by Kim Wedlock
"In the flash of an eye, Keliceran." He, too, was explicit in his decision.
The next was a tall, slender man, certainly by comparison, and a guard among the cells; a mage versed in offensive magic and was perfectly capable of both taking and containing prisoners, as he had proven time and time again. But now there was the slightest whisper of discomfort around him that made Salus suspicious. "Oliver - will you accept it?"
"Yes, Keliceran."
His eyes narrowed the faintest degree. There was a vague hint of doubt in this phidipan's tone, too. Trained as he was in unspoken language, every quiet detail came together as loud and clear as a town crier's bell. He looked across the others. "Three of you so far have agreed to take on the training. I admit, I am surprised. It's no small decision to make, and yet you've each made it so intently."
"We live to obey."
Speaking was his mistake.
A knife appeared in Salus's hand, and with the sharpest, swiftest movement, without a breath of sound, it cut across the man's throat. Another knife cut into his abdomen. With a soft gurgle, Oliver dropped heavily to the ground.
No one moved. They had each sensed it coming. His haste to reassure his superior had revealed his doubt in him, and each knew to the depths of their bones that Salus wouldn't tolerate it. Not even Teagan appeared surprised.
The knives vanished as quickly as they had appeared, and the wildness rose higher from the depths of Salus's eyes. Silently, he moved along to the next mage, a woman, who he viewed with challenge. Her face was as much a mask as everyone else's. "Vari - will you accept it?"
"Unquestionably, Keliceran."
He stared at her for a moment, but she didn't flinch. There was no tremor, no sweat, no quickening of the pulse in her throat nor charge in her eyes. And she had spoken with perfect conviction. Satisfied, he moved on to the next mage in line. If she or anyone else had had any doubts about agreeing, they were silenced. It was regretful, but it was necessary. Far better to lose the service of one man than the loyalty of two. And he would need that loyalty in the days to come...
Chapter 58
The landscape of the past four days had been almost a pleasure to travel through; the ground had been flat, if thick with fresh snow, and the beech trees as they entered Greentop swayed and rustled mutely in the gentle summer breeze, standing wide of one another like a cathedral's columns with few wandering roots to snag the horses' hooves. The sky, thinly overcast, had cleared the previous afternoon, and now shone a vast and brilliant blue. They were sure they'd even felt some brush of warmth to the air, though that could have been the power of wishful thinking.
Instead, it was the atmosphere that had made the days torturous, an inescapable sense of waiting for something dreadful to happen. That sense was at its worst that afternoon.
They'd stopped for lunch rather than eating on the move, a habit they'd revived for the benefit of their tail, but all six of them were silent and keeping to themselves. Garon sat at the edge of the group, tending his sword as he ate, while Petra sat a little further out by herself, looking over her arsenal. Eyila appeared to be meditating though she remained among the others, and Anthis fretted, staring deep into his books while his lips moved with his worries, his own food untouched. Aria watched them all nervously, sniffling and rubbing her eyes, while her father paced behind her. The apprehension was suffocating.
"Rathen." Garon didn't look up from the edge of his blade. "You're putting me off."
"Stars forbid I should put you off." But he forced his feet to a stop all the same and sat back down beside his daughter, where once again he read and re-read the small roll of paper that had been delivered by sparrow the previous day, signed simply with 'E'.
The tense stillness hung heavily for what felt like an hour, though it could only have been minutes, before it was suddenly shattered by the rough, scathing cackle of a crow. Three bated breaths later came the chip of a sparrow, and then two more, another crow.
Every heart leapt.
All was in place.
"Come on," Garon said cursorily, "we best move on." He slipped his sword back into its sheath and rose to his feet. It seemed painfully slow to the others, and slower still as they joined him, and no one uttered a sound as they tidied their belongings away, mounted their horses and rode on through the trees.
Petra took the lead, and Garon let her, while Anthis placed himself deliberately at the back. All cast her a wary look. A new darkness had seeped into her eyes, furious more often than not, but occasionally broken, as though some part of her, some small, deep mote of consciousness, was fighting against her rage to forgive him - a part of her that knew, though she had forever turned away from the thought, that something of what Anthis had said could have been true.
Now, however, they were murderous.
Feeling their chill, Rathen pulled his eyes away from the back of her head.
"I've spoken to her," Garon said quietly from beside him. "She won't let Anthis distract her."
"She wants Salus crushed as much as the rest of us. And, all things considered, she's handled this well."
"You mean she's only tried to kill him the once so far?"
"See? She's handled it well." What little humour had wheezed into Rathen's voice dropped like a stone, and a remorseful sigh eased out. "So much for having to force the arguments, eh? I was almost looking forward to it."
"It's certainly a sorry state of affairs."
The belligerent air that had plagued them for four days was heightened now by a new tension, and no one was able to escape it by hiding among their own thoughts. Rathen least of all while Aria clung to him possessively as they rode. Her eyes were still red, and his own lips dragged downwards. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, coaxing a ragged, anguished hiccup that only further cracked his heart.
A drystack wall rose along one side of the hidden road at waist-height, and the ground beyond it began to slope upwards. The ruin was nearby, so close they must have stood just on the brink of the magic, and they'd have to leave the road to reach it. But beside a collapse in the wall, Garon called a halt. He turned towards the back of the company and fixed Anthis with a steady look. "Anthis." His tone was just as serious. "There was some confusion last night. Are you sure this is the best ruin to use?"
"It's a bit late to change it if it isn't," Rathen murmured.
Anthis ignored him. "Yes. Sagestone - there's little left of the original structure, but it's rich with magic. The elves used to honour Zikhon here before burying--"
"What?"
Anthis blinked. "'What' what?"
"Anthis, you said Sagestone was used to honour Doru."
"...No, I explicitly said 'Sagestone is where the elves used to honour Zikhon before burying them in a blessed shroud.'"
"No, you said Doru. That's the only reason we were coming here at all!"
Anthis's eyes darkened. "You're mistaken, Inquisitor. 'Doru' never passed my lips once."
"I heard you say 'Doru'."
His eyes flicked onto Rathen. "Don't you start."
"Vastal's Blood, Anthis!" Garon shook his head with a long-suffering growl. "We can't afford to waste time like this. We need a shrine to Doru - figure it out. Now."
The darkness deepened. "It won't be quick."
"So be it." Garon dismounted while muttering something under his breath, and the others followed with much the same irritation while Anthis found himself a seat on the wall and began poring over the pages of his books. Every one of them tensed at the sound of snow crunching just behind them, but Rathen had already sensed her presence, and only looked up when he felt the gentle touch of familiar magic. He breathed in relief, and the others relaxed minutely.
Aria immediately began to cry.
"Hush, little one," Rathen said softly as he seized her in a fierce embrace. "Do you remember what we talked about?" He felt her nod and wipe her eyes. "You'll be safe with Kienza."
"I won't let you out of my sight," the sorceress promis
ed her pointedly.
Aria nodded again, but continued to sob as her father lifted her down from the saddle and stood her in the snow, and Kienza quickly pulled her close, smoothing the thick woollen hat that encompassed almost her entire head right down past her eyebrows. "It's going to g-go the same as l-last time," she hiccuped, clinging now to her dark, forest green skirts.
"It won't. I promise you that."
"What i-if you're wrong?! W-what if you get h-hurt?!"
She was about to answer, when Petra stepped forwards. They each looked at her warily, Aria especially so. Her movements were curt and to the point; whatever swagger of confidence or feminine sway they had never consciously noticed had been lost, and there was a lingering brusqueness to her voice. For the most part, she had been civil for the past few days, if silent and distant when interaction wasn't needed. Anthis, however, she kept unerringly in her sights whenever she wasn't out on watch. But now there was a new kind of significance in her heartsick hazel eyes.
Without a word, she knelt down in front of Aria and removed the wooden sword from its shirt-sleeve sheath at her waist. Then, she withdrew one of the lesser-used blades fastened at the small of her back, complete with its scabbard. She extended it towards her, flat across her palms, but gripped her eyes in a purposeful stare before she could take it. Aria met it with slow recognition. "What is this for?"
"Defence," she replied firmly, despite the break of her voice.
"What is it not for?"
"Its physical function."
"Which is?"
"To cause harm."
"Why is it at your hip?"
"So my hands are free to try other things first."
"And when it is in your hand?"
"I protect what's dearest to me."
"Good girl." Petra leaned forwards, lifted her hat and kissed her on the forehead. "So now you know: Kienza will be safe." She lowered the sheathed blade gently into her hands, gave her the first smile anyone had seen of her in days, then straightened and looked out through the trees. Her expression was quick to darken. "I'll check the area. We could be here for a while."
"Good idea. I'll go too."
As Garon and Petra set off in opposite directions with their hands upon their hilts, Kienza turned towards Rathen, still maternally stroking the child's head as she pulled the blade free of its scabbard. "Your tail won't notice this, but I can't cast much else or I risk being detected. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," he replied, watching his daughter peer at the razor-sharp edge without too much concern. "Far better you get her out of here safely."
"She'll come to associate me with losing you if you keep waiting until the last minute to tell her." Her voice was suddenly frosty. "I warn you: I will not have it." Then, as he formed some helpless apology, her demeanour softened once again and her gaze drifted across Anthis and Eyila, both of whom sat lost in their own heavy thoughts. Her rich, emerald eyes slipped gently back onto him. "Will you be all right?"
"I think so. I might even be able to manage a few things myself."
"Well, if not, you're the most attractive piece of bait I think I've ever seen."
He smiled briefly, then found Kienza's soft, plump lips upon his own, and Aria clinging tightly to his leg. Sadly, and with an unwelcome plunge of anxiety in his chest, he returned their affections with a touch of the desperation he'd been stamping down through his every waking moment.
All too soon, Anthis exclaimed and called Garon back, and Kienza slunk away with Aria quiet at her side. Rathen forced himself not to watch them leave.
They gathered around as he spoke at length, pointing things out between the map and his books, intentionally using jargon that not one of them could accurately follow. But no one called him out, no one cut him short, no one demanded he got to the point. Every false and cumbersome word he said was another moment of delay. They listened intently, and no one paid even an ounce of attention when Eyila got up and began chasing something around and vanishing after it into the downhill trees. But Garon and Petra's hands never left their hilts.
"So," Rathen said chafingly once Eyila had returned, her abrupt hunt finally finished, "to numb a painful story, you led us here, and now you're saying we need to be miles east from here?"
"Y-yes, I'm sorry, it was--"
"You're sorry? You're sorry?!" His anger caught quickly.
"Leave it, Rathen," Garon warned as he glanced worriedly around them, "it's done now."
"No. No, he's made too many mistakes, Garon! Or have you forgotten the merry chase he led us on to find this damned relic in the first place?! What were you thinking bringing him at all? There had to be others more qualified than him - he's a kid!"
"How dare you--"
"Quiet, Anthis," Garon snapped, dampening the young historian's ire, then turned to bring his own down upon him. "Don't you dare question my decisions."
Rathen laughed. A sick, derisive laugh. "Question your decisions? Question your decisions?! I haven't even begun to question your decisions! I wouldn't even know where to start! I'm still scratching my head over things you did months ago! Above all else, why you came to me in the first place - and why I even agreed to it! I've had it with this accursed errand you tricked me into, I'm sick of being out here and suffering for it! I'm sick of sleepless nights spent worrying about tomorrow! I'm sick of looking over my shoulder all the time, of jumping at the slightest movement! I'm sick of sleeping on the dirt, eating stale bread and dried meat, drinking nothing but water, of the wind, the rain, the heat - the snow! And you let me bring my daughter into this!"
"It's too late to turn back now."
"Yes," he hissed, further vexed by the inquisitor's apathy. "It is. And I'm sick of hearing that, too."
Genuine alarm shuddered through the group when he turned and stormed away. "Where are you going?"
"A safe distance from you. Or I fear I might just kill you."
They watched him leave. Backs were rigid, muscles tight, ears strained through the forest. Hands tightened around hilts.
The bait was loose.
Heartbeats later, two bodies leapt silently over the wall.
Garon and Petra spun immediately, meeting them blade-first while Eyila was thrust back behind Anthis, already armed with his dagger. Petra's sword was a blur of motion long before the mage could release her spells, and the other, armed with a frightfully thin-bladed knife, was trapped beneath Garon's barrage of strikes. Eyila's fingers twisted quickly into the trained signs, and the blonde mage was near-instantly rendered helpless, her hands pinned to her back by unseen bonds, her fingers as good as broken. She resorted to fighting with her feet instead, aiming high a series of steady, powerful, lateral kicks, but Petra easily read and evaded them.
No others raced to join them. The third and fourth had been successfully taken out at the ruins.
Rathen's heart was in his throat. He could hear the frenzied footsteps hammering ever closer behind him, but even as he felt the hum of stirring magic and the reactive shake of the ground beneath his feet, he kept his eyes forward and wrangled his panic and the primal stirring in his gut under control. He could take him, if he focused. And if he kept ahead.
His eyes searched quickly over every tree he pounded past, but so few bore the tell-tale notch that the worry he'd missed one was very real.
The hum ceased, and another lash of fire reached out for him. But the spell was clumsy. He avoided it easily, and heard another growl of frustration for his brief victory. But the footsteps didn't slow, and the air shortly hummed again. Salus was attacking clumsily, but relentlessly, and Rathen had no chance at all to respond to the assault.
Finally, he spotted it: a rough but deliberate crosshatch in the bark. He veered towards it, careful not to trample too close to the trunk, and passed it without incident. Two seconds later a curse and a deep, muffled puff rose behind him, and the footsteps faltered at last. Salus had hit the trigger.
A powerful rush of snow blinded him, thrown up by a conceal
ed and inflated waterskin.
Rathen changed direction immediately and raised his fingers. There was no time for doubt, and his mind was clear beneath the power of adrenaline despite the surge of his deafening heartbeat. He cast as he ran, a brief spell, but effective, and another muffled thump and foul oath shortly rose.
Squeezing his fists tight against the heat in his veins, this time he dared a glance. The heavily-laden branch had dumped its load right on top of him - but he was already back on the move, and his face was that of thunder, with sharp, focused eyes that were void of anything but hate, laced with a mad if calculated menace. Rathen knew he wouldn't be caught out like that again.
He veered again, leading him swiftly towards another trap. But this one missed. By chance, he was sure - he hoped - Salus had passed the trigger. He felt a lump of desperation rising higher in his throat, but he beat it down long before it could strangle him. His fists tightened again, and he sought out another.
He missed the next hum of magic. The brightening of the snow was his sole warning. Leaping swiftly to the side was all that saved him from the latest bolt of flame, and that escape was far too narrow. In his moment of alarm, he missed the marking on the next trunk, and this time it was luck alone that he missed the trigger himself. He cursed himself to focus while a pile of stones tumbled into Salus's path, and glanced back to gauge the distance. It had grown, but Salus was still on his feet, light and steady, chasing him down like a wild cat.
"Hurry up, hurry up," he murmured tightly to himself, fighting back the creeping edge of fatigue, but his voice caught in his throat as a projectile whizzed close by his head, too small and shiny to be an arrow, though it embedded itself deep in the bark of a tree straight ahead of him. His heart launched quickly back into his throat.
But then came a new sound over the padding of feet, grunted oaths and steady panting breath. A rough, mad and familiar cackle, followed by the scream of yet more projectiles flying from the opposite direction. He caught motion high in the trees to his right, but kept his focus on the trunks and the placement of his own feet. He didn't need to spare them notice.