by Meagan Hurst
“Perhaps you should have offered me a raise,” she retorted with a slow shrug. “Regardless, it is in the past. I’ve picked my side.”
“And if I managed to sway your Dragon?”
“Then I would be forced to kill him, and I would be irritated with you.”
“Just irritated?”
“Well, it’s not like you haven’t done that before.” She touched the gash on her head since the blood was still leaking and was starting to annoy her. “I’ll escort myself—alone—to the healerie, although that is not what it is called here.”
“You’ve changed,” Midestol noted with a raised brow.
“Had to happen at some point. Besides, I have eternity to figure out who I intend to be instead of a predetermined number of years, so I’ve been handed a list of things to work on.”
“If you survive,” Midestol observed, but it was a statement, not a threat. “Granted, since you can no longer bargain away your lifespan, you may live long enough to experience a taste of eternity. How many years did you surrender prior to your immortality? I know the awakening of the Shades was not the only time you traded some of your mortal years.”
Z grimaced. “Not too many are aware of that,” she admitted. “But somewhere between sixty and sixty-five years was the accurate number. The first forty were to the Shades, but others were a trade for magic that I shouldn’t have been able to call—or hold—for decades later than I needed. It was a trade I was willing and happy to make, but very few others agreed, and fewer still know of it.”
She moved past him. “Now, if you have finished for the night, I’ll allow someone to torture me with magic. Or is there something else?”
“Nothing for time being. But I am certain I will come up with something later. Oh, Zimliya?”
There was an edge to his tone that she didn’t like. “Yes?”
“If you attempt to escape—leave the grounds at all—I will make sure you regret your decision.”
“Understood.”
She left before he could change his mind. He was almost as unsettled by this meeting as she was, and his mood was balancing on the edge of a well sharpened blade. It could go either way at any time. She didn’t plan on leaving, but as he hadn’t forbidden her anything else, she planned on visiting an old acquaintance of hers—provided he still lived.
It took her about thirty minutes to navigate her way through the Arriandie with enough care to avoid too much interaction with the Alantaions who occupied the castle. She didn’t want to run into their so-called Mithane again since she had already backed him into a corner and worked at tuning his temper until it had spilled over. She still was holding shields around the two Alantaions he had targeted, and she planned to continue her protection until she could guarantee their safety.
Not to mention they hadn’t asked her to lower them, and she knew they knew how. It was a small ray of hope—and she hated hope—but she would take it. It told her not all the Alantaions would stand against the Mithane she knew, loved, and trusted to a point, and it was part of the information she had come to find out.
“Rumors of your demise seem to be largely exaggerated. This seems to be a recurring pattern,” a familiar musical voice said from in front of her as she turned a corner.
A thin smile touched her face as she let her gaze rise to meet the Alantaion speaker’s, but the smile froze and shifted into something defensive when the Alantaion before her stiffened as their eyes locked.
“And the rumors of your immortality are not.” He examined her with a critical eye—taking in her condition, then dismissing it. As he had seen her in far worse shape, she assumed he could tell none of her injuries were life-threatening enough to be of immediate concern. “Hello, Z,” he added.
She bowed. It was a formal, flawless bow, and she didn’t pause to see his reaction to the display she rarely offered anyone. “Isneitane,” she greeted when she rose. “It has been some…time.”
“Indeed it has, but I trust you have managed to find yourself even more than when you last graced me with your presence. Is there a reason you refuse to send word of your continued survival?”
“Word or items of note?” she questioned as her curiosity got the better of her.
Isneitane’s eyes flickered before an amused smile touched his lips. He was ancient for an Alantaion, older by far than the Mithane. He had ruled the archives of his people for millenniums before their arrival in her world, and he had brought with him knowledge that was written, painted, carved, trapped with magic, and kept within memory. Arriandie had contained a very well stocked ‘library’ from one of its original inhabitants, and the Rangers had chosen to entrust its contents to the Alantaions, to Isneitane, when they had given the kingdom to the immortal race.
His library—although with the way he treated ‘guests,’ Z wasn’t certain that was the proper term for it—had been her home during many of her stays in Arriandie. It had taken her some time to gain the courage to approach the doors that led to more books and artifacts from more worlds than any other race in this world could boost, but once she had found her way in, she’d continued to return. The rumors about Isneitane had proven to be false, or perhaps more accurately, they had proven to be false when it came to her.
He had welcomed her with semi-open arms after she had displayed her talents at language, her steady hand, her willingness to work all hours of the day and night, her knowledge of the other worlds and their artifacts, her desire to learn more, and her ability to protect that of which he was the keeper. In theory Isneitane hated humans with a passion; in practice he hated anyone he deemed to be a waste of his time. She had proven herself to be worth his time, and when the walls of his library had been breached from the outside, it had been her that its awareness—which was separate from the Arriandin—had summoned to defend it.
She had also traveled and gathered up more precious artifacts, books, scrolls, and recorded memories from this world and others, and she had entrusted them to his care. He had twice managed to send her on a retrieval mission to search for knowledge as old as the Shades. It was during one of those missions she had discovered an ancient city that had risen and fallen just after the Shades’ time. Like the Shades it had been a race and kingdom that had carried and used magic as easily as they breathed, but as with the Shades, that very magic had also been their downfall. What she had found was a complete recording of the kingdom’s destruction, and she had also run into a library similar to Isneitane’s.
The magic guarding the items within it from harm had tested her seven times before surrendering its contents to her, but since the kingdom had been—again like Yvsina—underwater when it had succumbed to its fate, Z had had to find a way out of the library without damaging any of the ancient texts and artifacts she had wanted to take with her. That’s when she had found the sentiseas.
Shaking herself mentally when she realized she was dwelling on the past—deep in the past for her—she met Isneitane’s eyes again before beginning to insult the ancient Alantaion in a foreign dialect.
Isneitane raised a brow, before insulting her in different language. But with her talent, and his knowledge, both of them could follow each other without strain. He switched mid-sentence and she followed by changing hers as well. It was an old game of theirs, and this verbal dance had become a tradition between them upon first meetings after a decent length of time apart.
Swapping again, she continued to exercise her talent and her ability to insult someone with languages. That was—she had long ago decided—half the fun of this exercise; her native tongue didn’t insult anyone nearly as well as others did. She switched again and smiled as he did the same. So far neither of them had ever repeated a dialect, and neither of them had used one the other had. She didn’t come here often, and they only did this charade on the first meeting of her visit, so they still had thousands of languages to go through, if not millions. Their exchanges had, on the other hand, caused a great deal of alarm when they had invented this game.<
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Twenty minutes later, Isneitane paused and bowed to her before gesturing toward the doors that led to his domain. “Well met, Zimliya. The apprentices—” and here the irritable tone she was used to emerged, “have gone home for the evening so they will not bother you with their incompetence.”
Since she had met some of the droves of ‘apprentices,’ that came through his doors, she couldn’t deny him the right to be exasperated with them. She had never met one that had been close to proficient, and she recalled with ease the number of times she had ending up in freefall over the side of one of the railings—that were supposed to prevent such falls from happening—in order to save a priceless artifact some foolish apprentice had managed to drop. Alantaions were supposed to be known for grace, beauty, and marksmanship, how so many could allow such items to slip through their fingers had been something she’d never understood. Then again, neither had Isneitane, so perhaps it wasn’t as easy to understand as she wanted it to be.
He considered her his true apprentice. When she wasn’t—as he termed it—'off playing warrior.’ When she had turned down a position in his library, he’d been insulted by her refusal, but when the library had taken an attack, he had come realized she was both Scholar and Warrior. Her battle for the safety of the library had tempered his anger over her choice, but as a result, whenever she showed up in his domain, she found herself on the receiving end of work.
Not that she minded. When she had been wounded by the creature and in the stage of recovery where everything was forbidden, it had been the ancient immortal who had found her dragging herself to the practice courts. He had convinced her to come into his library, assigned her a never ending list of books to translate into five languages each, and set up a bed so she could rest. The Mithane hadn’t been thrilled, but when he had found her sitting at a table he had let it go.
Isneitane moved and Z had a dagger in her palm by the time she realized he was reacting to nothing more than the arrival of another Alantaion. Another Alantaion she knew. Relaxing her hold on the dagger, she allowed herself to be examined, though she kept an eye on the woman’s hands.
“Kahreisa,” she greeted as she felt every one of her muscles readying for flight if it was needed. “What brings you to this part of Arriandie?”
“I heard what you did—” the immortal shook her head and sighed. “If rumors are true, you shouldn’t be wandering the halls. Our…exalted Mithane is furious with your interference, and if you escaped Midestol, I am sure he is likewise beside himself with rage.”
“I didn’t escape. He has not made up his mind about what he plans to do with me, so he wanted me to seek out the aid of an Alantaion healer. They are,” she added in a dry tone, “minor enough wounds.”
“You and your definition of minor. Are you certain Midestol is not looking for you?”
“Perhaps this conversation would be wiser spoken of in my realm,” Isneitane inserted. “Prying ears and all.” He gestured for Z and the Alantaion, who was one of the highest respected Saers of the Alantaion army, to follow him into his library. Kahreisa was also a healer and therefore a seer, but her talent in healing was not the Mithane’s and her talent as a seer was almost nonexistent.
Z was surprised the Saer followed; these two Alantaions did not get along. Kahreisa trailed without protest, and once the doors were closed and sealed behind them, she moved to take a seat at one of the few tables on this floor of the library. Z exchanged a glance with Isneitane before joining the female Saer.
“You didn’t come to discuss such a minor event with Midestol,” Z remarked as she took a seat across from the Saer. “What did bring you to seek me out when you knew the chances of meeting me were slim, and the chances of meeting me without Midestol or his forces were slimmer.”
“Always to the point,” Kahreisa sighed as she glanced at Z. Her eyes were not a comfort, but as she was unconcerned over Z’s immortality Z gave her a small pass. “Does the Mithane live?”
“He does. He is well,” Z added with a small smile. “And he has an unofficial guard from some Alantaion warriors—wait, you sent them, didn’t you?”
Kahreisa’s eyes danced. “Yes, I did. I wanted our true Mithane to be safe, and I had no way of knowing just how safe he was in the kingdoms of others. I knew he was, for a brief time, with you, but there were so many rumors circulating about your condition that I did not know for certain if you had survived, and I therefore could not trust that his safety was as guaranteed as I would have liked.”
“So you sent a fraction of the army to his side.”
“They were volunteers—all of them, and as you have utilized their presence to your advantage, I do not see why you are so displeased.”
“It would have been nice to know that there was still a Saer here who would stand by her Mithane. Not to mention we did need extra help. How much do you know of the outside world’s troubles?”
“Not much, we’re kept quite isolated here. Plus, I’ve been busy trying to protect my own. The only being we were kept informed about—at all—was you. Welcome, by the way, to immortality. It damn well took you long enough.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” Z muttered under her breath despite the fact that both of the immortals present would hear her.
“One has to be something when they live forever. Here though, let me tend to your injuries.” Kahreisa reached out toward the biggest visible wound—the head wound—but she still blinked with surprise when Z didn’t flinch away. “Something I never thought would change has changed. Even I can still be surprised,” she breathed as she began to heal the head wound. “I would have warned you about our new leader’s temper, but you didn’t come to see me first.”
“I was trying not to be seen at all, but Arriandin is offended because the Dragon and I are …” her voice trailed off.
“The Dragon being ‘Nivaradros’ and you?!” Kahreisa’s voice rose in a sharp pitch, and Z was impressed; she had assumed nothing would faze the Alantaion Saer.
“Yes, that Dragon,” Z sighed, steeling herself for an explosion.
“Well it’s about damn time someone caught your eye,” Isneitane remarked before Kahreisa could speak up. “I was starting to think you were going to be unsociable forever.”
“You do realize you are encouraging her?” the Saer told him as she rubbed her temples. “Nivaradros, Z? Honestly, you and danger. Couldn’t you have picked someone a little more…flexible in his opinions?”
“He’s pretty much been guarding the Mithane since our return,” Z replied with a shrug. “And he’s…different, Kahreisa. Give him a chance before you shut the door in his face. He’s been through a lot recently.”
“The brief information we have gathered stated as much. Is any of it true?”
“How should I know? I’m not an Alantaion, and I don’t have an immortal’s interest in gossip.”
“It will grow on you, or then again maybe not. Rangers have always been very strange.”
Z glowered at the Alantaion until Kahreisa began to laugh. “Very funny,” Z grumbled before hissing and jerking away as the Saer’s magic intensified to the point her own magic wanted to counter it. “Can you tone down the healing? You’re setting off my defenses.”
“Yet magic meant to kill you doesn’t concern you one bit.” Kahreisa shook her head with annoyance, but she did slow down her power. She was one of the few healer/seers Z knew that was only strong in one talent instead of both. She could heal difficult injuries in a style that was similar to the Mithane’s, but she could not use her talent of looking into the future for much more than seeing if the weather would be sunny or cloudy.
It was something a few Alantaions still remarked on and something that bothered Kahreisa. Z just didn’t bring it up. Although she didn’t understand being touchy over having a lack of power in a certain area, Z was well aware of what it was like to have too much power in a talent, so she could sympathize—sort of.
“Aren’t you done yet?” Z snapped about ten minutes
later into the silence. “I do not need to be in perfect condition!”
“And she’s back,” Isneitane murmured as he looked up over a scroll he had been studying. “I was wondering when you were going to wear thin. In all honesty, with the exception of the Mithane, have you ever let anyone heal you?”
“The damn Dragon,” was her heated reply. “And no, I am not explaining how that is possible.”
“I would never have bothered to inquire,” the ancient Alantaion remarked as he turned his attention back to his scroll. “Did you ever manage to find the second half of the Asnirsiea text anywhere in your more recent travels?”
“Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT!”
“I never understand if that means ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Isneitane informed her with a mournful sigh. “I’d like to hope this time it means yes, though.”
“Yes, it does,” Z half growled before shaking herself free of the magic surrounding her.
Turning her concentration to a type of magic that gave most beings a headache when she tried to explain it, Z struggled to align her thoughts and power properly. The item she sought was a container, or case, made of magic. They were tricky to use, but she’d never found an object that had anything close to their abilities. The containers existed in all worlds, all times, and all locations. Since she often traveled, Z had found them useful once she had worked her way through how to use them, though she’d only kept one for herself.
Finding the damn thing was more difficult than summoning it. Z could wrap her mind around all the quirks the carrier contained—which meant she could carry it—but to bring it forth at any given time meant suspending the basic laws of nature, or the laws of nature that her head had decided could not be broken. It had taken months of frustration to convince herself she could find something that her mind believed couldn’t exist.
“Ha!” she cried with delight as she managed to find the edge of the small case and bring it into focus for the other beings in the room.