since someone had touched him?

“Like this,” said the priest into his ear. Gently he used Alazrian’s hands to draw back the bowstring. “Close your left eye. Keep your right eye on the tree trunk, all right?”

Alazrian nodded, but he really couldn’t see the target through the rain and tears obscuring his vision.

H
e was called the Red Stag.

At twenty-seven, he was the eldest of his father’s clan, and so had risen to leader upon the old stag’s death. He was slender like a reed, with green eyes and weathered skin, and he had a voice like the sound a crystal goblet makes when it’s tapped, beautiful and resonant. Because his clan dominated the Eastern Highlands, he was supreme among his people, a burden he bore on his young shoulders with ease—for it was his fate to rule the Highlands, just as it was to command the latapi.

Prince Redburn crouched in the brush of the elk yard watching the latapi drink from the river. He was very quiet and barely breathed. Every muscle in his body had turned to stone, refusing to twitch. This was the breeding season, when the elk came together in the valley between mountains, flattening out the earth with their hooves to make their private yards. Here the bulls fought for the cows, bashing their antlers together in the ancient rite of rutting.

For Redburn, this was a holy place. Each spring, when the herds migrated down from the mountains, the roars of their combat could be heard throughout the Highlands, even reaching the grounds of Elkhorn Castle. Redburn loved to watch the wars. It was in his blood to witness their combat and he was drawn to it every spring, as much
a ritual for him as for the sacred elk he preserved. Because it was late in the season, most of the herds had already sired, but there were some that still awaited nature’s call. These were the white latapi, the ones from the highest ranges whose coats were the color of ash and brightened as summer came. While other latapi had already endured the violent rituals of the rut, the white latapi were only now trampling down their yards. They were beautiful to behold. The white latapi were taller than most, seven feet at the shoulder, and their antlers spanned six feet at maturity making them the fiercest breed for battle.

For generations Redburn’s people had ridden the latapi against their enemies, saddling the wild elk and armoring their hulking bodies. And though many had come before Redburn, claiming the command of the elk, only the prince had magic in his hands. He alone could calm the beasts with a touch, or reach into the womb of a cow to rescue a breaching calf. He could ride bareback and call the latapi to him from across a mountain range, and because of this he was revered by his people. But for him, it was simply his destiny.

A powerful buck crossed the plain before him, not noticing him as it sought out a mate. A hundred paces away, a cow was ready, slowly prowling the green grass. The buck smelled her musk. A low roar rumbled from his throat. He lifted his great head, swishing his antlers, but no other males came to challenge him. Redburn leaned forward, spellbound. He watched as the buck circled closer to the cow, not too quickly as to frighten her. He was just about to close the distance when a cry shattered the mood.

“Redburn!”

The prince fell back, shaking his head.

“What the …?”

It was Breena. His sister’s call echoed through the valley, sending the latapi scattering. His cover exposed, Redburn stepped out of the bushes and glanced around. Breena was hurrying toward him, riding one of the smaller brown elk. She emerged from the hills with her red hair
blowing out behind her, her face drawn with worry. Redburn waved.

“Here,” he called. He walked toward her, quickly snatching up the reins of her mount. The elk snorted, breathing hard. Redburn calmed it with a touch. “Breena, what’s wrong with you?” He gestured to the valley full of fleeing elk. “You scared them off.”

“Redburn, you have to come,” said his sister. She held out her hand to lift him onto the beast. “Two males are locked. I just saw them.”

“Locked? Where?”

Breena pointed back toward the hills. “Over the ridge, near the tide stream. They’re bleeding. Looks like they’ve been locked for days. You have to get them apart.”

Redburn took his sister’s hand and let her yank him onto the elk. Though it was one of the smaller beasts, the elk handled the extra burden easily. They had ridden it together to the valley so that they could watch the breeding. Redburn sat behind Breena, letting her lead the animal. She was an accomplished rider, like all of their clan. Breena spun the beast around and began galloping toward the hills. Her long hair whipped her brother’s face in the wind.

“How big?” he asked.

“Full grown, both of them. Four-year-olds, at least. One looks bad.”

Redburn cursed. This time of year, males often locked antlers during combat. If they weren’t separated they would die of starvation. But separating them wasn’t easy. Usually, it took the prince’s special touch. If they were frightened or angry, getting them apart could be dangerous. Redburn still had the scars from last year’s mating season. If they fought hard enough, there would be no choice but to put them down—from a distance, with a bow. But Redburn hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Breena crested the ridge and took them down to a clearing by the stream. There she halted, looking around. Redburn cocked his head to listen. He heard running water and the heavy breathing of their mount. Birds were
chirping. Then he heard something else, like grunting. The shuffle of hooves through grass sounded to their right. Breena was about to direct the elk toward the noise when Redburn stopped her.

“No,” he cautioned. “Don’t.”

Quietly he dropped down from the elk’s back. Up ahead the sound was distinct. He glimpsed movement through the tall grass, then heard the depleted cries again.

“That’s them,” whispered Breena. She slipped down next to her brother. “There.”

Redburn inched closer; Breena followed after him. She was not afraid of the elks, who could easily turn violent, and she shared her brother’s gift for stalking. The males ahead of them roared and thrashed, easily visible now over the grass. Redburn stopped, holding up a hand to Breena. Both were white elk. One’s nose and forehead was torn by the tines of the other’s antlers. Blood soaked their fur and velvet, and exhausted grunts rumbled from their throats as they vainly fought to untangle themselves.

“Damn,” whispered Redburn. “The smaller one looks bad.”

“Can you get them apart?”

Redburn shrugged. He didn’t know.

“Stay back,” he warned his sister. “If they bolt they might crash right into you.”

Breena backed up a few paces and led their mount away. When Redburn was sure she was out of harm’s way, he took a careful step toward the males. They hadn’t seen him yet, and in their exhausted grunting, hadn’t heard him either. Redburn held up his hands, then began to make music.

A soothing song came to his lips, a calm, primitive trilling not unlike the language of the latapi. It was soft at first, like the breeze. The males stopped their thrashing at once. Redburn let the song grow in volume, barely stopping for breath. Together the two males tried to turn their locked heads toward him, raising and lowering their antlers as if they were nodding. The prince took a step closer, then another, all the while continuing the ancient song of his clan, his open palms held out before him. Both males fixed him
with a single brown eye. Redburn looked at them without blinking. This was the toughest, most dangerous moment. It was like casting a spell, and if the mood was broken they would bolt. Quickly he studied the sharp tines of their antlers trying to decipher the knot entangling them. White elk had racks as wide as a man was tall, and as complicated as a road map. These two were fully grown, which meant their racks had tines aplenty. Redburn continued trilling as he made his final approach. With his hands outstretched he reached for the beasts, touching the bloodied one first. The animal was bone-weary and Redburn’s touch calmed him instantly. The other was more frightened. Redburn stopped his song and brushed the stag’s nose.

“Easy, my friend,” he whispered. “Look at me. You know me, yes? I won’t hurt you.”

His voice calmed the beast. Slowly it dropped to its knees, dragging its partner down with it.

“Good,” cooed the prince. “That’s right. I’m going to help you.”