Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

The other demons, their ravenous fury turned to a more cautious aggression after their battle with the Par’chin, circled, issuing low, threatening growls as they looked for an opening. Jardir glanced at the Par’chin, who had stepped back to observe. His wards of forbiddance glowed fiercely, and Jardir could see the edge of the warding field they formed. It bordered several feet in every direction around the Par’chin, like an invisible bubble of impenetrable glass.

His own warriors had been ready to name the Par’chin Deliverer that night in the Maze. Jardir had thought it due only to the Spear of Kaji at the time, but it seemed the Par’chin was destined to power. It was inevera.

But destined to power did not mean he was Shar’Dama Ka. The Par’chin balked at the final price of power, refusing to take the reins his people thrust at him. There was still much he had to learn.

“Observe, Par’chin,” Jardir said, making a show of setting his feet as he took one of the most basic dama sharusahk stances. He breathed in, taking in all his surroundings, all his thoughts and emotions, embracing them and letting them fall away. He looked at the demons with calm, relaxed focus, ready to react in an instant.

He lowered his guard, pretending distraction, and the alagai took the bait. The ring around him burst into motion as all the field demons moved at him together with all the precision of a push guard.

Jardir never moved his feet, but his waist, supple as a palm frond, twisted and bent as he dodged the attacks and turned them away. He seldom needed more than the flat of his hand to redirect tooth or talon, slapping at paws or the side of a field demon’s head just enough to keep them from touching him. The creatures landed in confused tumbles, dazed, but unharmed.

“You fighting, or just playing with them?” the Par’chin asked.

“I am teaching, Par’chin,” he replied, “and you would be wise to attend the lesson. You may have skill with magic, but the dama would laugh at your sharusahk. There is more than dogma taught in the catacombs beneath Sharik Hora. Gaisahk has merit, but you have much to learn.”

Jardir sent a pulse of power through the crown, knocking the alagai back in a tumble as if from the press of a shield wall. They shook themselves off, growling and beginning to circle once more.

“Come,” Jardir beckoned, making a show of setting his feet “Plant your feet and let us begin the lesson.”

The Par’chin melted into mist, reappearing right at his side, feet set in a perfect imitation of Jardir’s stance. Jardir grunted his approval. “You will fight without misting. Sharusahk is the eternal struggle for life, Par’chin. You cannot master it if you do not fear for yours.”

The Par’chin met his gaze, and nodded. “Fair’s fair.”

As the demons came back at them, Jardir gave the Par’chin a mocking wink. “But do not think I am teaching you all my tricks.”

Jardir watched the sun strike the bodies of the alagai they had used as sharusahk practice dummies. Demons more powerful than field and wind had arrived as the night wore on, drawn to the sound of battle. In the end he and the Par’chin had been forced to drop their easy pretense and fight hard to take them with gaisahk alone.

But now their foes lay broken at their feet, and he and the Par’chin stood to show them the sun.

If Jardir lived to be a thousand, he would never tire of the sight. The demons’ skin began to char instantly, glowing like hot coals before bursting into bright fire, casting a flush of heat over his face. It was a daily reminder that, no matter how dark the night, Everam would always return in strength. It was the one moment of every day when hope overpowered the burden of his task to free his people of the alagai. It was the moment when he felt as one with Everam and Kaji.

He looked to the Par’chin, wondering what his faithless ajin’pal saw in the flames. His crownsight was fading as shadows fled, but there was still a hint of his ajin’pal’s aura, and the hope and strength of purpose that filled it in that moment.

“Ah, Par’chin,” he said, drawing the man’s gaze. “It is so easy to remember our differences, I sometimes forget the similarities.”

The Par’chin nodded sadly. “Honest word.”

“How did you find the lost city, Par’chin?” Jardir asked.

Arlen could not read Jardir’s aura in the daylight, but the sharp, probing look in his eyes told him this was no random question. Jardir had been holding it, biding his time, waiting until Arlen was relaxed and unsuspecting.

And it had worked. Arlen knew his face in that instant told Jardir much he would have preferred to keep secret. His thoughts offered up a dozen lies, but he shook them away. If they were to walk this road together, it must be as brothers, honest and with trust, or their task was doomed to failure before it even began.

“Had a map,” he said, knowing it would not end there.

“And where did you get this map?” Jardir pressed. “You could not have found it out in the sands. Such a fragile thing would have long since crumbled away.”

Arlen took a deep breath, straightening his back, and met Jardir’s eyes. “Stole it from Sharik Hora.” Jardir’s nod was calm, the act of a disappointed parent who already knows what his child has done.

But despite his posture, Arlen could smell his mounting anger. Anger no wise person would ignore. He readied himself, wondering if he could defeat Jardir in the light of day if it came to blows.

Just need to get the crown off him, he thought, knowing it sounded far simpler than it was. He’d rather climb a mountain without a rope.

“How did you accomplish this?” Jardir asked with that same tired tone. “You could not have penetrated Sharik Hora alone.”

Arlen nodded. “Had help.”

“Who?” Jardir pressed, but Arlen simply inclined his head.

“Ah,” Jardir said. “Abban. He’s been caught bribing dama many times, but I did not think even he could be so bold, or that he could have lied to me for so long without being discovered.”

“He ent stupid, Ahmann,” Arlen said. “You’d have killed him, or worse, done some barbaric shit like cutting out his tongue. Don’t you deny it. Wasn’t his fault, anyway. He owed me a blood debt, and I wanted the map in payment.”

“That makes him no less accountable,” Jardir said.

Arlen shrugged. “What’s done is done, and he did the world a favor.”

“Did he?” Jardir asked. His calm façade dropped as he glared at Arlen, striding in till they were nose-to-nose. “What if the spear was not meant to be found yet, Par’chin? Perhaps we were not ready for it, and you denied inevera by bringing it back before its time? What if we lose Sharak Ka over your and Abban’s arrogance, Par’chin? What then?”

His voice grew in power as he went on, and for a moment Arlen felt himself wilt under it. Stealing the scroll had never seemed right, but even now, he would do it again.

“Ay, maybe,” he agreed. “And it’s on me and Abban if it’s so.”

He straightened, leaning back in and meeting Jardir’s glare with one of his own. “But maybe our best chance to win Sharak Ka was three hundred years ago, when humanity numbered millions, and your ripping dama kept the fighting wards from us by locking those maps up in a tower of superstition. Who bears the weight of arrogance then? What if that was what denied Everam’s ripping plan?”

Jardir paused, losing a touch of his aggressive posture as he considered the question. Arlen knew the sign and stepped back quickly. He stood arms akimbo, offering neither aggression nor submission. “If Everam’s got a plan, he ent shared it with us.”