Crown of Crystal Flame
Page 36
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“Dahl’reisen?” Tajik turned to Gaelen. “That’s three times now we’ve found your friends in league with the Eld.”
“Not every dahl’reisen joins the Brotherhood, nor does every one who joins stay,” Gaelen answered with a scowl. “Whoever these dahl’reisen are, I doubt they’re acting in the name of the Brotherhood.”
“You doubt?” Tajik pounced on the opening. “Which is another way of saying you hope it’s not them, but you aren’t really sure, isn’t it?”
“They are dahl’reisen, Tajik. The Dark Path’s call can be very strong.”
“Quiet!” Bel snapped. His eyes were hazy, his mind traveling on weaves of lavender light, probing the minds of the warriors engaged in the melee.
“Bel, something is wrong.” Ellysetta walked into the command tent. “No one from this new battle in the encampment is being brought to me. Surely there must be wounded? “
“There are wounded.” His eyes narrowed and began to glow as he sent his senses out, away from the protected healing enclave. “They do not come.”
“Why?”
“They don’t believe themselves badly injured. They are determined not to give up.” He blinked, and his eyes lost the soft haze of magic, becoming twin cobalt diamonds glittering beneath ebony brows. “All they’re thinking of is fighting, of dying, if necessary, to protect king and country.”
“Krekk,” Gaelen said.
“What is it?” Ellysetta asked.
“It’s a rare mortal who, when faced with his own death, thinks only of king and country. Mortals may believe in the Bright Lord and his promises of a next life, but every one of them I’ve ever fought beside has clung to this life with his last dying breath.”
“Are they Mage-claimed?”
“I doubt it. I checked many of them personally,” Gaelen said. “So many would not fall so quickly. And even if it were possible, directing so many Mage-claimed all at once would raise such a stink of Azrahn that every Fey for forty miles would come running.”
“Could the dahl’reisen be controlling them with a Spirit weave?” Gil asked.
Bel shook his head. “I already checked. It’s not Spirit. I don’t think it’s a weave at all—or if it is, it’s nothing I can detect.”
Gaelen turned slowly. Thin, questing tendrils of his magic spun out in every direction, and with each quarter turn, the frown on his face deepened. “It must be a spell of some kind. But I can’t sense what it is or where it’s coming from or how it’s controlling them.”
“Whatever it is,” Tajik interrupted, “it’s not affecting only Bonn’s men anymore. I’m getting reports from all over the encampment. Our own men are turning on each other. Fey included.”
“Scorching Hells!” Rain and the Fey fired Fey’cha without cease to cover their retreat, but the attackers only seemed to be multiplying—and determined to kill them.
“Watch out, Feyreisen!” Powerful air weaves swirled around Rain, batting down a red Fey’cha that had been flying towards him. At the same time, five lu’tan loosed their own red daggers. They screamed and fell to their knees in agony as the dahl’reisen attacker clutched his pierced chest and collapsed in death.
“Feyreisen, I know that dahl’reisen.” One of the Fey commanders pointed to the body. “He’s Paris vel Mirothel, an Earth master who came with us from Dharsa. He’s one of our own.”
“Rasa?” Rain asked.
“Nei. Not even close. He was only a boy during the Mage Wars.”
Rain’s mouth went grim. If Paris hadn’t been rasa, slaughtering a thousand mortals should not have tipped him into Shadow… and yet clearly something had. That could only mean one thing. Paris had either slain one of the dahl’reisen or one of his own blade brothers—and then come after the rest of his blade brothers.
“Whatever this is,” the Fey commander said, “it’s too dangerous to risk its spreading further. Fey are killing Fey. You should have the tairen fire the field.”
“Fire the field?” Bonn echoed. “You can’t be serious. These are our own men—including some of my oldest and most loyal friends.”
“As your Avis just proved, those friends would kill you if they could,” Rain reminded him.
“Isn’t there some other way to neutralize them until we can figure out a way to undo whatever has taken over their minds? “
A Tairen Soul’s first instinct when threatened was to attack, to kill to protect the pride. Even now, he could feel his tairen Eras hissing, growling, unsheathing his claws in preparation for attack. Tairen did not trouble themselves with morality. To them, there was only survival or death. So when a threat arose, they eliminated it—swiftly and conclusively. There was no word in tairen speech for remorse, nor any word for mercy. There was only strength and weakness, predator and prey, survival or death.
But as Rain looked out over the turbulent—and growing—knot of attackers who wore the faces of his allies, he thought of Cann, standing on the ramparts of Kreppes, Elfbow drawn and aimed at Rain, trying to kill him.
A tairen’s first instinct might be to kill, but Rain was more than tairen—and these people were friends. Some of them were Fey, blade brothers. No matter how fiercely his tairen half urged him to scorch and shred them, his Fey half rebelled at the thought.
“Not every dahl’reisen joins the Brotherhood, nor does every one who joins stay,” Gaelen answered with a scowl. “Whoever these dahl’reisen are, I doubt they’re acting in the name of the Brotherhood.”
“You doubt?” Tajik pounced on the opening. “Which is another way of saying you hope it’s not them, but you aren’t really sure, isn’t it?”
“They are dahl’reisen, Tajik. The Dark Path’s call can be very strong.”
“Quiet!” Bel snapped. His eyes were hazy, his mind traveling on weaves of lavender light, probing the minds of the warriors engaged in the melee.
“Bel, something is wrong.” Ellysetta walked into the command tent. “No one from this new battle in the encampment is being brought to me. Surely there must be wounded? “
“There are wounded.” His eyes narrowed and began to glow as he sent his senses out, away from the protected healing enclave. “They do not come.”
“Why?”
“They don’t believe themselves badly injured. They are determined not to give up.” He blinked, and his eyes lost the soft haze of magic, becoming twin cobalt diamonds glittering beneath ebony brows. “All they’re thinking of is fighting, of dying, if necessary, to protect king and country.”
“Krekk,” Gaelen said.
“What is it?” Ellysetta asked.
“It’s a rare mortal who, when faced with his own death, thinks only of king and country. Mortals may believe in the Bright Lord and his promises of a next life, but every one of them I’ve ever fought beside has clung to this life with his last dying breath.”
“Are they Mage-claimed?”
“I doubt it. I checked many of them personally,” Gaelen said. “So many would not fall so quickly. And even if it were possible, directing so many Mage-claimed all at once would raise such a stink of Azrahn that every Fey for forty miles would come running.”
“Could the dahl’reisen be controlling them with a Spirit weave?” Gil asked.
Bel shook his head. “I already checked. It’s not Spirit. I don’t think it’s a weave at all—or if it is, it’s nothing I can detect.”
Gaelen turned slowly. Thin, questing tendrils of his magic spun out in every direction, and with each quarter turn, the frown on his face deepened. “It must be a spell of some kind. But I can’t sense what it is or where it’s coming from or how it’s controlling them.”
“Whatever it is,” Tajik interrupted, “it’s not affecting only Bonn’s men anymore. I’m getting reports from all over the encampment. Our own men are turning on each other. Fey included.”
“Scorching Hells!” Rain and the Fey fired Fey’cha without cease to cover their retreat, but the attackers only seemed to be multiplying—and determined to kill them.
“Watch out, Feyreisen!” Powerful air weaves swirled around Rain, batting down a red Fey’cha that had been flying towards him. At the same time, five lu’tan loosed their own red daggers. They screamed and fell to their knees in agony as the dahl’reisen attacker clutched his pierced chest and collapsed in death.
“Feyreisen, I know that dahl’reisen.” One of the Fey commanders pointed to the body. “He’s Paris vel Mirothel, an Earth master who came with us from Dharsa. He’s one of our own.”
“Rasa?” Rain asked.
“Nei. Not even close. He was only a boy during the Mage Wars.”
Rain’s mouth went grim. If Paris hadn’t been rasa, slaughtering a thousand mortals should not have tipped him into Shadow… and yet clearly something had. That could only mean one thing. Paris had either slain one of the dahl’reisen or one of his own blade brothers—and then come after the rest of his blade brothers.
“Whatever this is,” the Fey commander said, “it’s too dangerous to risk its spreading further. Fey are killing Fey. You should have the tairen fire the field.”
“Fire the field?” Bonn echoed. “You can’t be serious. These are our own men—including some of my oldest and most loyal friends.”
“As your Avis just proved, those friends would kill you if they could,” Rain reminded him.
“Isn’t there some other way to neutralize them until we can figure out a way to undo whatever has taken over their minds? “
A Tairen Soul’s first instinct when threatened was to attack, to kill to protect the pride. Even now, he could feel his tairen Eras hissing, growling, unsheathing his claws in preparation for attack. Tairen did not trouble themselves with morality. To them, there was only survival or death. So when a threat arose, they eliminated it—swiftly and conclusively. There was no word in tairen speech for remorse, nor any word for mercy. There was only strength and weakness, predator and prey, survival or death.
But as Rain looked out over the turbulent—and growing—knot of attackers who wore the faces of his allies, he thought of Cann, standing on the ramparts of Kreppes, Elfbow drawn and aimed at Rain, trying to kill him.
A tairen’s first instinct might be to kill, but Rain was more than tairen—and these people were friends. Some of them were Fey, blade brothers. No matter how fiercely his tairen half urged him to scorch and shred them, his Fey half rebelled at the thought.
