“Gore! Cris! Ragnes! Anybody?”
The Magic Wants Us to Go That Way
Five turnings later, Sarn stumbled when his map tackled him. It unfolded into three dimensions and resisted all attempts to flatten it.
“Papa?” Ran tugged his pant leg.
“Just give me a moment.” Sarn leaned into the wall and gazed at the smoky cube his map had become.
An icon blinked red a half mile below the spot where the unknown woman, her retinue and at last count, eight Rangers had disappeared. It also marked the spot where Dirk’s goons had vanished. But it wasn’t near the Foundlings' cave. Thank Fate, they were just over a mile northeast of it.
Hopefully, that was far enough to keep them safe. Something was afoot, and Dirk was hip-deep in it. His icon flashed orange as the man jogged through a cavern that fed into several tunnels. One of which, via a few turns, led to where everyone kept disappearing. That had to be where Dirk was headed.
Sarn tilted his head map, but before he could flatten it to exclude other levels, its field of view contracted. What the hell? Sarn pushed at its edges, but it was no good. The meadow was gone from his mental landscape. Only Mount Eredren remained. From its peak where the rich partied to the Lower Quarters, it was all still there. Except his map now ended just beyond the end of the massive cavern to his right.
Is there something wrong with my map, my magic or with me?
Ran tugged Sarn’s trousers. “Papa, the magic wants us to go now.”
“How do you know that?”
Ran pointed at an orange arrow glowing on the ground. It turned right and streaked after Dirk on his head map, growing more frantic as that jerk neared its new cutoff point.
“It’s not supposed to do that.” Sarn backed away from the arrow. Was some outside agency interfering with his map, his magic or both? What the hell was Dirk involved in?
“Why does it want us to go that way?” Ran pointed to a portal to their right. The magic's antics didn't seem to faze him.
“I don't know.” Sarn checked his map for the answer, but he had a sinking feeling he already knew.
“Is the magic confused? Home is that way.” Ran pointed straight ahead.
But the orange arrow started flashing. It insisted on that right turn.
Damn it, that turn would take them through one of the most populous areas in the Lower Quarters, and his magic knew that. Was there time to find a safer route?
A second arrow joined the first. When Sarn made no move to follow, a third arrow appeared. His magic wasn’t taking ‘no' for an answer.
“The magic really wants us to go right. Why? Is it lost?”
Sarn shook his head. “I don't know, son. It’s never acted like this before.”
With a frustrated sigh, Sarn closed his eyes to conceal their glow and made the damned turn into one of the largest caverns under the mountain.
“You didn't answer my question.” Ran dug his heels in. “Why does the magic want us to go right? We never go that way.”
“I know but there’s something going on and—”
“Is the ‘something' a bad man doing bad things?”
For the second time in the same day, Ran sounded hopeful. What kind of example am I setting? Sarn put that worry aside for later.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
“Oh, then that's okay. We can go this way.” Ran strode ahead until Sarn captured his hand.
“I’m glad I have your permission.” Sarn fought a grin.
“So, who are these bad people? How will I know them?”
“Well, they’re not Indentured. And they’re fifteen to twenty years older than me.”
“And?” Ran prompted when Sarn fell silent.
And they tried to kill me about four weeks ago. But admitting that might scare his son, so Sarn sought something else to say.
But nothing came to mind because neither Dirk nor his cronies had a reason to come to the Lower Quarters other than to visit the Foundlings, but that's not where Dirk was headed now. No, the jerk was rushing straight toward the nexus of all the weird stuff happening today.
Ran poked his thigh. “How’ll you find them with your eyes closed? With magic?”
“I don't think it’ll come to that. These guys are hard to miss.”
Sarn fell silent again. Hundreds of lights popped up on his map of this cavern—one for every potential threat. He reeled Ran back in and kept the boy by his side just in case things turned ugly.
Caves dotted each side of this three-mile long gallery. From every doorway, suspicious eyes tracked their progress. Many of the Indentured made their homes here and zealously protected what little they had. In the cavern’s middle, a mile-wide lake reflected a constellation of rose lumir crystals.
Their pink glow kissed everything and everyone, blanketing the place in good, cleansing vibes. And Sarn’s thirsty soul soaked them up. No one was immune to rose lumir’s effects. Tension drained out of Sarn’s shoulders and his spine unknotted as a feeling of well-being lulled him into opening his eyes. This place was one of the seven wonders under the mountain.
Children splashed in the lake or swam toward an island of rose lumir. Their mothers kept an eye on them while they sang and washed clothes nearby. Ran drifted toward that pink glow. But their clasped hands brought the boy up short. Sarn felt his son’s disapproving scowl. He’d need one doozy of a nice adventure to make up for today.
Teens hauled bits of things either for trade or for use in their hovels. Every scrap was useful when you had nothing. A cloth square fell when one of the teens veered around Ran and his son stuffed it into his pocket. Good boy, Sarn nodded his approval then realized his eyes were open. He shut them before anyone noticed the emerald glow competing with the lumir’s pink one.
But he still stuck out and collected stares as he passed because there were no men about save for a few gnarled graybeards. Between sixteen and sixty, every able-bodied Indentured man toiled in the mines except him and Will. Damn it, he should make time to speak to his friend.
“Why’re they staring at you?” Ran bumped into Sarn’s leg. His son had to run to keep up with his lengthening strides.
When the stares turned hostile, Ran squeezed his hand, discomforted by the looks they received. Best they get through this damned place before someone made an issue out of his exempt status.
But Fate, damn the bitch for her meddling, had other plans. They had put another five-hundred-feet between them when someone shouted his name. It wasn’t Dirk. That worthy’s icon was still more than a mile ahead of him.
“Sarn—I need to show you something—now,” said an unknown man between pants. “Damn boy, you sure are fast.”
“I can’t right now. I’m busy. Find me later.”
Or never—never was preferable, but Sarn bit back the snarky reply. It was always better to err on the side of caution especially when he had no idea who’d called him. Sarn kept his son to his right and the unknown man to his left. With luck, his flaring cloak would hide his son from view.
How had this man recognized him with his hood down? Yes, he dwarfed everyone he passed, but so did others. And how had this man known his name? Sarn tried to scan the man following him, but his magic was touch-based, and it refused to give him any useful information unless he laid hands on the guy. Since both his hands were full right now, he’d have to figure out the man’s identity some other way.
“Not good enough,” said the unknown man who’d begun to wheeze. “Shades, fades, and blades—would you slow down? I’m not as young as you.”
Then leave me the hell alone. Sarn took a second to rephrase the angry retort bubbling up into something less likely to earn him a punishment.
“Can’t. I’m busy.”
Five-hundred-feet separated Sarn from escape. There was a junction ahead. If he could squeeze a little more speed out of his poor son, he could lose this joker. There lay the problem. His son was already moving as fast as his little legs could go unless he
dropped the sack and carried him. Sarn considered it, but there were two dozen Foundlings counting on him to bring their daily ration. So, he tightened his grip on the sack.
“Then you leave me no choice. I’ll go straight to Lord Olav.”
The name stopped Sarn cold—the Lord of the Mountain’s seneschal. Sarn squeezed his son’s hand in search of reassurance but found none. A promise he’d made almost five years ago turned Sarn to face the man who’d called his name.
Dreading the answer, Sarn pulled his son behind him, and asked, “why would you go to him?”
“What’s wrong with your eyes? Did they lose their glow or something?”
With the hood shadowing his face, Sarn’s interlocutor could not tell his eyes were closed. Few knew his name here other than the Foundlings, but this man wasn’t one of their ilk. So, who was he? Should he risk opening his eyes to find out?
No, too risky with all the people about, his eyes had to stay closed. Sarn unslung the sack and leaned it against his leg. Whoever this guy was, he knew about the magic devouring his sanity. Only a handful of people knew about his condition and they were either Rangers or Foundlings. Who else knew about the magic and the deal he’d struck?
“What do you want?”
Steeling himself, Sarn touched the man who’d called him by name. His magic sank through the natural fiber of the fellow’s tunic into the skin beneath sending back a tidal wave of information. But only one piece was relevant. Sarn clung to it as shock knocked him back a pace breaking his grip—oh, hell no.
“I’m not going down there,” Sarn shook his head.
Aralore smiled and swept her looking glass to the other edge of the meadow. A horn called the Rangers. Yes, do assemble. Get off the green. Those closest arrived first and were sent into that enchanted tangle. She counted six then eight all gone into the big bad forest, clearing the meadow. Perfect, her distraction had worked.
Good luck finding them. She chuckled at the simplicity of her plan. Velor must have found somewhere out of the way—a cave likely, Shayari had plenty of those—to lose those spoiled brats.
Children were so easy to snatch, so easy to lose in that trackless wonderland—especially since it boasted zillions of quasi-sentient trees and all manner of other weird things. A pang of regret squeezed her heart, but Aralore banished it with cold logic. The forest had three rules, and its first rule guaranteed those boys would come to no harm. They'd just be lost for a few hours and finding them would distract the Rangers.
The fools, let them look. By the time they noticed something was amiss, their precious forest would be forever altered for the better. If the stone worked as advertised. Best she kept her hopes in check. Disappointment led to dark paths and those, in turn, skirted too close to the Adversary for her liking. Better she tread the fine line of realism, boring as it was.
Now if that jerk Dirk would show up with her prize, she could get this test underway before the pompous ass her order had sent showed up to ruin everything. She swept her looking-glass downriver but saw only the usual traffic. No ship carrying the prelate made an appearance. The man could come overland though she doubted it. No Seeker would ever entrust his, or her, life to the capricious forest.
A feeling of foreboding tore through her. Aralore lowered the glass and breathed through the odd fit. Her gaze snagged on a white shape perched on a mountainside twenty-miles away. It was the Bitch Plant Queen, of course, come to survey her domain.
Drink it in while you can, Witch Tree because I’m going to rip away its magical underpinning. We’ll see how tough you are without your army of ensorcelled trees at your beck and call.
Aralore palmed the box in her pocket and its dark passenger. But it felt wrong to pull it out, so she left it alone. A wave of dizziness assaulted Aralore, and Mount Eredren swayed like a drunken sailor. Her mouth dropped open as she raised the looking glass and scanned the meadow.
Where were Dirk and his cronies? Where was her crystal? In answer, the ship rushed away, and everything receded into white light. Aralore stared at a woman clothed in silver radiance.
A twining pattern gave the suggestion of branches on her floor-length gown, borrowed from an older age. On her brow, a crown made of interlocking platinum branches held back a cascade of luminous tresses. In her eyes, the stars shined cold and distant. This woman—this Queen—was light and wisdom personified. Like a diamond, she possessed a cold beauty and a sparkling clarity of purpose.
“Who are you?”
“Do not let the abomination cross the standing stones while uncovered.”
In her hands, a white box coalesced. It was an enlarged copy of the box in Aralore’s pocket. She held it out to Aralore. Behind this strange woman, the twin rings of menhirs bounding the meadow gleamed like dragon’s teeth.
“Take it. Put that vile rock inside it. Break the other spells upon my land if you must but leave the circles intact. Leave this place as the refuge it has always been.”
Drawn to this apparition against her will, Aralore accepted the box then drew back in horror as the woman melted into a giant, gleaming tree. The stars in her eyes migrated to her branches.
Aralore blinked. She stood on the deck of her ship and its rocking comforted her. What in God’s name had she just seen? Aralore berated herself as she leaned against the rail and her knees buckled.
You’re no weak-kneed girl. Straighten up. So, what if the Queen of All Trees can produce a human face? There's nothing human under that façade. The Queen of All Trees was twice as alien now and even more deserving of destruction.
Do not break the circles.
The Queen of All Trees’ request echoed in Aralore’s soul causing her arms to tighten their grip on the box she held against her racing heart. It was as long as her torso and as wide. Those eyes—both terrible and wondrous at the same time, pierced Aralore’s soul.
“Let this place be a refuge. Do this one thing and I will not interfere.”
Aralore found herself nodding to a bargain with the Witch Queen of Shayari.
The Queen of All Trees maintained her eyeless stare for a moment longer. No shred of the human woman she had trotted out remained. She was once again a massive silver tree—a brand burning with the cold fire of a million stars. A relic of a dead age, the Queen of All Trees was a manipulative monster who should have been slain a long, long time ago.
There was one true God and the so-called ‘Queen of All Trees' was not Him, nor did she serve Him. She was an abomination.
I will destroy you. Aralore vowed into the quiet where thoughts crystallize into goals.
Bad Bargain
Sarn shook his head and backed away from Jersten. “I can’t bear it.”
Fear crawled into his stomach and clenched his bowels. Just thinking about the mines made Sarn shiver. Its impenetrable blackness pressed in on him until he took a breath. I’m far from their dank confines. But memories of that benighted place hammered at the mental walls Sarn had erected, and they refused to be denied.
“We’re just going to take a little walk in the dark,” the lapidarist had said.
Then a cadaverous hand had shoved Sarn with surprising strength sending him stumbling into a darkness so thick, it had choked him. He'd gotten lost in that stygian gloom, chasing the memory of light.
“You find the lumir stones and there’ll be a hot meal for you.” And the darkness had echoed his promise to the hungry, nine-year-old boy Sarn had been. “Don’t worry about your brother. He’s with my partner. You’ll see him after you find the stones with magic in their hearts. You know the ones I mean, boy.”
Yes, Sarn had known which stones the man had meant. Even now, he could sense the veins of lumir crystals running through the mountain. They called to him in a wordless susurration, begging for his touch, but he ignored them.
Sarn blinked to clear away the memory. It seared his soul even eleven years later turning lunch into a cold lump in his cramping stomach.
“Did I say anything about the mines? G
ive me some credit. I know how much you hate them.”
True, Jersten would know. He’d been there with Hadrovel that day nearly seven years ago. And he'd done nothing to stop that psycho from tossing you down a mine shaft. Remembered fear, constricted his shuttered world until Dirk’s icon flashed on his head map again, reminding Sarn of his mission. Damn it the man’s getting away while I stand here jawing.
“Who are you?” Ran asked but his question was drowned out by shouts. Undeterred, his son tried again with the same result.
A knot of people had gathered at the edge of the underground lake, and they’d brought a spokesman, fan-fricking-tastic. Before the fool could start spewing the dogma of the day, Sarn swung his sack over his shoulder.
“I don’t want any part of whatever you’re up to.”
Sarn steered his son around a column wept into place over the eons before Jersten could reply. It was wide enough to screen them from view just in case today’s rhetoric included a rant against magic. And it would because magic was the root of all Shayari’s ills. Yeah right, mankind had some complicity in that too. But did the masses notice? No.
“Magic doesn’t make a man evil,” Sarn said because it needed saying, not because anyone within earshot might agree. The power pulsing under his skin hummed a song of protection, not murderous mayhem. And right now, all his magic focused on his son. It slid a warm gauntlet over their joined hands forming a lightweight shield around the boy.
“I know,” Ran said as he bumped Sarn’s thigh. “I like playing with magic.”
“You what?”
Ran’s statement shot a bolt of fear into his heart and almost tripped Sarn. If people would stop popping out of caves and pushing past each other to see the spectacle, he could risk a peek at his son’s face.
Yeah, but showing off his luminous eyes right now would do nothing other than start a riot and get them both killed. So Sarn kept his eyes closed and willed the magic to back the hell off his eyes. It ignored him and spawned more tentacles to probe his eyelids for cracks.
Curse Breaker Omnibus Page 69