The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman by Eldon Thompson Page A

coil and his weapon, did you?”
    The Nameless One glowered. He had known, of course, that there would be a period of separation. He hadn’t truly believed that the blade would be buried with the king’s body. But yes, he had fully expected that, once revived—be it in a royal crypt or among his enemies—he would find a way to make the weapon his once more.
    “Granted, you have something I do not,” Haze allowed. “A knowledge and familiarity that I can only gain with time. But war beckons, brother. The sooner I learn the weapon’s secrets, the sooner I can use its powers for all of us. You can help me by sharing any insights your host may have already gleaned.”
    He was not so easily swayed. Haze had none but selfish interests at heart. That was how it worked among their kind. The strongest, most ruthless endured; the weak were destroyed. By giving in to Haze’s demand, he would infact strengthen all Illysp in their war against the flesh-wearers. But he would also be weakening himself against his brother when the time came to take back what belonged to him.
    “Your swift infestation has spared me much delay,” Haze offered with genuine approval. “By the same token, you owe me a debt of thanks. For, without me, it would have taken you some time to free yourself from this earthen prison.”
    The Elder gestured to a pit—an open grave—in the floor of the moonlit grove. Severed bindings and a discarded shroud lay nearby.
    “So tell me.”
    Resistance would win him nothing. The rape of its host’s memories and experiences was the most gratifying aspect of an Illychar’s existence—the ultimate conquest of another living being. Already, he hungered for it. There was no question as to if it would happen, only when .
    But there was a price to be paid. Illychar who underwent the process too quickly or too soon often drove themselves mad. Given the pain wrought by just those few, simple brushes with Torin’s former self, he was inclined to make himself—and Haze—wait.
    Then the Sword was in Haze’s hand, and its radiant tip at his throat.
    “Do it now, or remain nameless forever.”
    One of the others snickered. Another’s pain was an Illysp’s pleasure—even among their own kind. He would have felt the same had their positions been reversed.
    But he saw no way to make that happen, and so surrendered to Haze’s demand and his own feral hunger. With a snarl upon his lips, he turned his savage focus inward.
    He began slowly, like a predator circling its wounded prey. Torin’s mind lay fallen, not defenseless. Mental probes picked experimentally, exposing various images of people and places. For each, he suffered a wracking, physical response—a pinch in his chest, a stab in his gut. The deeper the probe, the deeper his pain.
    But with each taste, his hunger grew. He tolerated the pain at first, then challenged it, gritting aside its feeble counterattacks. The stolen treasures to which he lay claim were well worth the price.
    A memory of this forest, Torin’s homeland. He did not just glimpse this vision, but allowed himself to savor it. He was there, as the boy Jarom, racing through woods of summer gold alongside laughing companions. A girl, Hidee, smiled at him—
    So intense was his body’s reaction that his eyes popped open and his vision spun. He had slipped too deep, beyond mere image to the emotion that accompanied it. An old emotion, vague and inconsequential to Torin, but fresh to him . Fresh and powerful. A child’s longing, yet experienced as though by a child. It was too much. He told himself again he was not yet ready.
    His vision regained focus. Vorric Haze, he saw, was not about to allow him pause. But the other’s threat mattered not. For as the sharp sting of thatsimple emotion slipped away, he knew that he must have more.
    His lust consumed him, and the pain became its own reward. He welcomed it, mocked its inability to defeat his efforts. A twisting, gut-wrenching torment paralyzed