Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  But, as the Hilmir, Eirik Throrsson had made abundantly clear, he had no desire for Princelanders in his lands. Heading through the flatter Fjall terrain would make for faster going, though they’d have to go farther out of their way. On the other hand, they’d risk far less than they would cutting directly south through the highlands of southern Jarnleikr and northern Myrr domains.

  But that was a problem for later. First, he needed to know how they were going to get through the Sawtooth Mountains.

  A sudden tension knotted Lingram’s shoulders. “I…” Uncertainty flashed across his face. “I’m not certain.”

  “What?” Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean—?”

  “I know how to get through, but I can’t explain it from here, not on a map like this.” Lingram swept a hand toward the massive ridges depicting the Sawtooth Mountains. “There’s a way through the mountains. Under the mountains. But I need to be there, in person, and find it for myself.” His eyes darkened again. “It’s been fifteen years since I last saw it.”

  Anger blazed in Aravon’s chest. He lied to us? His jaw muscles worked. “You said you knew a way!”

  “I do!” Captain Lingram’s jaw squared and he stood straight, unflinching before the fire in Aravon’s eyes. “But it’s not something I can explain. I can’t just say, ‘Look for a tiny hole carved into a bloody mountain’! There are no maps, no way to tell you the path. It’s something I have to do myself. Something only I can do.” Steel echoed in his voice, resolute and unyielding.

  Aravon locked gazes with the man. Lingram stared back at him, never wavering. Anger flared within Aravon. It had nothing to do with the fact that Lingram was following his gut instinct and taking a huge chance on something incredibly risky; Keeper knew Aravon himself had done that enough times over the course of the last few months. No, his fury had everything to do with Lingram’s keeping the truth from him. Insufficient information could get good men killed. And given the impossibility of the mission they faced, even the slightest detail could spell the difference between success and certain death.

  Yet Aravon forced himself to bite back an angry growl. “So be it,” he said. “We’ll get you where you need to go.”

  “And I will get you through the mountains.” A hint of the Captain’s tension diminished, and certainty rang in his voice. “I swear, by the Swordsman and my eternity in the Long Keeper’s arms.”

  “Good.” Aravon nodded, and his anger diminished, the fire burning in his belly guttering to a flicker of irritation. “Now get some food and rest. We leave in a few hours.” His words came out curt, with more biting force than he’d intended. But after everything that had happened with Lord Eidan—all the secrets that had turned out to be lies—and the knowledge of what awaited them in the south, he could ill-afford a problem like this.

  Captain Lingram seemed to sense the sudden tension. Without a word, he gave Aravon and Colborn a little nod, turned on his heel, and strode from the room in silence, his posture ramrod straight and muscles stiff.

  Colborn, however, made no move to follow. He stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, gaze locked on the retreating Captain. He only spoke once the door shut behind Lingram. “You trust him?” the Lieutenant asked without taking his eyes from the doorway. “After he kept the truth from us?”

  Aravon bit back an angry answer—he had to think clearly, not let past fears and duplicity affect his judgement. He’d failed to see Lord Eidan’s treachery, but the nobleman had been far too good at concealing it, even from men like Prince Toran and Duke Dyrund. With Lingram, it wasn’t deceit that held him back, but something else…something deeper. Yet that didn’t change who the man was at the core of his being: an honorable, just, loyal Captain, Legionnaire, and friend.

  A slow breath escaped Aravon’s lips. “I do,” he finally said. “I’ve known Lingram for years.”

  “Maybe.” Colborn turned toward him now, a meaningful look in his ice-blue eyes. “You knew him years ago. But what if he’s not the same man? What if…” He trailed off with a shrug.

  Aravon’s shoulders tensed; he wasn’t the only one made wary by Lord Eidan’s treason. But Colborn could read men as well as any soldier.

  “What does your gut tell you about him?” he asked.

  The question surprised Colborn. “My gut?”

  “Yes.” Aravon studied the Lieutenant’s heavy Fehlan features. “Your instincts have led us right all this time. So what are they telling you about him?”

  A pensive frown tugged at Colborn’s lips. After long seconds of pensive silence, he inclined his head. “I hope we’re both right about him.”

  “We are.” Aravon had no doubt. Lingram was a good man. Not perfect, but good. During their years of training, he had given of himself for his fellow Legionnaires and officers far too many times to count. The fact that he’d earned the love and respect of his men proved Aravon’s belief true. Lingram wouldn’t do anything that put his soldiers—or Aravon and, by extension, the Grim Reavers—in danger. Whatever had led him to conceal the truth could be explained. He’d give the man a chance.

  But not yet. Right now, he had more important things to do.

  As if on cue, his stomach gave a loud rumble.

  “Come, my friend.” Aravon clapped a hand on Colborn’s shoulder. “Let’s go see Clem about those marvelous butter cookies.”

  * * *

  The stone barracks were oddly quiet as Aravon carried the tray of food through the dining room. Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires lounged on the wooden benches and tables, sitting over their meager meals, resting their exhausted heads on tired arms, or sprawling on the straw-covered ground. After their days of travel from Icespire, the small meal—barley and oat porridge flavored liberally with coriander, honey, and cinnamon, served with generous pats of butter and a sprinkling of dried fruits—did wonders to soothe them into a peaceful sleep.

  Let them sleep while they can, Aravon thought. Morning will come all too soon.

  He, too, wanted to join the soldiers in slumber. The porridge sat heavy and warm in his stomach, soothing his body and bathing away the aches of too many hours spent in the saddle. But before he could rest, he had to see to his Grim Reavers.

  The door to Noll’s room, first after the dining hall, stood closed, but the scout’s voice echoed through the heavy wood.

  “…not the Eirdkilrs you’ve got to be worried about down there!” the scout was saying. “It’s the ice rats that’ll chew right through your boots, and your feet if you let them!”

  Twin snorts of derision and disbelief answered his words—Skathi and Belthar had evidently joined the little scout, doubtless in one last drink of Polus’ special honeywine before their morning trek south.

  Belthar’s door stood open, and a horrendous snoring echoed from within the small chamber. Corporal Rold had either staked his claim to the big man’s room or Belthar had given it to him—regardless, he lay fast asleep, boots still on his feet.

  The door to Zaharis’ room, the third down the hall, was closed, but the unmistakable sound of movement echoed within. Lifting a hand, Aravon tapped lightly. “Zaharis? I brought dinner.”

  The rustling and crackling from within fell silent, and a moment later, the door opened, revealing a soot-covered, tired-looking Secret Keeper. “Captain.” Zaharis’ eyes dropped to the tray in Aravon’s hand. “The last thing I expected was to find you playing maidservant.”

  Aravon snorted. “Don’t get used to it.” He handed the tray over. “But I know you well enough by now. If we don’t make you eat and sleep, chances are you’ll forget.”

  For answer, Zaharis only gave a shrug. “Have a seat,” he signed one-handed.

  Aravon glanced around the Secret Keeper’s sparse room. “Cluttered” failed to describe it—bundles of dried herbs and flowers, over-stuffed pouches, jars and bottles of dry powders and liquids, stones of various shapes, hues, and sizes, and a hundred other items large and small covered every surface of the table, chai
r, shelf, bed, armchair, and wooden floor. “Thanks, but I’ve got to stretch my legs to keep working out the kinks from a day of riding.” Even if he’d wanted to sit, there wasn’t an inch of cleared space.

  “Suit yourself.” Zaharis took the only seat in the room—the wooden trunk that held his alchemical supplies. Closing it with his foot, he settled onto the lid, tray in his lap. Despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten since their morning meal, he set the food aside after only a few spoonfuls of the grainy porridge. He looked up, raising an eyebrow as he realized Aravon hadn’t moved. His expression went flat. “You want to talk.”

  “I want to make sure you’re good.” Aravon folded his arms across his chest. “After what happened in Icespire…”

  “You mean Darrak and the others trying to kill me?” A bitter half-grin, half-grimace twisted the Secret Keeper’s lips. “Yeah, I’m all sorts of fine with that.”

  “I know it can’t be easy—”

  “Of course it’s not easy!” Zaharis leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over the half-full bowl of porridge. Fury blazed in his eyes. “The man I loved just tried to fucking kill me! For the third damned time!” His fingers flew, so quickly Aravon struggled to keep up with his signed words. “They see me as another oath-breaker, even though I’ve done every bloody thing in my power to follow my oaths to the Mistress and use Her divine secrets to protect this world. But because they don’t agree, they’re going to kill me. So no, Captain, to answer your question, I’m not Keeper-damned good!”

  The uncharacteristic outburst caught Aravon by surprise. He’d seen anger in Zaharis before, but never…this. Sorrow, grief, fury, and bitterness mingled in his eyes, twisted his face into a bestial snarl. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Suddenly, he seemed to deflate. Like a marionette with severed strings, he sat heavily onto the wooden lid of the chest, and something akin to a strangled sob burst from his throat. “How does that happen, Captain?” Moisture sparkled in the eyes he turned up to Aravon. “How does the man who swears he loves you wind up being the one to put a dagger in you? I just…” He trailed off with a savage shake of his head. “I don’t…”

  For the first time, Zaharis seemed at a loss for words. Aravon, too, had no idea what to say. So he said nothing. In silence, he stepped closer to the man and rested a hand on his shoulder. They remained like that for long seconds—Zaharis drowning in his grief, and Aravon offering the only thing he could: the reassurance of his presence, the comfort of a friend’s touch. He couldn’t wipe away the pain—the anguish of deep wounds that could only be inflicted by a loved one—but he could be there to offer the Secret Keeper his silent support.

  The moment passed and Aravon stepped back as Zaharis scrubbed at his eyes. “Sorry,” the Secret Keeper signed, his movements brusque and stiff. “Noll’s usually the weepy one. Probably rubbed off on me.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Aravon knelt in front of the Secret Keeper, hand still resting on the man’s shoulder. “Running from emotions won’t make them go away—it’ll just make for a bigger explosion when they finally come out.” A grin quirked Aravon’s lips. “Take it from someone who knows all too well.”

  Zaharis gave him a sad smile. He had been there after Duke Dyrund’s death, had found Aravon blind drunk and near-catatonic after General Traighan’s funeral.

  “I’ll be fine, Captain.” Zaharis forced his smile to brighten, albeit unconvincingly. “Truly. Just need a bit of time to process everything. We’ve been going and doing so hard for the last few days that I never really had a chance to go through it all. I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard.” Sorrow darkened his eyes, belying the grin on his lips. “I’ve known since Rivergate that I’d never have a chance for the life I once had. I guess…” His fingers faltered. “I guess I just never gave up hope until now.”

  “Hope?” Aravon cocked his head. “That the Secret Keepers would take you back?”

  Zaharis nodded. “That I’d return with the ice saffron and prove that I was right, that the Elixir of Creation really could be possible.” His expression grew grim. “But now I know the truth. I’ll never be who I was again. I can’t go back. All I can do now is go forward. Be who I’ve got to be to pull off this mission. As for what comes after that?” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s a problem that’ll come later, after we get through the Sawtooth Mountains and find one ugly Eirdkilr bastard somewhere in those icy Wastelands.”

  “But it’s not hopeless, Zaharis,” Aravon pressed. “Remember what the Hilmir said that night after we escaped the Blood Queen?”

  Confusion flashed across Secret Keeper’s face.

  Aravon continued. “He spoke of the Reginkunnr”—the Flower Divine, as the Fehlans called it—"said that it only grew in the bitterest cold. But for those brave enough to travel the wastes of Fehl, it offered a reward fit for the gods themselves.” He leaned forward. “Think about it! Where else could that have been but the frozen Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains?”

  For the briefest instant, a glimmer of hope flickered in Zaharis’ eyes. It died a moment later. “But he also said that it was a legend, from the days when the old, deep ice covered the lands. And that no one on Fehl has ever seen the Flower Divine.”

  “Sure, but we’ve seen legends come to life!” Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “We run with an Enfield, harness the power of plants and flowers in a way that only the Secret Keepers could possibly imagine, and don’t forget the magic stone!” He gestured to the chunk of rock sitting on Zaharis’ bedside table. “That’s the power of the Serenii come to life. If that’s possible, think of what—”

  Zaharis leapt to his feet, so abruptly Aravon whirled toward the door in expectation of an attack. Yet the doorway stood empty, the hall beyond silent. As Aravon turned back to Zaharis, the Secret Keeper snatched up the stone and dashed from the room.

  Chapter Ten

  What in the fiery hell?!

  Zaharis’ sudden, frenetic action caught Aravon by surprise. By the time he recovered and raced after the Secret Keeper, Zaharis had crossed the distance to Rangvaldr’s room and pounded on his door. The thud, thud, thud of his fist echoed through the stone hall as he kept up the hammering for long seconds. Finally, the door opened, and a bleary-eyed Rangvaldr appeared within.

  “What?” he snarled as he caught sight of Zaharis—and Aravon behind him—standing in the doorway.

  “Come!” Zaharis signed one-handed. “I need your help testing out a hypothesis!”

  “Now?!” Rangvaldr growled, a frown tugging at his bearded lips. “It’s too bloody late to—”

  “Yes, now!” Zaharis lifted his left hand in front of the Seiomenn’s face and opened it, revealing the blue-glowing stone within the black cloth.

  Rangvaldr’s eyes widened and his hand flew to the pendant at his neck. Confusion flickered across his face, replaced a moment later by comprehension.

  Aravon sucked in a breath as he, too, understood Zaharis’ intention. For weeks, the Secret Keeper had studied the mineral properties of the stone considered worthless by the miners of Fehl. It had remained an inert chunk of rock until the night of the battle outside the Deepshackle tower. He’d dropped the stone into the water and sand on the jetty leading out to the tower, and in that moment it had started to glow.

  But it was more than just that glow. Zaharis’ arm, injured in the battle with the Eirdkilrs, had moved more easily after he picked up the lustrous stone, as if it had healed the pain.

  Realization struck Aravon like a blow. He wants Rangvaldr to test the stone, see if it actually works!

  Rangvaldr seemed to sense it too, and uncertainty flashed across his face. Skepticism and doubt mingled with something more…was that fear?

  “Come on, Stonekeeper!” Zaharis’ gestures held a strange urgency, and his eyes blazed with a burning light of mingled curiosity and an almost desperate desire. “I need to know the truth.”

  Rangvaldr hesitated a moment, his gaze flickerin
g toward Aravon, then reached out and took the stone from Zaharis. He winced as his fingers closed around the glowing rock, as if expecting pain or discomfort. Hesitance changed to wonder, and he held the stone up before his eyes, staring deep into its gleaming depths.

  “It shouldn’t be possible,” he murmured in his native Fehlan. “And yet…”

  “Use it!” Zaharis leaned forward intently. “Speak the words of your god and bring the stone to life!”

  Rangvaldr’s eyes darted toward Zaharis, to the stone, and back again. Doubt etched deep lines into his aged face, and he seemed almost unwilling to move. But something—curiosity, perhaps—set his feet into motion.

  “To my room,” Aravon said. “I gave it to Endyn and his brother.”

  Rangvaldr didn’t respond, didn’t so much as nod. His spine had gone rigid, his jaw clenched tight, and he marched straight toward Aravon’s room. Zaharis darted ahead of them and hammered on the door with that same driving insistence.

  Duvain had barely cracked the door open an inch when the Secret Keeper barged into the room, pushing past the slight Legionnaire without hesitation. He seemed filled with a frantic energy, his eyes darting and his fingers twitching as he stooped over the sleeping Endyn.

  The pungent aroma of dried herbs, spices, and something earthy and rich hung thick in the room, twisting Aravon’s stomach. Endyn lay on the floor, knees bent to accommodate his eight-foot height around the chair and table. Though he slept, his rest proved fitful and uneasy. Sweat dripped down his face and shirtless torso, the moisture snaking in filthy rivulets through the red, inflamed cracks of skin that intersected the dark grey, stone-like scales covering his chest, sides, neck, and left shoulder.