King's Artesan: Artesans of Albia trilogy (Artesans Series Book 3) Read online

  Bowing to Pharikian, he kissed Sullyan before vaulting onto Torka. “Go swiftly, Robin,” she said. “I am anxious to get this over with now. I have waited long enough.”

  With no further ceremony, Robin constructed a trans-Veil tunnel and rode through it into Albia. Drum’s protesting whinny echoed back through the substrate as his rider faded from view.

  General Blaine was waiting at the Manor. Hearing what Robin had to say, he wasted no time. He had already told Bull what was to happen, asking him to alert the infirmary in case their services should be needed. Taran and Cal were also aware, but Blaine had decided against making it common knowledge in case of disaster. Rienne, however, had insisted on attending and suggested that Bull and Taran be present as back-up. Robin agreed, knowing Sullyan wouldn’t mind having her closest friends nearby.

  The party rode out, Blaine and Robin choosing their site carefully. They didn’t want to be too far from the Manor should they need help, but there was plenty of open countryside on the far side of the ridge and it was far enough away from the Manor farmlands to be clear of people. When they were satisfied, Robin and Blaine took up their places. Bull, Rienne, and Taran waited some way off with the horses, close enough to be within call but far enough away to feel safe. Robin sensed Bull and Taran linking psyches, sheltering with Rienne beneath a solid shield of Earth.

  All was ready. Trying to control the nervousness creeping treacherously into his heart, Robin sent a call to Pharikian. The Hierarch’s reply was instant. Before they could begin, however, there was an unexpected delay. Sullyan had requested a private word with the General. Blaine frowned and glanced at Robin, who shrugged. He had no idea what she wanted.

  *****

  Sullyan waited anxiously until the General emerged into the sunlight over the Citadel Plains. Mathias Blaine bowed gravely to Pharikian and shook Deshan’s hand before turning to the woman by their side. He raised his brows.

  In a low voice, she said, “I would speak with you a moment, Mathias, if you please.”

  Blaine traded a glance with the two Andaryans and followed her as she moved away, stopping just out of earshot. She saw him looking at her hands and realized she was distractedly massaging her left wrist.

  “What is it, Brynne?”

  She took a deep breath, aware that her uncertainty would be showing in her eyes.

  “There is something I wish to ask you, Mathias. Forgive me for placing this burden on you, but there is no one else I can trust.”

  He arched his brows, clearly disliking like the sound of this. “Go on.”

  She sighed. “I do not know how much Robin has told you about the Staff, but I want you to understand that I am not at all sure I can use it as he hopes.”

  Blaine sucked in a breath. “Then why risk it? I understand you could stay here indefinitely.”

  She caught his gaze. “That is true. But it is not what I wish. My life is elsewhere, my heart and loyalties also. I would not be happy, and neither would Robin. So I must take my chances. Pharikian thinks I am strong enough, and perhaps he is right. Only time will tell. But I must ask you this favor, Mathias. I want you to promise me something, if you will.”

  He folded his arms across his powerful chest. “Name it.”

  As unemotionally as possible, she continued. “I can see three possible outcomes to this trial. The first is complete success.” She smiled briefly up at him. “That is what Robin hopes for.”

  He did not respond, and she looked away again. “The second is complete failure, and I cannot discount it. It may be impossible to remove the poison. I can only try.”

  She stopped.

  “And the third?” he asked, knowing this was what she feared.

  She ducked her head. “The third would be something between the two.”

  Raising her eyes, she took a breath, meeting her fears head-on as usual. “Mathias, I very much fear that I will succeed in cleansing my body at the expense of my mind. When I took Rykan’s life force in the arena, he was left with nothing but a physical shell. He would have lived the rest of his days a mindless husk. Before he lost all conscious thought he begged me to kill him, not to leave him like that. When I struck off his head, I did so for mercy’s sake, not from hate or vengeance.”

  Blaine was appalled; she could feel it radiating from him. “And you’re asking me to do the same for you?”

  She turned away, and her voice was barely a whisper. “Like Rykan, I cannot bear the thought of a living death. I may succeed today, all may yet be well. Or it might be that some partial damage will occur and I would need a few days to recover. But if the damage was too great … if the coma went on and on … ah, that I could not bear. I am asking you to ensure that my friends—and especially Robin—do not prolong the inevitable if the situation is hopeless. I cannot ask them, Mathias, I cannot burden any of them with this. And so, I must ask you.”

  Distressed, he hissed, “You want me to kill you if you destroy your mind? Oh, Sullyan! Even if I agreed, do you think I’d get the chance? Robin would never stand for it—I’d never get near you!”

  “Robin need never know!” she said, pleading. “You are a Master Artesan, for all you rarely use your powers. You know how to be discreet. No one need ever know. You know my psyche pattern well, and I would never fight you, you know that.”

  His face was stern, his psyche closed to her, and she became distraught.

  “Please, Mathias, do not make me beg! I cannot go through with this unless you agree to help me. I would hate to live like that, and deep in his heart, Robin knows it. You are the only one I can trust. Forgive me for asking, but I must have your answer.”

  He turned away, but not before she had seen the moisture in his eyes. She watched him taking deep breaths, struggling to regain his composure. Giving him time, she waited silently until he was calm.

  When he finally turned round, his eyes were dry and hard. “Very well,” he growled. “I don’t like it, but I’ll do as you wish. If it comes to that, how long do you want me to wait before I … act?”

  Relief swamped her. “A few days, Mathias, no more. You will know if it is hopeless.” On impulse, she took his hands, feeling him start. Like Taran, he found such physical contact difficult due to the depth of feelings he didn’t often acknowledge. “I thank you, my friend, for agreeing to this. I know I have put you in an impossible situation, but I had no choice. I am truly grateful.”

  He stood looking down into her eyes for a moment before awkwardly embracing her. “Just you make damned sure I don’t have to do it!” he said. She gave a wan smile as he turned away, and she watched him cross the Veils, Robin’s tunnel compressing behind him. As he emerged next to Robin, she saw him ignore the Captain’s quizzical look.

  When the two Albian men were ready, Robin nodded to Pharikian. Sullyan sensed the Hierarch reaching down into his psyche, gathering the fabric of the Veils and weaving it strongly. Soon, she could see where the two structures—Robin’s in Albia and Pharikian’s there in Andaryon—would meet and mesh. Like filaments of pearly mist, the two substrate structures sought each other, coming together and linking seamlessly until the construction was complete. Right in the middle, separate from the main tunnel, was an area of neutral ground just large enough to contain one person.

  Sullyan felt weak but composed, and she gave Robin a small smile. Then she turned to Pharikian and he embraced her, bowing his face to her hair. But she could not risk her emotions spilling over, and so she broke away, taking deep breaths to steady herself. Then, with a nod to Deshan, she walked into the tunnel’s grey shimmer, the Master Physician following behind. She was relieved to feel no pain. Pharikian’s theory was correct. Reaching the area of neutrality, she stopped, instinctively knowing that if she took one more step, it would be too far. She turned to Deshan, who had halted beside her.

  Placing his hand on her shoulder, he smiled encouragingly. “Just remember what I told you, Brynne. Go slowly and steadily. Take all the time you need. Stop and rest if you
tire. Clear your mind of all thoughts and concentrate fully on directing your powers through the Staff. You don’t need me to guide you this time. You will know when it is done.

  “I will leave you now, but I will be within call should you need me. We all will.” He placed a light kiss on her cheek. “We wish you good fortune.”

  Unable to speak, she merely nodded her thanks. Looking around she saw Robin and Blaine, Rienne, Taran, Bull, and Pharikian. Each one willing her to succeed. Drawing another deep breath, she slowly folded herself down upon the ground. Deshan placed the Staff before her and, with a final pat on her shoulder, walked back to the Hierarch.

  She was alone with Rykan’s Staff.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Closing her eyes, Sullyan tried to ignore her friends’ thoughts and prayers. She needed a blank mind, no distractions to deflect her purpose. Concentrating on her psyche, she surrounded herself with power, seeing and feeling the twists, loops, and helixes of her shimmering, unfathomable, pattern. Reaching down through the vast layers of her strength, she probed through her soul, finally finding the black, insidious mass that was the last residue of Rykan’s poison.

  As she touched it, nausea swamped her and she nearly pulled back. She had done this before with Deshan, but now, alone and with the terrible task stretching before her, she was dismayed by the poison’s hold. It had spread through the fabric of her soul like roots through soil, and she realized she would have to sever each filament separately and oh so carefully. This was going to take some time. She would have to isolate each strand, turning it back on itself before she could use the power of the Staff to finally burn it out.

  Lowering her head, she breathed deeply and slowly, all memories and feelings falling away. She could sense nothing. Neither hot nor cold, neither Earth nor Air. There were no sounds but the beating of her heart, the slow pulse of blood through her veins. Blood that was part Albian, part Andaryan. Hybrid blood that might enable her to succeed.

  Exhaling strongly, she stretched out her damaged left hand, spreading the fingers wide. On the next inhalation she picked up the Staff.

  The silver and ceramic of the Staff began to glow blue-green. Little coruscations ran along its length and it grew warm to the touch. She extended her mind gingerly, merging her own power with the remnant of Rykan’s. The Andaryan link in her blood proved true, but the shock she received almost made her drop the device. She exhaled sharply in pain and clasped the Staff in both hands, holding it tightly against her breast. As she channeled more and more of her own strength through it, the glow increased, spreading a nimbus of power about her. It filled the neutral construct with an eerie, phosphorescent light. Oblivious to it, she began to painstakingly isolate each minute thread of contamination in her soul.

  It took over an hour, during which time she was forced frequently to rest. Each thread she severed caused her pain, and the last few, the strongest few, caused so much that she could not bite back her cries. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she could sense the strain Robin and Blaine were feeling from the effort of maintaining the construct. Even Pharikian was suffering. But it was almost over.

  Laying the Staff down, she bowed her head, rocking gently, hugging herself to ease the pain. Her breathing was ragged, and she knew that unless she could regain some measure of control this last and most strenuous effort would fail. If only, she thought, if only one of her friends could lend her some strength. But they couldn’t reach her in this neutral place, and she couldn’t reach out to them. She felt so alone, so afraid. They were all relying on her, all willing her to succeed. She could feel the pressure of their expectations. More tears came as she thought about them, and she tried to take strength and comfort from their love and support.

  Gradually, her breathing slowed as the pain within her eased. She felt as if someone had thrown a blanket of balm over her, offering her a soothing and restful place to be. Soon she was able to raise her head and prepare herself for the final effort. As she did so, she caught a brief glimpse of a pale-faced Rienne, watching with love and concern from Taran’s side.

  Sullyan straightened her back and reached out, taking up the Staff once more. She clasped it firmly, gathering her will, her metaforce, and her strength. She needed more power from the Staff, much more, and she took a few steadying breaths. Swiftly then, giving herself no time to think, she flung her energies through the Staff, building the power, stoking it, imbuing the device with all the strength she could muster. The artifact glowed brighter and brighter, surrounding her in a blinding halo of light.

  She dimly heard Pharikian’s warning to Robin and Blaine, urging them to focus. They knew they could not allow the construct to fail. No matter what happened, they must maintain it at any cost. Even when they were sure the power had dissipated, they were to wait until Deshan made sure all was safe before dissolving their meld. If they lost control of the structure with her still inside it, she might become irretrievably lost.

  The power was rushing to a crescendo and Sullyan knew the Staff could contain little more. This was the point of balance between too much power and not enough. She knew this was her final chance. She could never force herself to bear this much pain again. Reaching down through her psyche, she touched the terrible blackness deep within her soul. It felt alive, she could swear it moved. Sickness crawled within her at the memory of how it had come to be there. Could it feel the closeness of Rykan’s metaforce, contained within the Staff? Was it reacting to the presence of its maker, as it had on the palace Tower before that final battle?

  Shaking herself free of the memory, she focused on forging a channel through her soul. The logical part of her mind screamed against opening herself this way, making herself so vulnerable. Yet it was the only way she could get the Staff’s energies to where she needed them. Already she could feel the power burning her, and pain began to rise. Her breathing quickened, her lungs unable to draw enough air. Her strength was depleted after the work she had already done, yet this was precisely when she needed to be strongest. The needle of force she was creating out of the energies contained in the Staff could as easily destroy instead of heal if her touch wasn’t sure. Yet how could she hold it while her body was wracked by such pain?

  Shudders of agony bled through her, each one causing her to gasp. There was rhythm to the pain, a sort of cadence, and her unconscious mind latched on to it, allowing her to breathe within each lull. Accepting the agony was the step she needed to take in order for her body to resume its natural function.

  At once, her mind cleared. The pain was still there, but its power to distract her was gone. She was alone with the open channel to her soul, at the end of which was a living darkness such as she had never seen. Poised to oppose this darkness was a tight, flaring needle of metaforce, aimed at the heart of the mass.

  It had to be now.

  At the end of her endurance, Sullyan envisioned the Staff like a bow and the power an arrow. Drawing it back like an archer, she released her hold. The needle of power shot straight and true toward the poison in her soul, and her perception followed. She braced for the impact, watching with strange detachment as the poison boiled and swirled as if trying to avoid the approaching force. Heat and pain increased immeasurably and she opened her mouth in a silent shriek. The flaring arrow plunged headlong into the poison, vaporizing it on contact, sending waves of unendurable nausea flooding through her body.

  She doubled over, gripping her belly, her lungs burning with the need for air. The pain rose higher, searing through her nerves, and she began to panic. The force she had unleashed continued on, raging through her soul. It would kill her if she left it unchecked.

  Panting, whimpering with pain, she collapsed to the ground. She had to relinquish all her senses but one if she was to save herself from death. Sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste vanished like they had never been. All that remained was her metasense, that sense of psyche she had nurtured all her life, the sense that allowed her to connect with the primal forces of her exis
tence.

  Free now from physical pain, she was able to fix her awareness on the glowing aura that marked the needle’s trail. She should never have loosed it entirely, but it was too late to berate herself now. Now she needed to extinguish it before it extinguished her. The channel through her soul was still open and she plunged her metasenses deeper and deeper, hurtling deeper into her psyche than she had ever dared to go. Twisting, turning, looping, the force had burned its way along every nuance of her personal pattern, altering and remaking some of its structure. She suddenly realized it must stop at the center. Stop, or push through into the Void, taking her awareness with it.

  Unfamiliar as her pattern now was, she had to reach and seal the center against this alien force. With luck, she could use her knowledge of Rykan’s pattern—the origin of this force—to help her, but first she must reach her goal. She must not allow this final, spiteful remnant of Rykan to be her undoing.

  The anger that rose at Rykan’s memory provided the energy she needed to reach back to the Staff. It still contained some energy. She could use this to throw her mind ahead of the needle and strengthen the center of her soul against its attack.

  This last extravagant use of metaforce took all her remaining awareness. She barely had time to flood the center of her soul with an impenetrable barrier before the needle of force struck, the impact flaring brighter than any light she had ever known. The backlash assaulted her awareness, and she was lost to black oblivion.

  *****

  The intense light that had blossomed inside the structure faded, revealing Sullyan’s body immobile on the ground. Horrified, Rienne cried out and started forward. Taran grabbed her arm, preventing her from rushing toward the substrate structure.

  “Gently, Rienne. Let Deshan check her over. It could still be dangerous, and we don’t know if the purge was successful yet.”

  Rienne relaxed into his hold, reluctant but realizing the wisdom of his words. Her eyes were on the Andaryan Master Healer as he entered the structure where Sullyan lay. Deshan kneeled beside her and laid his hand on her brow. There was an agonizing wait while he probed her, and more tension still when he beckoned Pharikian to join him. Robin and Blaine stood firm, holding their end of the tunnel steady, while the Hierarch anchored his end and joined Deshan.