by Sean Hinn
“Ah,” said Cindra, nodding. “Now that makes sense.”
“What does?” asked Shyla.
Cindra sighed. “It ain’t good. Can only mean one thing.”
The others waited.
“He knew yeh were comin’.”
“And why’s that not good?” asked J’arn. “Aside from the fact that we were comin’ at all?”
“Because it means the Hand’s gettin’ his power from somewhere else. Something else, somethin’ powerful enough to tell the future.”
“Nah. I ain’t buyin’. Nobody can tell the future,” said J’arn.
“It’s said that one can,” Cindra said, her voice something between frightened and reverent. “The god of death itself.”
“Kal,” breathed Lucan.
Cindra’s eyes seemed to glow at Lucan’s utterance of the name. Her hands trembled. Wolf shifted closer to Shyla, whining.
“You all right, Lady?” asked J’arn.
Cindra looked away. “No, Prince J’arn. Don’t think I am.”
“Took too much,” J’arn said, his tone grave.
“Too much,” Cindra agreed. She bent to sit. The orb she had lit began to dim. She lifted her hand to her mouth and bit down on her palm, hard. “Gotta stay awake,” she said.
“Lady… what’ll happen if yeh fall asleep?”
Cindra looked at her granddaughter. “I s’pose I gotta say this now, ’fore it’s too late. Yeh let me fall asleep, I ain’t gonna wake up like yeh remember me.”
“What’s that mean?” pressed J’arn.
Lucan understood. “It means she might not be a friend.”
Cindra nodded. “No ‘might’ about it.”
“We gotta get outta here!” Shyla said with more than a hint of panic. “We gotta get Aria and get out!”
“I don’t think we’ll be gettin’ Aria, child,” said Cindra. “He won’t let her go.”
“Horse dung,” said J’arn. “We ain’t leavin’ her.”
“We might have to,” said Lucan.
All eyes turned to the man. He lit another orb to replace Cindra’s.
“Ye know something,” J’arn said.
Lucan did not reply.
“He called ye an impostor. Think it’s about time ye explain that.”
Lucan met J’arn’s gaze. “It may be, but I’m not going to. You’ll have to let that go, J’arn.”
“Why?” said Shyla. “If yer not who you say yeh are, I think that’s something we all oughta know.”
“Agreed,” said J’arn. “Out with it.”
“No,” Lucan said firmly. “It’s not your business, and it has nothing to do with any of this. Let it go.”
“Hmph. And ye wonder why Mikallis didn’t trust ye.”
“Shut your mouth, J’arn. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You gonna shut it for me?”
Lucan glared at the prince of Belgorne. “I’d rather not. But I will if I have to.”
“Lucan,” said Cindra gently.
He turned.
“Tell us what yeh can.”
“Me?” he asked. “Why not you? He called you his slave. Second only to Kalashagon. If there’s a threat in our midst, it damned well isn’t me.”
“Fine!” Cindra answered, her eyes aglow. “Then I’ll say it! Aria is not to be trusted! She’s got secrets, he says—”
“Cindra, don’t—”
“—and he’s been tellin’ me for as long as I been down here! The elves are to blame for all this, and don’t ask me how ’cause I don’t know, but the Evanti family is right smack in the middle of it!”
“You said yourself he’s a liar!” Lucan argued. “You can’t believe a word—”
“Then why won’t he let her go?” demanded J’arn. “Tell me that! And why’d he cut the impostor loose?”
“Stop,” Shyla said.
“If you call me that again, J’arn, prince or no, we’re gonna have a problem—”
“Please, stop,” said Shyla again. “Both of yeh.”
Cindra turned to Shyla. “Oh, shut up, Shyla! Let ’em have at one another! I could use a bit o’ entertainment!”
Wolf came to his feet, snarling. Shyla, Lucan, and J’arn turned to Cindra, aghast.
“Lady?” Shyla asked.
Cindra glared at Shyla. A hungry look flashed across her face. Shyla took a step back. The look faded.
“Oh… oh Shyla! I’m so sorry.” She held out a hand.
“Lady,” J’arn said, moving protectively between Shyla and her grandmother. “Might be ye need a turn alone.”
“No,” said Cindra. “I’m… I’m fine. We just… we canna be fightin’ amongst ourselves. Understand? He wants it. We canna let him win, not like that.”
J’arn moved closer to Cindra. He put an around her shoulder and moved her off a few paces from the others.
“Aye. Not like that. But ye ain’t square in the head right now Lady, are ye?”
Cindra stopped. “Not all the way. I’m so tired… dunno when I slept last. And, well…”
“Ye took too much.”
“I took too much.”
“Lady,” he whispered. “If ye start to… to go bad—”
“Then yeh take that axe and lop my head off,” she whispered in return, leveling a solemn look at the dwarf. “Make it clean, if yeh please, but don’t hesitate.”
“I like ye, Lady. Shyla loves ye, more’n anything. But I’ll do it, no mistake.”
“I know yeh will. And yeh must. Same if I fall asleep. Don’t let me wake up.”
J’arn nodded.
“Do I need to worry ’bout Lucan?”
Cindra glanced over J’arn’s shoulder. Lucan stood off from Shyla, gazing into the dark. They were speaking, but Cindra could not make out their words. Shyla scratched the fur beneath Wolf’s enormous sagging ear.
“He’s got secrets, and more’n one,” she said. “But I think yeh can trust ’im. Don’t really matter anyways.”
“It don’t?”
“If yeh don’t make it out of here in a day, yeh won’t never have to worry ’bout a silly thing like trust again.”
J’arn nodded. “We’ll make it out. But… ye say that like ye ain’t comin’ along.”
Cindra patted J’arn’s arm, the gesture oddly parental for a gnome who looked to be no older than twenty years.
“We’ll just have to see, I s’pose.”
Cindra turned to walk back to the others. J’arn hesitated.
“How will I know?” he asked.
Cindra met his eyes, understanding the question. “Yeh’ll know. And if yer a bit early, I guess I won't have much to say on the matter. But be quick about it, and don't yeh miss. Yeh won’t wanna face me as an enemy.”
XXVI: THE GROVE
YOU ARE RESTLESS, Mistress,” said Petahr. The elf poured himself and Pheonaris another cup of tea.
“Observant as ever,” she replied, slumping into a chair across from Petahr. The untidy cabin left little room to pace, but she had been doing her best for an hour.
“Still nothing?” he asked.
Pheonaris cast the initiate an annoyed glance. “You would know as soon as I did, or have you given up your habit of eavesdropping?”
Petahr handed her a cup and looked away. “No need to be fractious.”
Pheonaris took the cup. “I am not fractious,” she replied. “I am worried.”
And she was. She had received word on the Winds from Marchion of the trouble in the Maw, two messages now, which she had relayed to Thornwood, her most recent missive sent the night before. The queen had yet to send reply. Neither had she heard from Aria. Her Speechstone had been silent for several days.
“It may be time to send someone north,” Petahr said. “If our queen—”
“Our queen will send orders when she decides what to do,” Pheonaris said, less sure of her declaration than her tone implied. What if she is not well?
“Very well,” said Petahr. “South, then?
”
“To whom? And to what end?”
“Some news from Mor would be helpful—”
“You saw the light in the sky, just as I did. Mor has its hands full with the dragon. No, all we can do is wait. And you need not wait here with me. Haven’t you something to do?”
Petahr shrugged, sipping his tea. “Not especially.”
Pheonaris sighed. The young elf was nothing if not devoted.
“What do you think she will do?”
Pheonaris understood the question. “She will not commit us to war, not now.”
Petahr’s expression was unsure. “If she does not respond soon—”
“She will.”
Turns of silence passed. Pheonaris stared out her small, dingy window, watching the light of day fade to grey. Petahr stood to cast orbs of light into her lanterns.
“Can you not contact Nishali? To counsel patience, at least, until we—”
Pheonaris held up a hand. “Quiet.”
The Winds whispered, carrying the First Knight’s words .
~You must come, Mistress. Please, it is Phantom. Come now.~
Pheonaris stood.
“How many horses are in the stables?”
“Boot and Garlan took all but two, Virtue and Gale.”
“Which?” Pheonaris asked, rummaging through the clutter, tossing vials and bundles of herbs into a bag.
“Well, Virtue is compliant enough, though not very fast. Gale still defies the bridle a bit—”
“Bring me Gale. Saddle him only; forgo the bridle. Quickly, now!”
Petahr raced from the cabin as Pheonaris finished packing and pulled on a pair of riding pants. By the time she had laced her boots and tied her cloak, Petahr called from outside. She thought for a moment before reaching behind the door for a spare cloak. She flew out the door.
Petahr stood patting a restive, stamping dun stallion. “He is a bit nervous, Mist—”
“Petahr,” she said solemnly. “Would that I could honor you properly, but there is not time.” She threw the second cloak over his shoulders.
“Mistress! I—”
“I ordain thee into the Order of the Society of the Grove, Petahr Heartwood, honorable elf of the Wood and my devoted friend. I furthermore name thee my Third, second only to Trellia Evanti, and charge thee to act in my stead.” Pheonaris tied the clasp. “I leave you the Grove.”
Petahr stood in shock as his mistress alighted the saddle.
“Be my ears, Petahr, and be my lips. Listen, and convey the queen’s messages to Marchion,” she paused for a moment, “and to Nishali.” Pheonaris leaned over the saddle, placing a hand on either side of Gale’s neck. She closed her eyes. In a breath, the two were Bonded.
“Ride, Gale!”
~
Gale and Pheonaris flung the miles behind them, Gale galloping without complaint though occasionally challenging Pheonaris’ suggestions regarding their course. The headstrong stallion, bored by the Northern Road, seemed to prefer every branching trail they crossed, insatiably curious to know what lay to the east and west. The Mistress remained vigilant and kept them to the road, occasionally needing more than her knees to hold their route, but her Bond with Gale grew quickly fierce, their temperaments naturally attuned to one another. The ride might have been a joy had its purpose not been so dire.
Barris would not call for Pheonaris were the situation not grim. His pride would not allow it. And to call on behalf of Phantom… Pheonaris shuddered.
It was dawn when the two came across Spirit, Sera, and Hope. A brief query of Spirit’s mind told the awful tale of the cargo they carried. The Mistress fell to tears, but there was no time to break stride.
~Go, my friends. On to the Grove. Petahr will tend to you. I am so sorry.~
Oh, these terrible times. It was only then that Pheonaris remembered just how cold she was, how dismal was the dawn, how bleak and desolate the world had become. She indulged the feeling for hours, her surrender to general melancholy somehow easier than considering the more specific losses of Trellia and Mikallis. When their pace began to flag, Gale would have none of it. He whinnied urgently and threw his head, as if to call her from despair.
~Thank you. Ride on, great stallion. They are not far, now.~
They were not. They rode at speed for another hour. Pheonaris and Gale rounded a wide bend at a near gallop, and topping the next rise they saw Barris leading Phantom on foot. Two horses followed. An old man rode one. An ashen lump lay atop the other.
“Mistress!” Barris called. “Oh, thank the Father!” Barris moved Phantom off the road and helped the old man from the saddle. The man landed on unsteady feet and fell to his knees. Barris appeared no stronger.
Pheonaris slowed Gale to a walk and jumped from the saddle, careful to maintain contact with the snorting, frothing horse as they approached Barris’ company.
“This is Gale,” she said to Barris. She then spoke into Gale’s mind. ~And this is Barris. Trust him. He is a friend.~
Gale huffed his assent as Barris placed a hand on the saddle horn. “Easy, friend. Easy.” Barris turned his attention to Pheonaris. “There is not much time. Can you withdraw from Gale?”
Pheonaris nodded, releasing the Bond. Her knees unlocked briefly. “I am fine. We are not yet spent. Who is this?”
“Gerald Longstock, ma’am. My friend…” Gerald’s voice faltered.
Pheonaris turned from the man and looked over Phantom, frowning. She spoke to Barris. “These scars. He seems… well, but…”
“Phantom will be fine. It is this man, now, that needs you.” Barris pointed to the younger man draped over a bay mare.
Pheonaris crossed quickly to the man and lay a hand on his head. Alarm crossed her features. She quickly lifted him from the saddle and laid him in the snow. His hood fell open, exposing a tortured and torn face. Pheonaris gasped.
“Barris! What happened to this man?”
“You must save him. Please,” Barris begged. “He has given himself. You must.”
Pheonaris shrugged off her sack and began to rummage through it. She pulled out a waterskin and popped the cork. She held it to the man’s mangled lips.
“Here, sir. Drink.”
Vincent lifted his head feebly as Pheonaris poured the Spring water into his mouth. The man swallowed.
“Not wine,” he said meekly. “Hoped it might be wine.”
“This is better,” said Pheonaris.
“Unlikely.”
“More, now, just a bit.”
She held the skin again up to his mouth. Vincent coughed and pushed her hand away. Pink froth bubbled from his lips.
“Gerald.”
“I’m here, Vincent.” Gerald turned to the Mistress. “Spring water, yes? How long for it to work?”
Pheonaris frowned. “It… it should be helping already.”
Vincent grimaced, some internal pain gripping him anew.
“Well, is it?” Gerald demanded, his face a mask of desperation. “Is it working, dammit?”
Pheonaris shook her head.
“Gerald,” Vincent repeated, his tone soft, resigned.
Gerald took his friend’s hand.
Pheonaris looked on as the younger man looked into the older man’s eyes. “Tell the others—” he coughed again “—I’ll be keeping an eye on them.”
“Oh, Vincent.” Gerald began to weep.
“An eye, get it?” Vincent tried a smile. “Just the one.”
The Merchant of Mor took a long, trembling breath—
“Anie.”
—and died on the Northern Road beside the Mistress of the Grove, the First Knight of Thornwood and his storied steed Phantom, and his dearest, oldest friend, Gerald Longstock, who drenched his hand in tears.
XXVII: HIGHMORLAND
CLOUDS OF STEAM emitted from Kalashagon’s black maw with each foul, gurgling breath. The stench induced a heave from the sorceress, her body rejecting the wholesome stew given her by the Mancheles. She wiped her mouth and forc
ed herself to stare at the black beast who towered before her.
Kalashagon bent his head towards Mila. He sniffed at the diamond clutched in her hand.
~Such power,~ Kalashagon conveyed. ~But would it be enough, I wonder?~
Mila answered aloud, her words far braver than her tone. “Only one way to find out.”
Kalashagon curled his black lips back, exposing equally black fangs, the longest as tall as Mila, these jutting from crimson gums which pulsed in time with the vile monster’s heart. The sight proved the beast must have a heart, an idea which Mila found abhorrent. The dragon paced around Mila, his long, serpentine neck weaving around trunks of trees, his barn-sized body slicing saplings in two where razor-sharp scales scraped against them. Mila turned with the dragon, her hand outthrust, knuckles whitened with strain as she grasped the gem as tightly as she might, careful, always careful, to remain facing him whichever way he turned. If he were to strike, she would have only a moment to ignite the gem, and she would not hesitate. If she were to die this day, her last act would be to obliterate her killer.
~Foolish witch. You cannot stay my wrath forever. Soon you will freeze.~
“I have more magic than this, slave.”
~Then you will starve. Or sleep. I have gone decades without food, years without sleep. I will outlast you, witch. My master has prepared me well.~
“Not well enough to save your eye,” Mila sniped.
Kalashagon snarled. ~I have another.~
“But only the one. Maybe I should wait until you are distracted and pluck it out for you. Bring some balance to that disaster of a face.”
~And you, so very beautiful.~ The dragon’s black tongue extended forward. Mila took a step back. ~Yet with all your beauty, you are but mortal. Soon you will rot. As all things do.~
Mila smirked. “And what are you, then? Immortal? Unlikely, if you cannot even survive a cycle on Tahr without being blinded.”
~I am immortal!~ Kalashagon thrashed his tail, roaring, felling a half dozen trees. Mila let out a yelp. The copse within which she had been hiding was quickly becoming a clearing. ~This body will fail perhaps, one day. Many years from now, long after your wretched people are long forgotten. And I will return to my master, who will make me another.~