his prize, located one of the vacant reading desks, and examined the tome. On the very first page was a crude map of Lucel-Lor. Calligraphy indicated the names of the different regions. Alazrian tried to sound them out.
“The Dring Valley.” He had heard of that one. “Tatterak. Kes.” The next one he had never heard mentioned. “Reen?”
Obviously, he had a lot to learn, but he didn’t have a lot of time. Tomorrow was the tribunal, and after that—who knew? He might be returning to Aramoor. Or worse, he and Leth might wind up in prison. It didn’t seem fair that he should have such a book and not be able to read it, so he plunged ahead, devouring all he could of the High Naren writings, and an hour slipped by before he realized it. He read about King Darius Vantran of Aramoor and his own grandfather, Tassis Gayle, and how Emperor Arkus had made them both send troops to Lucel-Lor to defend the Daegog. He read about the Triin warlords and how they each ruled a different region of Lucel-Lor, and of the Drol and their revolution, led by the zealous Triin holy man—
A name leapt off the page. Alazrian let it slip from his lips.
“Tharn.”
For a moment Alazrian could read no further. InTalistan, it was almost forbidden to speak the name of Tharn. This was the man who had defeated the Empire. Together with Richius Vantran, he had killed Blackwood Gayle.
The Triin had called Tharn “storm-maker,” the book claimed, because he could command the sky and the lightning. The book swore that this was no rumor, but a truth corroborated by witnesses. The thought of it stirred Alazrian’s soul. Here it was, the proof he needed. For the first time he could remember since his body had changed, Alazrian didn’t feel alone. Tharn
had
existed. And he had possessed powers that no one could explain. Conhorth wrote that the Drol said their leader was “touched by heaven.” For Alazrian, the claim was wondrous.
“Touched by heaven,” he whispered. “That’s what I am.”
But the book didn’t say how this could be, and it didn’t say how Tharn had died. It only repeated the rumors that Alazrian knew already—that Blackwood Gayle was killed by the Jackal, Richius Vantran, and that the Triin holy man Tharn was dead as well. Frustratingly, there was nothing more. Alazrian started thumbing through the book desperately searching for more references to Tharn, but there were none. Nor was there any mention of Jakiras, Alazrian’s father. The omission disappointed the boy. He hadn’t really expected to see Jakiras’ name, for he had only been a merchant’s bodyguard, but any proof of his existence would have lightened Alazrian’s mind.
His head aching, Alazrian closed the book and leaned back in his chair. The library was silent. Hours had passed. He thought of leaving the library to check the clock, but a dreadful melancholy pinned him to the chair. The giddiness of earlier had gone, and all that remained were questions. How had Tharn gained the touch of heaven? Why did it burn in both their bodies? And what had really happened to him? Surely he was dead now, but that wasn’t enough for Alazrian. Some were even saying Richius Vantran was dead, too. It had been two years since the Jackal had left Aramoor. Alazrian sighed. Tomorrow he would face the Protectorate. It would have been so much easier to die knowing what he truly was.
“Touched by heaven,” he muttered.
“Touched by heaven?” came an echo. “What does that mean?”
The voice startled Alazrian, who turned around to see yet another Naren stranger. A man, wide as a wall, with dark hair and brooding eyes and shoulders like an ox. He wore plain clothing but his black boots were of a military style. Alazrian wondered if he were a soldier, one of Nar’s legionnaires. The big man came over to him and looked down, blocking the light like an eclipse. His eyes shifted toward the book on the desk and swiftly scanned the title.
“You’re interested in
“The Dring Valley.” He had heard of that one. “Tatterak. Kes.” The next one he had never heard mentioned. “Reen?”
Obviously, he had a lot to learn, but he didn’t have a lot of time. Tomorrow was the tribunal, and after that—who knew? He might be returning to Aramoor. Or worse, he and Leth might wind up in prison. It didn’t seem fair that he should have such a book and not be able to read it, so he plunged ahead, devouring all he could of the High Naren writings, and an hour slipped by before he realized it. He read about King Darius Vantran of Aramoor and his own grandfather, Tassis Gayle, and how Emperor Arkus had made them both send troops to Lucel-Lor to defend the Daegog. He read about the Triin warlords and how they each ruled a different region of Lucel-Lor, and of the Drol and their revolution, led by the zealous Triin holy man—
A name leapt off the page. Alazrian let it slip from his lips.
“Tharn.”
For a moment Alazrian could read no further. InTalistan, it was almost forbidden to speak the name of Tharn. This was the man who had defeated the Empire. Together with Richius Vantran, he had killed Blackwood Gayle.
The Triin had called Tharn “storm-maker,” the book claimed, because he could command the sky and the lightning. The book swore that this was no rumor, but a truth corroborated by witnesses. The thought of it stirred Alazrian’s soul. Here it was, the proof he needed. For the first time he could remember since his body had changed, Alazrian didn’t feel alone. Tharn
had
existed. And he had possessed powers that no one could explain. Conhorth wrote that the Drol said their leader was “touched by heaven.” For Alazrian, the claim was wondrous.
“Touched by heaven,” he whispered. “That’s what I am.”
But the book didn’t say how this could be, and it didn’t say how Tharn had died. It only repeated the rumors that Alazrian knew already—that Blackwood Gayle was killed by the Jackal, Richius Vantran, and that the Triin holy man Tharn was dead as well. Frustratingly, there was nothing more. Alazrian started thumbing through the book desperately searching for more references to Tharn, but there were none. Nor was there any mention of Jakiras, Alazrian’s father. The omission disappointed the boy. He hadn’t really expected to see Jakiras’ name, for he had only been a merchant’s bodyguard, but any proof of his existence would have lightened Alazrian’s mind.
His head aching, Alazrian closed the book and leaned back in his chair. The library was silent. Hours had passed. He thought of leaving the library to check the clock, but a dreadful melancholy pinned him to the chair. The giddiness of earlier had gone, and all that remained were questions. How had Tharn gained the touch of heaven? Why did it burn in both their bodies? And what had really happened to him? Surely he was dead now, but that wasn’t enough for Alazrian. Some were even saying Richius Vantran was dead, too. It had been two years since the Jackal had left Aramoor. Alazrian sighed. Tomorrow he would face the Protectorate. It would have been so much easier to die knowing what he truly was.
“Touched by heaven,” he muttered.
“Touched by heaven?” came an echo. “What does that mean?”
The voice startled Alazrian, who turned around to see yet another Naren stranger. A man, wide as a wall, with dark hair and brooding eyes and shoulders like an ox. He wore plain clothing but his black boots were of a military style. Alazrian wondered if he were a soldier, one of Nar’s legionnaires. The big man came over to him and looked down, blocking the light like an eclipse. His eyes shifted toward the book on the desk and swiftly scanned the title.
“You’re interested in
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