The Broken Pieces(57)
“You’re to go alone?” she asked.
“Seemed to be the plan,” Darius said.
“It’s a bad one.”
“Those seem to work out best for me. If you’d like to come with me, just ask. No need to drug me and steal my horse.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “I merely went along with it when I was asked.”
“Of course you did,” Darius said, and he smiled at her to show all was forgiven. “After all, that was a good plan. Hurry up and saddle another horse, and be careful about it. Your presence seems to make them skittish.”
Valessa shook her head.
“You seem to forget, paladin, that the world doesn’t hold the same grip on me as it used to…”
Hours later Darius pulled back on the reins of his horse. Less than a quarter mile ahead was the outskirts of Cade’s Rest. He’d hoped to see signs of preparations, maybe some wagons loaded up for departure, but instead the village was the same casual bustle that he’d grown accustomed to in the North. So far he’d not encountered any sign of Matt, the rider Livstrom had sent, and his fear for the man’s safety grew. Lifting a hand, he waved to the sky, then waited. A moment later a large white dove landed in the road before him, then morphed into Valessa, who stretched her arms and legs.
“I could fly up there for hours,” she said.
“Good for you, but I need you down here at my side. That, and I wanted to give you this.”
He felt trepidation in doing so, but Darius also knew it was the right thing to do. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a heavily wrapped bundle of cloth. Within was the dagger Valessa had wielded in Willshire, abandoned when she’d fled with Cyric. He’d kept it from her ever since her return, but no longer.
“It’s yours,” he said, and he could tell from her hesitation she knew what was inside the thin cloth. “Take it.”
She reached out, then stopped.
“I’m not sure I should,” she said. “It is an evil blade.”
Darius frowned, and gently he unfolded the cloth to expose the dagger. Its blade was dark steel, its hilt expertly crafted. From the blade pulsed a soft red hue. The sight of it made Darius’s stomach uncomfortable, as it did whenever he looked upon it.
“The blade is not evil,” Darius said. “I do not believe stories and fables. No blade is evil. No blade is good. It is only blessed by the wielder.”
“Then it is truly an evil blade,” Valessa said. “It used to be mine.”
“Then take it back,” Darius said, offering it to her. “Make it good.”
Like a child reaching out to pet the muzzle of a wolf, Valessa slowly moved to take the dagger. With a sudden burst, as if afraid she might change her mind, she yanked it free of the cloth and held it before her. Immediately the illusion of her vanished, and Darius saw the swirling mass of light and dark that made up her form. The two entities danced, always interlocking, each unable to overwhelm the other. Where her hand touched the hilt, the darkness gathered deeper, swelling like water at the bottom of a well. Darius remained on his horse, not wanting to interfere, but he could see she was struggling. At last he leapt off.
“Stay back!” she screamed, both hands now clutching the hilt. The blade itself was shining a vicious red. The glowing white essence, which ran like veins through her face, across her chest, and spiraled through her arms and legs, was steadily dimming. She fell to her knees, knees that splashed light and darkness as if they were liquid. Darius ignored her impassioned cry, and despite his own fear, he reached out to wrap his hand around hers. His hand sank through to touch the hilt of the blade. Immediately he felt a jolt to his chest, and a sense of fury beyond anything he’d ever felt before. It was the rage of Karak, and whether it was directed at him or Valessa, he did not know, nor did he care.
“Be gone,” Darius said to it. “You’re wanted no more.”
The dagger shook, a tremor building inside it. The rage grew, and for a moment Darius thought he would black out. A ringing filled his ears. He begged Ashhur for strength, and when he heard Valessa screaming, he knew he had to be stronger. He had to be better. Standing firm, he channeled every bit of his own rage into that blade, the betrayal he’d felt, the loss and isolation as everything he’d ever known had been revealed to be a lie. He remembered the loneliness, and then against Karak’s rage he flung the sheer joy he’d felt when Jerico reached down his hand and told him to stand.
The ringing vanished, replaced with a sudden, explosive silence. The dagger fell from both their hands, now just an ordinary piece of metal. It landed in the road.