It was no use. The crystal lay silent, lifeless in Karleah’s palm. The old woman’s gnarled, scarred fingers closed about the stone, and her eyes lifted to the black sky overhead. She sighed and let her mind rest for a moment. You’re trying too hard, deary, she told herself. That’s why you aren’t seeing it. The abaton was too dangerous, too powerful for Auroch to have lost track of it. Surely Verdilith’s possession of it was part of the mage’s plan. Surely Braddoc’s theft of it, the castle’s examination of it—even their removal of it to Armstead must have been set up by Auroch from the beginning. And now, the fact that he hadn’t attacked them to regain his precious prize showed that they also were playing right into his hands.
Perhaps I should have let Johauna use Wyrmblight on the box, Karleah thought. Or, perhaps that’s exactly what Auroch wanted me to do.
“No,” Karleah said aloud. That’s just running myself in useless circles. It can’t be that everything I think of is part of Auroch’s plan.
Karleah shut her eyes to the darkness around her and whispered, “You haven’t forgotten what Armstead was like. You remember how lovely Armstead was in the spring. You remember the blossoming crabs lining the cobblestone pavement, the crocuses and tulips peeking beneath the trees.”
The old woman sighed, trying to hold back the flow of tears. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of giving in to her pain.
Karleah opened her eyes and gazed down at the five smaller crystals Jo had given her. They lay arrayed dimly before her, as inert as the true abelaat stone. Karleah had hoped these other crystals might be key to unlocking the master crystal. But she had searched each of them, looking for some answering response, some glimmer of motion or color within the stones. Every time, she had failed.
The wizardess again contemplated the box. A clear seam outlined its lid, and a simple clasp connected the lid with the bottom of the box. Free from all ornamentation, the abaton was a marvel of simplicity.
Karleah knit her brows in concentration, clasped the master crystal in her hands, and stared at the box, suddenly wishing it would open for her. She wanted to see this marvelous place where the legendary abelaats lived, wanted to see them before they became twisted and evil creatures. She wanted to step across the bridge between worlds.
The crystal in her hand dug into her flesh, adding its heat with that of her blood.
As Jo stood watch, she distractedly ran her finger along the edge of Wyrmblight. Its hard, sharp edge nearly cut her skin. The sensation surprised her, for she had once believed it would never cut her. But much about the blade surprised her lately.
She should have given it to the baroness. That much was clear. The blade was fully an inch taller than she, and it had been stupid for Jo to think she could wield it.
Worse yet, she now knew she was ruining the blade. It was a sensitive, intelligent blade, drawing strength from its wielder. When Flinn fell from honor, the sword was blackened by his bitter soul, and when his honor was regained, the sword again glowed bright. Only four days after Flinn’s death, the blade was so strong that Verdilith couldn’t break it. But, in Jo’s meager hands, the fabled Wyrmblight had slowly diminished to being even weaker than a normal blade. It was so brittle now that jabbing Brisbois had cracked it. She hadn’t found the fracture, but she knew it was there. She could sense it.
And the sword hadn’t spoken to her since Kelvin. A kind of gnawing desperation had begun inside of her. She was afraid to even pull the blade from its harness, lest she might break it. If only she could bear it back whole to the Castle of the Three Suns so that they could encase it, a relic, in glass. That’s what it had become: a glass sword.
Even Flinn had sensed her discomfort when last they had spoken through the crystal. He had asked repeatedly about the blade, kept saying he could feel that something was amiss with it.
Weary of her ruminations, Jo looked across the fire to check on Dayin. He slept soundly, as though unaffected by their bleary surroundings. Brisbois lay nearby, still but not asleep, his eyes open and staring toward Wyrmblight. There was something akin to lust on his dark features. Apparently aware of her attention, he stroked his short beard and twirled the ends of his moustache.
Jo turned Wyrmblight away from the dishonored knight, and he gave a slight whimper of disappointment.
“What are you looking at?” the young squire demanded.
Brisbois shook his head and smiled. “Nothing. I was just trying to think of how Verdilith is going to smash that thing.”
“He will not.”
“Well,” the man said, rising and shuffling over to where Jo stood. He stared her straight in the eye. “I hope, for your sake, you’ve got some other plan for the Great Green’s demise. Something gruesome you’ve been thinking of. Cutting his throat and letting him choke on his own blood; disemboweling him and letting him slip on his entrails; you know, that sort of thing.”
“What about cutting his arm off and beating him with the bloody stump?” Braddoc asked wryly from his nearby guardpost. He shook his head in disgust.
“Say, that’s a good one. Well, what are you going to do Jo? Are you going to beat him to death with his own limbs?”
“What business is it of yours what I plan?” she spat.
“I think it’s everyone’s business,” Brisbois replied, indicating the rest of the group with a sweep of his arm. “Obviously, Verdilith is searching for us. It’s only a matter of time—”
“How do you know he’s searching for us?” Braddoc interrupted.
Brisbois directed his response to Jo. “He hates that blade, Johauna. And he hates the person who wields it. He hates the blade so much I’ll bet he’d betray anyone to see it destroyed, even an old ally like Teryl Auroch.”
“How do you know that?” Jo asked, pulling Wyrmblight closer to her for comfort.
“How could I not?” Brisbois replied incredulously. He brushed the ash from his side and added, “Wyrm—that sword was created with a single purpose: to destroy Verdilith. It’s very existence is an abomination, as far as the dragon is concerned.”
“But, the Great Green would have to be a great fool if he hasn’t found us yet,” Braddoc shot back.
“Just so, just so.”
“You two are a couple of gasbags,” Jo said, a chill running down her spine.
“If I were Verdilith and I knew that sword was forged to be my bane, I would destroy it this instant, and you just after. Especially since it is the fallen sword of Flinn the Fallen.”
“Flinn the Mighty, damn you!” Jo hissed, jumping to her feet. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you and your plans did to him, bondsman. And don’t think your debt will be easily paid!”
Brisbois appeared shocked and backed away a step. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace and said, “I’m sorry, Mistress Menhir. I meant no disrespect.”
“What was the point of all this, again?” Braddoc asked, tersely motioning for Jo to lower the blade. She resented Braddoc’s continual interruptions of the feud between her and Brisbois, but did as she was told.
Brisbois pulled on his goatee a moment, a dubious expression crossing his features, then he sat down again by the fire. He said, “All I was saying was that Verdilith is sure to find us eventually, drawn to that sword like a moth to a flame. Here, in this blasted town, we have no defense. There’s nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. He could kill us all with a single breath.”
“We’ve got to guard the abaton,” Jo said, glaring askance at the man.
“One of us does,” he replied. “The rest should wait in reserve to attack if needed.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“I have no suggestion,” he replied. “That’s why I asked if you have any other plans for your defense.”