The thunder drew closer. A gust of wind whipped through the trees, sang in the storm shutters, and threw the curtains around like a maiden’s skirts.
He returned to the window. He leaned far forward, this time, to see the wall of the house. The stones went all the way down, uninterrupted by the darkness of a window or door casing. In the garden below, a bush clung to the wall. Just beyond, the forest crowded the house. If he got out, he might be able to find shelter there.
A flush burned his cheeks as he realized his own foolishness. Mistress, indeed. It was said among sailors that the sea shifted shapes in the minds of men and could make them believe anything. Hemlock reached up and pulled down the heavy rod on which the curtains hung. He slid them off and quickly lashed the ends together with a sturdy knot—one measly yet useful skill—and then tied one end to the bedpost.
Swallowing hard, he tossed his rope outside. It snaked through the air and whispered against the wall. He would still have a leap at the bottom of it, but not too far. As he put his legs out and clutched onto the filmy fabric, he prayed to whatever god would listen to him that Baltos didn’t roam loose at night.
As his feet hit the ground, he swung around, grimaced at the long, pale evidence of his escape hanging from the window above, and then fled into the safety of the trees.
The Folciel Sphere
Shade of Attachment: No death is mine.
The night brought light rain. Lorth and Samolan emerged from a non-descript tavern called the White Clover, situated on the north end of Gefion. They had arrived hours ago, as the sun descended in a fiery sky edged by a heavy gray shroud. They ate in silence and took rest. Stricken by his encounter with the loerfalos, Lorth slept deeply—no dreams, not even a glance in the direction of the Otherworld.
Wearing his Raven’s cloak, he slung his pack over his shoulder. The companions drew their hoods and moved into the street. The thin cries of gulls emerged from the fog blanketing the strand beyond the sea wall. The two men passed by houses and barns until they reached a barren field. Lorth breathed deeply and spoke a word, casting an energy shield that blended his body with the night.
Samolan regarded him from the darkness. “Still puts a spider on my neck when you do that.” The Raptor had spoken scarcely more than this in the day and a half it took them to reach port.
Lorth had said even less. “Clear your mind.” As the warrior lowered his head, Lorth cast an obfuscation cloak over his body much like the one on his own. The spells were weak, but they would do. “When you’re ready to drop it, simply intend to do so.” He stepped back and started walking. Samolan fell in step beside him.
Lorth had learned grudgingly over the years to relax the borders of his solitude and allow others to take part in his missions; however, he hunted alone. On a night like this, in the knife-black mood that had descended over his heart, he wouldn’t normally have welcomed company. But Cimri’s death, the rain, his weakened powers and the hollow echo of an immortal’s voice in his skull gave him a different bent.
“Why this direction?” Samolan asked. A rip current of grief flowed into the silence between them. After what had happened, neither considered tracking Hemlock using the charm, even if they could’ve seen him.
“If Hemlock makes for Wychmouth, he’ll have to go this way.” He skirted around a marsh and headed towards the darker shapes of a tree line. “And if Eadred is here, he’ll be doing the same thing we are—especially if he passed through the harbor and saw his boat.”
They had spotted the Dark Mistress furled and battened down on the pier, in plain sight, with a fresh, splintery scratch on her hull. Why Hemlock hadn’t hidden her—extreme boldness, naiveté, stupidity—Lorth could not guess.
“It’s as if he assumed we wouldn’t be able to follow him,” Samolan grumbled.
“That would explain why he wasn’t more discreet,” Lorth agreed.
“I’d like to get my hands on the bastard, serpent or no.”
Lorth glanced at him sidelong. “We’d do well not to give grief the reins, here.”
The warrior rasped a laugh. “Never thought I’d hear that coming from you.”
“Let’s call it experience, then.” Years ago, grief over the assassination of the wizard who raised him had driven Lorth to war, gained him terrible enemies, gotten him framed for high treason and put him in Eyrie with an apprenticeship to Raven. “I made one miscalculation already by not taking this more seriously.”
“Don’t blame yourself for Cimri. That’s of less use than tears.”
Lorth appreciated the warrior’s pragmatism, but he couldn’t shake the crushing weight of his darker perceptions. “Immortals don’t cross the paths of mortals lightly. Such beings connect us to the greater patterns of the world, the big spirals. Eadred knows this. He didn’t break an injunction by the Council just to go after a servant for stealing a boat. I think Hemlock is the key, here, and I need to find him before he involves the Raven of Wychmouth.”
“Won’t Farous have contacted him already?”
“I asked him not to.”
The warrior’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Ever the wolf, you are. You have orders from the Aenlisarfon. That outranks the Master of Wychmouth, doesn’t it?”
Lorth released a weary breath. “It’s not that simple. The Gray Isles are his realm. There are protocols.”
“So you’re going to slip the net.”
“Something like that.”
As they drew near the forest’s edge, wind whispered through the tops of the pines. The distant lights of dwellings twinkled through the trunks of the trees. Though rested, Lorth continued to feel the effects of Void as an empty, pulling force that drained the life out of him. He couldn’t release the shock of losing Cimri. Why would a loerfalos protect Hemlock? By all accounts, the lad was as mortal as the rest of them. But there was no ignoring what Lorth had perceived, let alone the wrath of an immortal.
Eamoire? The idea still shadowed his heart, despite unlikelihood. It would be foolish not to try to find out. He walked until he found a place that spoke to him, and stopped.
“What is it?” Samolan said softly.
“I need to do something here. A moment.” He lowered his pack to the ground and sat against a tree as Samolan moved away and stood sentinel in the blowing shadows of the wood.
Lorth drew strength from the air, the earth, the cold damp seeping into his backside and the thumbnail moon waxing above the rain clouds. He thought of Leda, her touch and the light in her eyes. She had once explained that the presence of an immortal left a certain kind of pattern on the world, like a variable in an equation. Lorth knew a command that would illuminate such an imprint over a certain distance. He also knew the presence of the loerfalos, so spotting another immortal in close proximity wouldn’t be hard. But he hesitated.
She can command the elements. As anyone who lived near the sea knew, water wasn’t bound to the shore. A storm, a tremor in the earth, a pattern in the rhythms of waves could turn the sea into a monster capable of devouring ships, destroying coasts or even islands. Lorth had sworn by the Old One’s only known name not to harm Hemlock. But if he started looking, he could end up responsible for more deaths besides Cimri. He calculated the odds, weighing them against the urgency of his mission, his command balanced like a drop of water clinging to the lip of a jug.
The sound of a sword hissing from its sheath rippled through his body.
“Identify yourself!” Samolan said.
“Idgit!” snapped a woman in return. “You can’t hurt me with that!”
Faena. Lorth opened his eyes and got to his feet. Beyond Samolan’s form, the Osprey’s apparition shimmered on the darkness.
Lorth approached and said, “This ‘idgit’ is Order of Raptor, First Rank. He’s fought more subtle things than you. I suggest showing some respect.”
As if to drive the point home, Samolan sheathed his blade.
“How did you get through the treecloak?” Lorth asked.
Faena
had lowered her gaze as Lorth upbraided her. She lifted her chin, then reached into her cloak and pulled forth a dark green, opaque sphere the size of a large apple. “I found this in the tower,” she said as she held it aloft. “Quite by accident. There’s a panel in the bookcase behind where Eadred left Turtles: Land and Sea. He didn’t use any magic. He just wrapped this in a cloth and tucked it back there.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s”—a river of strange emotions passed over her face—“powerful. It sees through cloaks. It shows me the sea.” She breathed a nervous laugh. “All of it. Everywhere. Things I don’t understand. It’s wonderful, incredible!”
Samolan stepped forward and leaned over the object. “Looks like a folciel sphere.”
“A what?” Lorth said.
The warrior straightened his back. “In my homeland, there is a legend of a talisman, a round stone the color of mountain pine. It’s said to give the one who possesses it visions of the sea. The Lords of Utan held it for generations, until it was lost. Some say stolen. Others say it was cursed, and the Keepers destroyed it.”
“Maybe this is why Eadred got involved in Haln’s affairs,” Lorth said. “They must have given it to him as payment.”
“Then it couldn’t have been in Utan—and the ones who had it couldn’t have known what they had. The Keepers didn’t interfere with the skirmish Eadred involved himself in; otherwise, they’d have known about this.”
Faena put the sphere away. “It explains how he knows so much about the sea. He told me things I’d have thought unknowable by mortals.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “But why would he give up his Raven’s mantle for it?”
Lorth shook his head, but privately, he suspected the answer lay in Eadred’s mission on Solse. The siomothct had been as closed as a clam before the Council on that. Something there had broken him. But why seek the sphere? There had to be a connection. Eadred wasn’t known to commit random acts of defiance.
Eadred had taken an interest in Faena, however. Genuine attraction? Loneliness? Or did he have another agenda? “He left the sphere for you alone to find,” he said to her. “That is clear.”
Her apparition wavered like a candle flame. “He wouldn’t have left such a treasure behind, even as a gift.”
Unless he planned not to return, Lorth thought.
“Where is your sailor friend?” Faena asked, changing the subject.
“You tell us,” Samolan replied. “We lost him at sea.”
Her eyes filled with sadness as she put that together. “I’m sorry.”
Lorth said, “Can you control what you see in the sphere?”
She shook her head slowly. “It’s like trying to fetch a thimbleful of water from a roaring river. I saw you. I focused on it, and ended up here.”
“That was brave,” Lorth noted. “But foolish. If you can’t control it, then something else is. Unless you know what, you shouldn’t trust it.”
“Aye, Master,” she said softly, hanging her head again.
“Can you see Eadred?” Samolan asked.
“He’s in darkness,” she replied without pause, not looking up.
A strange response. Lorth said, “Eadred is powerful, even under a blackring.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “He’s as good at hiding from things as you are at finding them.”
As she lifted her chin, composure settled over her like a fortress wall. “I did see Hemlock—I think. I’m not sure. I didn’t focus on that one; it just came and went on its own.”
“Do you know where he is?”
She blurted a chilling laugh. “I don’t know what he is. But I can lead you to him.” She faded, spoke a word, and vanished. A great bird of prey rose up into the trees, glowing like a crystal lantern.
The men gathered their things and set out after her.
Samolan said, “Bit wild, that one.”
“Finding that sphere would be exciting to any wizard. But because Eadred left it for her, her heart’s involved. It’s making her fingers slippery on the bowstring.”
“Isn’t it risky to find Hemlock like this?”
“Na, this is fortunate,” Lorth said, considering the risk inherent in his earlier idea. “She didn’t intentionally seek him—the sphere revealed it. I think that’ll protect her.”
They walked through the forest in silence, glancing up now and then at their guide. After a time, they emerged into the open. Cold wind whipped across fields, brush, and outcroppings contained by low stone walls and threaded with paths. They moved into a ground-covering pace.
Lorth said, “I’ve been wondering about something Aengus told me, that Hemlock thought Eadred was watching him. He wouldn’t have been able to do that, or track Hemlock at sea, treecloak or not. The sphere must hold the powers of the Old One to penetrate a cloak or a blackring. Eadred must have learned Hemlock’s course and position before he left.”
“What about the Dark Mistress? Something put that scratch in her hull, and it didn’t look like the work of a serpent. If Eadred had caught up to him, what would he’ve done?”
“Before we lost Cimri, I’d have said he killed Hemlock and took the boat. He wouldn’t have defied the Council or left behind the folciel sphere unless he had something that dark in mind. But Hemlock is alive. Now I fear the loerfalos took Eadred for going after him.”
The warrior made a gruff sound in his throat. “You’d think he’d have seen that coming in his sphere.”
“I doubt it. Death is the Old One’s domain.”
“Maybe Eadred’s death is what Faena saw.”
“That’s possible.” In the night sky, the apparition glowed faintly. “But I’m not ready to make it an assumption.”
*
The rumble of a coming storm shook the earth as Lorth and Samolan stepped from the eaves of a pine forest. The wind-torn light of a stately cresset wavered a short distance through the landscape, illuminating the walls of a house. Faena had directed them here over an hour ago, and then disappeared without explanation.
Lorth extended his senses around the place. A shimmering wall touched his mind—light as a feather, strong as steel. A wizard’s house. He didn’t bother to speculate as to why or how Hemlock had ended up here. He drew a deep breath and spoke a word to dissolve the patchy energy shield around his body. “Drop your shield,” he said.
They gathered themselves, headed down the hill, and crossed a road. As they neared the house, the tone of the energy around it changed, but in one area only, as if the wizard had left an inviting gateway in the shield. Lorth guided Samolan through the bushes and gardens until he had circled around to the rear of the house. The dark opening of a courtyard stood there.
“I’ll stand watch,” Samolan whispered.
“Good idea. Go back to the road. I don’t want any surprise visitors.”
The warrior melted into the dark.
Lorth cleared his mind and stepped into the courtyard. A crystal glittered in the center of a low door. He placed his hand upon it. At once, he perceived the landscape of a wizard’s mind, vast and ordered, but wild and scented with life and care. Cringing at the lateness of the hour, he dropped into mindspeak and requested an audience as a Keeper of the Eye.
Some moments passed before the crystal shuddered. He dropped his hand. After another pause, the door opened. A woman held a candle that scarcely illuminated her features beneath the shadow of her hood. The scent of beeswax, crushed herbs, and lilac wafted from the warmth of the house.
“Silin en Maern tali,” Lorth said. He bowed his head and formed his hand into the sign of a wizard: a downturned fist that he turned upwards, opening his fingers to the light.
“Master!” she whispered. Her voice held surprise. She leaned aside and looked behind him. “I didn’t expect you so soon. Come in. Quietly, now.”
As Lorth entered, she eased the door closed behind him, then placed her finger over her mouth, guided him past a staircase and into a room at the far end of the hall. The h
ouse nearly buckled under cloaks and watcher spells.
She moved into the room and used her candle to light a lantern. A large kitchen sprang into life. As Lorth took in the place, it became clear that this woman spent a great deal of time in here growing and concocting things. She opened the belly of a stove, threw in some dried rushes and a piece of wood, and lit them. She placed a pot on top, and put her candle into a sconce.
She drew away her hood, revealing beautiful, dark features of southwestern Asmoralin descent. “Dirala, Order of Osprey. Honored.” She placed her hands on her breast and bowed her head.
Lorth pushed back his hood. “I am Lorth, Raven of Ostarin, Order of Raptor and Initiate to the Aenlisarfon.” He would’ve preferred to dispense with the titles, but decided they might prove useful.
She stepped back a pace. “Siomothct!” It sounded like the hiss of a cat.
“Lorth will do,” he said casually. “Are you that perceptive or just privy to rumors?”
Under his masterful regard, she gathered herself. “I’m a priestess of Maern.” She looked him up and down. “You are surrounded by the Destroyer. Why did they send you?”
“Whom do you mean?”
“I sent a messenger to Wychmouth requesting aid.”
“I’ve nothing to do with that. I am here on my own business.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “I think you should leave.” She moved to the door and opened it. “Baltos!”
Not recognizing the word, Lorth released a tired breath and said, “I’m not here on that kind of business. I’m looking for—”
He closed his mouth and flared his nostrils as a huge wolf moved through the door. When it saw him, it bared its teeth with a growl, its hackles stiff. Lorth froze and made eye contact, his heart beating, his identity settling into the night around. After a tense moment in which the wolf summed him up with the wisdom of its kind, something shifted. The animal lowered its great, muscular body to the floor and rolled over, exposing its belly. Lorth spoke a soothing word, knelt, and stroked it gently.
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