Paragon Of Destruction
/ Paragon of Destruction 249 Questions of Power
Yet if she intended to intimidate the two mages, her actions seemed to have the opposite effect. At once, they began to gather Essence as well. Perhaps it wasn't quite as much as Brightblade had managed, but there were two of them, and they had the backing of the entire House of Seals.
Their reaction didn't cause Brightblade even the slightest hesitation. "Begone," she repeated, her voice now eerily calm. "Or die."
She drew her sword in a single fluid movement, and as it left its sheath, it began to glow with a bright white light, so intense that Arran had to squint not to be blinded.
But that was merely the beginning. An instant later, the glow spread from Brightblade's sword to her body, enveloping her completely in what looked to be white fire so hot it could melt stone.
As the flame enveloped her, Arran was surprised to find he could no longer Sense the Essence she held. That the power was still there was obvious, but not the slightest shred of it leaked into the world. Instead, it was as if all of it was contained in Brightblade and her sword.
If her earlier display of power had not intimidated the two mages sent by the Matriarch, this new ability proved a different matter. The woman looked at Brightblade in shock, but the man's eyes showed something else besides — recognition, Arran realized.
"We were sent by the Matriarch to—" the woman began in a nervous tone, doubtless trying to defuse the situation.
Yet she was interrupted by the man even as she spoke. "We will take our leave," he said sharply. Then, he bowed slightly. "Lady Brightblade, we apologize for any offense we may have given."
The woman looked at him in bewilderment, but before she could speak he silenced her with a firm shake of his head, then took her by the shoulder and led her away. Whatever it was he had recognized, it was something he had no intention of facing.
Arran looked at the two mages as they made their way out of the gardens, still unsure of what had just happened. When they had disappeared a few moments later, he turned his attention back to Brightblade.
She was already back to her old self, not a trace of the white flames remaining. And if the display had cost her any effort, none of it could be seen on her face — she seemed no different from normal, though the amused smile on her lips suggested that she was pleased with the outcome.
"What was that?" Arran asked. The magic she had used was unlike anything he had seen before, and there was no doubt in his mind that it was powerful.
"A warning," Brightblade replied.
Arran sighed, understanding that she had no intention of telling him about this new ability. Even if she had grown more forthcoming with answers since he gained his true insight, there was much she still kept from him.
Asking more directly would yield no better results, so instead, he decided to focus on a different matter — one that puzzled him nearly as much.
"The Matriarch sent those two to protect me," he said. Though he was certain she knew this already, he was curious to hear what explanation she had for her actions. To demand that the Matriarch's followers leave was one thing, but to offer them threats was something different entirely.
"Rhea can't protect you," Brightblade replied. "Nor can her lackeys. Now hold your tongue until I've put up some wards. We have no need for listeners in the conversation ahead."
She spent several minutes creating a series of formations around them, each of them intended to block prying eyes and ears.
Arran watched her closely as she worked. He had grown more familiar with seals and wards over the past months, and although Brightblade's formations were still far beyond him, his knowledge was now sufficient to get an inkling of her capability.
And to his eyes, she seemed every bit as skilled as the Matriarch.
When she finished the work, she turned her attention back to Arran. "Take a seat," she said. "There is much we have to discuss."
Arran sat back down at the table that still held several meals worth of food, though any hunger he felt was long forgotten. Just the number of wards Brightblade had placed made it clear that the things she wished to discuss were important ones.
Brightblade took a seat as well, and as she did, she said, "Before anything else, tell me exactly what happened — down to the smallest detail."
Arran did as she said, recounting the day's events to the best of his ability. This time, he told everything, including both how he defeated the adepts and his attempt to deceive the Matriarch.
Brightblade listened silently as he spoke, her forehead creased in thought as he detailed the battle. His lie about the amulet brought a small smile to her face, but one that lasted barely a second. She asked no questions, contenting herself with listening.
When he finally finished telling her all he could remember, Brightblade gave a thoughtful nod. "It is as I feared," she said in a pensive tone.
"As you feared?" Arran gave her a questioning look, unsure of what to make of the cryptic statement.
"Rhea does not rule this Valley," Brightblade said. "I already suspected it for some time, though I hoped I was wrong. But today's events prove that my suspicions were correct. Perhaps she once controlled this Valley, but if she did, those days are long gone."
"But she's the Matriarch," Arran countered. "Doesn't that make her the Valley's ruler by definition?"
"Not all the Valleys' leaders are created alike," Brightblade began. "Some rule with an iron fist, controlling even the smallest things that occur in their Valleys. Others are content to leave their Valleys' everyday affairs to the Elders, only stepping in when needed. And some… some rule only in name, serving as little more than figureheads for the Elders behind them."
She paused for several moments, her gaze wistful as she stared into the distance. Finally, she turned her eyes back to Arran. "Rhea, I fear, belongs to this last group."
Arran creased his brow as he considered Brightblade's words. Even ignoring the Matriarch's title, from what he had seen of her power, it was hard to imagine her being anything other than the Valley's absolute leader. "How do you know that?"
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Brightblade responded with a disapproving frown. "You should know the answer to that," she said.
Still, she continued, "None would have dared attack her apprentice so brazenly if she truly controlled the Ninth Valley. To do so would be more than foolish — it would be suicide. But whoever sent those adepts felt no such fear."
Arran had wondered who would dare attack the Matriarch's apprentice, but he had not yet considered the full implications of the attempt on his life. And although the thought wasn't a pleasant one, he could not deny that Brightblade's reading made sense.
Yet while it explained why others would dare attack him, it did little to clarify why they would want to do so in the first place.
So far, the only reason he could think of was envy, which hardly seemed sufficient for half a dozen adepts to risk both their lives and the Matriarch's ire. Even if she didn't fully control the Valley, there would be little point in needlessly provoking her.
"But who was behind the attack?" he asked. "And why did they attack me?"
"Those are far better questions," Brightblade said. "And ones I cannot answer with certainty. But…"
Another frown crossed her face before she continued, "I can venture a guess. Matriarchs' apprentices are seldom destined for mediocrity, and their choice often means a choice of direction for the entire Valley — a change to its balance of power. The direction you represent, I suspect, is one of which your would-be assassins' masters disapprove."
"And what direction would that be?" Arran asked, unable to fully keep the doubt from his voice. While he would not deny that he had some talent, it hardly seemed enough to affect the entire Valley.
Yet Brightblade looked at him with confident eyes as she spoke. "War, my dear boy," she replied. "You represent war."
Chapter end
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