Arlen tried to read the emotions in Jardir’s aura, but they were too complex, even for him. This was something Jardir had wrestled with for years, and still not come to terms with. It did little to ease his sense of betrayal, but there was more, and Arlen wanted to hear it.
“What changed?” he said.
“I remembered your words,” Jardir said. “I watched from the wall as you led the Sharum to clear the Maze, the Spear of Kaji shining bright as the sun in your hands. They shouted your name, and I knew then they would follow you. The warriors would make you Shar’Dama Ka, and charge Nie’s abyss if you asked it.”
“Afraid I’d take your job?” Arlen asked. “Never wanted it.”
Jardir shook his head. “I did not care about my job, Par’chin. I cared about my people. And yours. Every man, woman, and child on Ala. For they would all follow you once they saw the alagai bleed. I saw it in my mind’s eye, and it was glorious.”
“Then what, Ahmann?” Arlen asked, losing patience. “What in the Core happened?”
“I told you, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “I remembered your words. There is no Heaven, you said. And I thought to myself, Without hope of Heaven, what reason would you have to remain righteous when all the world bowed to you? Without being humble before the Creator, what man could be trusted with such power? Nie corrupts what She cannot destroy, and it is only in our submission to Everam that we can resist Her whispers and lies.”
Arlen gaped at him. The truth of the words was written on Jardir’s aura, but his mind boggled at the thought. “I embody everything you hold dear, willing to fight and die in the First War, but you’d betray me because I do it for humanity, and not some figment in the sky?”
Jardir clenched a fist. “I warn you, Par’chin …”
“Corespawn your warnings!” Arlen brought his fist down, the limb still thrumming with power. The table exploded with the blow, collapsing in a spray of splinters. Jardir leapt back from the broken boards and shrapnel, coming down in a sharusahk stance.
Arlen knew better than to attempt to grapple. Jardir was more than his match at hand-fighting. He’d fought dama before, and been lucky to escape with his life. Jardir had studied for years with the clerics, learning their secrets. Even now, when Arlen was faster and stronger than anyone alive, Jardir could take him like a boy to the woodshed. Much as Arlen wanted to meet Jardir on even terms, there was nothing to be gained, and everything to lose.
Jardir’s superior sharusahk skill was irrelevant in any event. His understanding and control over his magic was rudimentary at best, self-taught and unpracticed. It would be some time before he was in full control of his abilities, and even then he could not match with hora relics what Arlen, who had made magic a part of him, could do. If he wanted to kill Jardir, he could.
And doom them all. Arlen might be able to make the crown work without Jardir, but there wasn’t much chance he could escape Anoch Sun alive without help, and he’d never make it to the mind court alone. The Core would call to him, its song more insistent the closer he drew.
Nie corrupts what she cannot destroy. Words of faith, but there was wisdom in them all the same. Every child had heard the proverb in the Canon that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The Core offered absolute power, but Arlen dare not touch it. He would lose himself, absorbed and burnt away like a match thrown into a Solstice bonfire.
He breathed deeply to calm himself before he did something rash. Jardir kept his guard up, but his aura showed he had no desire to fight. They both knew what was at stake.
“I made a promise to you that night as I left you on the dunes, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “I threw you a waterskin and promised I would find you in the afterlife, and if I had not kept true and made the Ala a better place, we would have a reckoning.”
“Well it’s come early,” Arlen said. “Hope you’re ready for it.”
Jardir looked at the sky as they exited the tower, trying to deduce where they were from the position of the stars. South and west of Everam’s Bounty, but that told him little. Millions of untamed acres lay between the great city and the desert flats. He might manage to find his way back on his own, but Everam only knew how long it would take.
He didn’t need to ask the Par’chin his purpose in leading them from the tower. It was written clearly on his aura, mirrored in Jardir’s own. The hope that fighting side by side against the alagai, as they had done so many times before, could begin to eat away at the anger and mistrust that lay between them still.
Unity is worth any price, the Evejah said. Kaji had called it the key to Sharak Ka. If he and the Par’chin could find unity of purpose, then they stood a chance.
If not …
Jardir breathed deep of the night air. It was fitting. All men are brothers in the night, Kaji had said. If they could not find unity before the alagai, they were unlikely to find it elsewhere.
“They’ll catch our scent soon enough,” the Par’chin said, reading his thoughts. “First thing to do is recharge your crown.”
Jardir shook his head. “The first thing is for you to return my spear to me, Par’chin. I have agreed to your terms.”
The Par’chin shook his head. “Let’s start slow, Ahmann. Spear’s not going anywhere just yet.”
Jardir gave him a hard look, but there was nothing for it. He could see the Par’chin would not budge on the point, and it was useless to argue further. He raised his fist, knuckles scarred with wards Inevera had cut into his skin. “The crown will begin to recharge when my fist strikes an alagai.”
The Par’chin nodded. “No need to wait, though.”
Jardir looked at him. “You suggest I take more from you?”
The Par’chin gave him a withering look. “Caught me off guard the once, Ahmann. Try that trick again and you’ll regret it.”
“Then how?” Jardir asked. “Without an alagai to Draw from …”
The Par’chin cut him off with a wave of his hand, gesturing at their surroundings. “Magic’s all around us, Ahmann.”
It was true. In crownsight, Jardir could see as clearly at night as in day, the world awash in magic’s glow. It pooled at their feet like a luminescent fog, stirred by their passage, but there was little power in it, any more than smoke had the power of flame.
“I don’t understand,” Jardir said.
“Breathe,” the Par’chin said. “Close your eyes.”
Jardir glanced at him, but complied, his breathing rhythmic and even. He fell into the warrior’s trance he had learned in Sharik Hora, soul at peace, but ready to act in an instant.
“Reach out with the crown,” the Par’chin said. “Feel the magic around you, whispering like a soft breeze.”
Jardir did as he asked, and could indeed sense the magic, expanding and contracting in response to his breath. It flowed over the Ala, but was drawn to life.
“Gently Draw it,” the Par’chin said, “like you’re breathing it in.” Jardir inhaled, and felt the power flow into him. It was not the fire of striking an alagai, more like sunlight on his skin.
“Keep going,” the Par’chin said. “Easy. Don’t stop with your exhales. Just keep a steady pull.”
Jardir nodded, feeling the flow continue. He opened his eyes, seeing magic drifting to him from all directions in a steady current, like a river heading to a fall. It was a slow process, but eventually the chasm began to fill. He felt stronger.
Then his elation cost him his center, and the flow stopped.
He looked to the Par’chin. “Amazing.”
The Par’chin smiled. “Just gettin’ started, Ahmann. We’ve got a lot more to cover before we’re ready to face a court of mind demons.”
“You do not trust me with the Spear of the Kaji, but you give me the secrets of your magic?”
“Sharak Ka comes before all else,” Arlen said. “You taught me war. Only fair I teach you magic. The rudiments, anyway. Spear’s a crutch you’ve leaned on too long.” He winked. “Just don’t think I’m teaching you all my tricks.”
They spent several more minutes thus, the Par’chin gently coaching him in how to Draw the power.
“Now hold the power tight,” the Par’chin said, producing a small folding knife from his pocket. He opened it and flipped the blade into his grip, passing the handle to Jardir.
Jardir took the small blade curiously. It wasn’t even warded. “What am I to do with this?”
“Cut yourself,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir looked at him curiously, then shrugged and complied. The blade was sharp, and parted his flesh easily. He could see blood in the cut, but the magic he’d absorbed was already at work. The skin knit together before it could begin to well.
The Par’chin shook his head. “Again. But keep a tighter grip on the power. So tight the wound stays open.”
Jardir grunted, slicing his flesh again. The wound began to close as before, but Jardir Drew the magic from his flesh into the crown, and the healing stopped.
“Healing’s great when your bones are in the right place and you’ve got power to spare,” the Par’chin said, “but if you’re not careful, you can heal twisted, or waste power you need. Now let out just a touch, sending it straight where it’s needed.”
Jardir let out a measured trickle of magic, and watched the cut seal away as if it had never been.
“Good,” the Par’chin said, “but you might’ve done with less. Two cuts, now. Heal one, but not the other.”
Holding tight to the power, Jardir cut one forearm, and then the other. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, releasing a fraction as much magic as before and willing it to his left arm alone. He could feel the tingle run along the limb, and opened his eyes to see the cut slowly sealing, the other still oozing blood.
There was a howl not far off, the sound of field demons. Jardir looked in that direction, but the alagai were still too far off.
“Draw power from that direction,” the Par’chin said. “Take it in through your eyes.”
Jardir did so, and found that even though there was no direct line of sight, he could see the creatures in the distance, running hard for their position.
“How?” he asked.
“All living things make an imprint on the ambient magic,” the Par’chin said, “spreading out like a drop of dye in water. You can read the current, and see beyond the limits of your eyes.”
Jardir squinted, studying the approaching creatures. A full reap, more than a score of demons. Their long, corded limbs and low torsos glowed fiercely with power.
“They are many, Par’chin,” he said. “Are you certain you do not wish to return the spear to me?” He scanned the sky. There were wind demons beginning to circle as well, drawn to the glow of their power. Jardir reached for his Cloak of Unsight, ready to pull it close, but of course the Par’chin had taken that, too.
The son of Jeph shook his head. “We can’t take them with gaisahk alone, then we got no business in Anoch Sun.”
Jardir looked at him curiously. The meaning of the word was clear enough, a conjunction of the Krasian gai, meaning “demon,” and sahk, meaning “unarmed,” but he had never heard it before.
“Sharusahk was designed for men to kill one another.” The Par’chin held up a warded fist. “Needed to change it up a bit to bring the wards to bear properly.”
Jardir crossed his fists before his heart and gave a shallow bow, the traditional bow of sharusahk pupil to master. The move was perfectly executed, but doubtless the Par’chin could see the sarcasm in his aura.
He swept a hand at the rapidly approaching field demons. “I eagerly await my first lesson, Par’chin.”
The Par’chin’s eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of smile on his lips. His face blurred momentarily, and his clothes fell away, leaving him in only his brown bido. It was the first time Jardir had truly seen what his friend had become. The Warded Man, as the Northerners called him.
It was easy to see why the greenlanders thought him the Deliverer. Every inch of his visible flesh was covered with wards. Some were large and powerful. Impact wards. Forbiddings. Pressure wards. Like Jardir, a demon could not touch the Par’chin, but that he willed it, and his punches, elbows, and kicks would strike the alagai like scorpion bolts.
Other wards, like those than ran around his eyes, ears, and mouth, were almost too small to read, conveying more subtle powers. Midsized ones ran up and down his limbs. Thousands in all.
That in itself was enough to amaze, but the Par’chin had always been an artist with warding. His patterns, simple and efficient, were rendered with such beauty they put Evejan illuminators to shame. Dama who had spent a lifetime copying and illustrating sacred text in ink made from the blood of heroes.
The wards Inevera had cut into Jardir’s flesh were crude by comparison. She would have needed to flay him alive to approach what the Par’chin had done.
Magic ran along the surface of those wards, crackling like static on a thick carpet. They pulsed and throbbed, brightening and dimming in a hypnotizing rhythm. Even one without wardsight could see it. He didn’t look like a man anymore. He looked like one of Everam’s seraphs.