Cobalt urged Eris toward the door and down the torch-lit corridor, the other sentinels surrounding them the moment she stepped free of the cell. Their footfall fell like distant thunder while her own were silent, the flagstones cool beneath her bare feet. She did not remember what they'd done with her shoes. Everything after the morning of her arrest was a fading nightmare: either hematite's only redeeming quality, or her mind’s attempt to safeguard her sanity.
Eris distracted herself with studying the other mage cells; there were six on one side of a curving open space. Hematite was everywhere, cowering within stone walls and iron grates. She recognized its presence by the absence it left: the muting of sound and color – the sensations that the metal stole from all mages. The collar pressed closer to her neck with each breath and the cuffs dragged at her hands.
All this, because she was born with magic in her blood. All this, because she was dangerous.
Dangerous. Eris shivered. She would show them dangerous.
The sentinel commander was no fool. She caught Eris' look, if not the tenor of her thoughts. “Once you're home, you won't be able to fly away again, will you, little bird?”
“The bastion is not my home.”
Cobalt's grip on Eris' arm tightened but he said nothing. Talon, too, was silent until they reached the exit. As another of her sentinels unlocked the door, she said, calmly, “Then it will be your cage. Either way,” the door swung open soundlessly and a gust of fresh air brushed Eris' cheek, “you won't be leaving again.”
***
Talon stood aside as Captain Cobalt released his grip on Mage Echina and shoved her through the bastion gates, toward the dark-skinned man who waited for her. She stumbled once, caught herself, and turned to regard Talon as the iron and hematite gates closed behind her. Even collared and behind hematite, she stood tall, long, black hair blowing in the chill wind, green eyes fixed upon Talon as though…
No. No mage could use magic while bound by hematite. Still, Talon's shoulders relaxed once the gates locked and her charge was secure once more. Beside her, Cobalt exhaled.
Talon slanted the normally stoic man with a look. “The Circle says they can sense fear, Captain.”
“It's not fear, ser, but…” He shook his head. “Misgiving.”
She indicated the direction of the sentinel garrison with a nod, and they began to walk. “You don't think I should have released her.”
“It's not my place to question your orders, Commander.”
“No, it's not. But you still have opinions, don't you?”
Cobalt's reply was steeped in artifice; too measured, too calm. She recognized the tactic well. “If the burnies were right and she did turn into a crow,” the captain said. “What's to stop her from doing it again?”
They crossed through the gate that led to the garrison's training yard, where the familiar ring of steel upon steel and other noises of sparring reminded Talon of home like almost nothing else. She led the captain though the center of the yard, nodding as every sentinel paused to salute her—arms crossed before their chests as they bowed—and made her way toward the heart of the garrison.
“Eris is collared and behind bastion walls,” Talon said at last. “Have you no faith in hematite any longer?”
“Hematite is a blessing, ser. And maybe I'm just keen for another burn. But…”
He trailed off. She'd tensed at his mention of taking hematite and paused outside the archway that led to the garrison's interior. “But?”
“I've never known a mage to turn into a bird; to fly. I didn't know it was possible.” They were far enough from the others that none could hear, but the captain still dropped his voice. “We obviously don't fully understand their magic, ser. What's to stop any of the moon-bloods from… learning new tricks?”
Talon did not have to consider her reply; the notion may as well have been inked into her skin. “That is our role. That is the sentinels' place in the One's world. If they change, so must we. If they run, we pursue. If they fly, well...” She began to walk again. “That's what arrows are for.
“But your misgiving is not misplaced,” she added as they entered the garrison proper. “We've had our hands full with the thralls, but perhaps we need to fall back into old habits. Step up patrols in the bastion for the next few weeks; make the mages feel our presence further, to stave off any… confusion about our respective roles in the One's world. Will that satisfy, Captain?”
He nodded once. “Aye, ser. It will.”
***
Drake held his breath as the mage carriage trundled by his hiding place. When it passed, he pushed his hood aside, and exhaled, shaking the leaves before him. Neither the sentinel driver nor the mounted sentinel escorts so much as glanced his way, but he could hear the drum of his own heart. It was time.
The White River, churning in the distance, drowned what little sound Drake made when he stepped from the dense brushwork on the side of the road; he aimed to seem as if he materialized from the forest itself. His friends, too, did the same, albeit with a few snapped twigs. A dozen Assembly members, similarly swathed in the robes of Sufani nomads, surrounded the sentinels, weapons raised, though they did not charge. The carriage driver swore and pulled her horses to a stop, while her companions drew their swords and tightened their formation around the vehicle.
“Gypsy scum,” a burly male sentinel hissed as he angled his blade and glared at Drake. “In Tor's name, keep your sodding distance and let us pass – or you'll regret it.” Judging from the marks on the spaulder, the piece of armor that covered his shoulder, this sentinel was a sergeant. All Drake could make out of his face was that it was round with youth and his features were wholly unfamiliar.
What would I have done if it were my brother, Stonewall? Even now, Drake felt a stab of regret so sharp it could cut, but he kept his voice steady and his posture relaxed. “I'm afraid I can't do that, ser.” He nodded to the mage carriage, dark and silent, the ventilation holes plugged with wood and plaster. “We have no wish to hurt you. Give us the hematite, and you'll be free to go.”
The sergeant spat at Drake's feet and called to his squad. “Let's see these dregs off to the Laughing God so we can get underway.”
Save the carriage driver, the four sentinels whirled their horses and bore down on the nearest Assembly members, who darted back into the trees. The sergeant made for Drake, who leaped out of the horse's path but did not run. Instead, he gave a shrill whistle that echoed in the evening air.
A volley of flaming arrows sprang from the tree line, appearing as if by magic to embed themselves in the carriage's side with audible thwacks. Scenting fire and smoke, the carriage horses strained against their traces, screaming. The sentinel driver snarled violent promises to the terrified creatures as she tried to hold them steady. More arrows rained down, some aflame, some not. None struck the armored men and women. In the back of his mind, Drake was pleased his orders had been carried out so far.
But unharmed, the sentinels were regrouping, advancing, so Drake gave another whistle and the rest of his friends descended. Edel and Brice ripped open the sacks they each wore at their hips and tossed plumes of brightly colored powder at the sentinels, filling the air with clouds of red, blue, violet and saffron. The cloud dust's effect was instantaneous: a multicolored fog, opaque as good ale, hung in the air, coating everyone and everything, and distorting the sentinels' views. Their close-fitting helmets would not help, either.
“Ea's balls,” the sentinel sergeant cried. He was a step too far from the cloud to be covered, but the sudden burst of color had the desired effect nonetheless. Stunned, he whirled to get a better look.
It was Drake's turn to lunge. For a big lout, he was fast—perhaps his one redeeming quality—and he covered the distance to the sergeant's horse in two easy steps. He ripped open his own sack of cloud dust and threw a handful of crimson powder at the horse’s head. The creature squealed, rearing in surprise and fear. Drake used his height to h
is advantage and grabbed the officer before the fellow could secure his seat in the saddle. In one motion, Drake pulled the officer from his mount and slammed him to the dirt.
“Sorry, ser,” he said as the sergeant gasped. “But I wasn't asking.”
The fellow's breath had been knocked from his lungs and he was dazed, but would not be for long, so Drake fumbled through the sergeant’s armor, searching for the carriage keys. He'd taken a risk in approaching the sentinel while unarmed, but he'd hoped to avoid bloodshed. Behind them both, the other sentinels swore and called to each other through the thickening miasma of smoke and colored powder, but they could not find their attackers, let alone retaliate. Dust and sweat made Drake’s eyes burn, but he could not spare a moment to swipe away the grime. In Tor's name, where were those fucking keys?
Steel clashed behind him and a woman shrieked – Rilla? Hooves clattered nearby, but they were moving away. The sergeant, nearly Drake's own size and having regained his breath and wits, fought to swing his dagger. With unnatural strength, he briefly wrenched his arm free and struck, but Drake avoided the blow and planted his knee on the fellow's arm, and continued digging beneath the thick leather armor.
“Miserable, sodding cur,” the sergeant grunted in his struggle. “I’ll see you off to the void myself!”
Instinct and long years of training saved Drake from a dagger slash to his ears. He ducked out of the blade’s path, gritting his teeth at the delay. Every moment Drake dawdled with this moron was one his friends were in danger. A cool breeze rifled through the trees, dispelling the cloud dust and revealing the Assembly members’ positions.
Drake could not afford to hold back.
A deep breath reoriented his focus. His blood still pounded in his ears, but with no hematite in his veins to dull his senses, he reached his own magic with ease. The world slowed; his vision pooled to the sentinel beneath his grip, a man who would have called him brother in service had they met three years ago.
Hematite ran thick and hot through this man’s blood, so magic would not work upon him. Nor could Drake affect his armor or weapons. But the ground beneath the sergeant teemed with particles, the place where magic lived. Drake concentrated on the particles of the rich earth and drew them up and around the sergeant’s arm. Another moment of focus, and the dirt hardened; it was not quite clay, but it was solid enough to restrain the man for a few seconds. Perhaps, with more time and ability, Drake could have captured both of the sentinel’s arms, but even this small effort left him dizzy and breathless. But restraining one of the sergeant’s still arms left Drake’s other hand free to search.
As the dirt crept up, encasing the sergeant’s forearm, his eyes widened beneath his helmet. “Mage…”
Only a little, Drake thought grimly, just as his fingers closed on the little chits of iron and hematite, hanging from a thin leather cord around the sergeant's neck and buried beneath his cuirass and under tunic. Drake ripped the cord free and darted out of the way of another dagger swipe. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the flaming carriage, now unguarded as the driver had leaped down to join her squad. The sergeant jerked his arm free in a spray of dirt, righted himself and pursued.
“Get back here, moon-blood,” the officer snarled.
Drake’s guts twisted at the epithet. Had his Assembly friends heard?
It was only a few steps to the carriage, but they would be too many with the angry sergeant on his heels. Drake whistled again and Rilla—alive, thank Mara!—tossed him his ironwood spear. A lifetime of training with similar weapons granted him grace as well as speed; he whirled and held the bladed tip at the sentinel's throat, against an unprotected patch of skin.
“We have no wish to hurt you,” Drake said. “Call them off and let us take what we want.”
The officer came up short, head tilted, though he'd drawn both daggers in preparation of his next strike. His throat brushed the edge of the blade when he spoke. “What could a moon-blooded dreg like you want with our hematite?”
“If I were you,” Drake replied, pressing the spear close enough to dimple the sergeant’s skin. “I’d leave the questions for later and worry about my own blood right now.”
The other sentinels, finally seeing their leader held at bay, had frozen in place amid the dissipating saffron and red clouds. Drake's friends, too, stood frozen. The entire world held its breath. Drake met the officer's gaze beneath his helmet and pressed the spear’s point that much closer. “Call them off, burnie.”
The fellow's eyes widened. “Stand down,” he called to the others. “Let them…”
But Edel and Rilla grabbed the young officer while Drake went to the carriage. Hands trembling, he unlocked the door and wrenched it open, revealing a sparse interior with only a small trunk resting on the floorboards. For the first time in three years, he was within reach of hematite. Ideally, he would test the key here, but he knew better than to push his luck. Instead, he hefted the trunk and gave the final signal.
More flaming arrows fell; more cloud dust bloomed all around. The sentinels rallied but soon shouted in dismay, for Drake and his friends were already gone.
Three
Kali tucked her knees beneath her as she curled up on the chair. “That's very good,” she said to the Zhee mage. “You'll sound like a native before you know it.”
Afternoon faded into evening, evidenced by the wan, shifting light that spilled into the common area from the windows across from where Kali and Sadira sat. Cai and Marcen had slipped away some time ago, so both women had the hearth to themselves. Other mages were already beginning to fill the benches at the dining tables, and the smells from the kitchen had only grown stronger and more delicious.
Rather than reply, Sadira closed the book and traced the embossed tree on the cover, then glanced at Kali. “What is Heartfire?”
“It's what Aredians call the eve of the winter solstice. There's a grand celebration.”
Sadira nodded. “Yes, but what does it mean? I've heard some of the others speak of it, but never learned why anyone celebrates. It seems to be an excuse for Aredians to get drunk and light fires.”
“You're not far off,” Kali said, chuckling. “But there's a story behind the festival. It has to do with two gods who travel to the Laughing God's realm: Amaranthea and… Tor.”
“Ah-mar-ann-they-ah,” Sadira replied slowly, brows knitting as she sounded out the name. “Ah, I believe you speak of Amara.”
“Amara?” Kali shook her head. “Never heard of her, but I suppose the names are close enough that the myths could be related.”
“Amara is no myth. She is the most beloved….” Sadira frowned. “I do not know the Aredian word, but in Zheem, she is called Davah’Amara.”
Kali thought over what she knew of the Zhee language. “Davah means ‘goddess?’”
“Yes, but also…” Sadira hummed in thought. “One who does good deeds for those less fortunate. You said it before.”
“Patron?” Kali asked.
Sadira brightened. “Yes, that is the word. Patron. Amara is our patron goddess. Save the One, she is who the Zhee revere above all others.”
“Like many of the sentinels revere Tor?”
“Just so. You cannot see her from this far north, but if you travel to Zheem, you will see her star. Amara always shines for her children. There are many stories of her adventures, but none where she travels to the Shadowlands. In fact,” Sadira toyed with one of her long, elaborate braids as if puzzling something out, “I was always told that the Laughing God has no realm. He—or she—exists as the One exists: everywhere and nowhere.”
Kali shrugged. “I always thought the Laughing God and the Shadowlands were metaphors.” Sadira gave her a blank look, so she tried to clarify. “Ideas or images that represent something real.”
“So then you think there is some truth to these tales?”
“No,” Kali said after a moment. “They’re just stories. They’re nice ones, but stil
l… They’re not real – in any way.”
The other mage regarded her with pity. “How small and dim the world must seem to you.”
Kali flushed with irritation, but tried to seem unaffected as she extended her hand for the book. Sadira passed it over and Kali began flipping through the pages, searching. “Well, even though I think they’re just stories, I can still enjoy them.” She skimmed the tiny, cramped text before spotting the bit she’d read again and again since arriving at Whitewater Bastion. “You said your people revere Amaranthea—Amara—but you didn’t know Tor.”
“I have never heard his name in your tongue. In Zheem, Amara’s lover has no name.”
Stonewall. His face appeared in Kali's mind. She could imagine him watching her in that solemn, intense way of his; she could feel the heat of his body curved around her while he slept. She traced the elaborate script of Tor’s name, stylized to mimic the curving horns atop the god’s head; the book was old, but she could still feel the indents where pen had pressed to paper.
Kali began to read. “They say Tor traveled all the way to the Shadowlands alone, on foot, spurred forth by the anger in his heart at what had been done to his soul-bonded.”
Kali's throat was suddenly tight and she had to clench her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. Why was this silly story affecting her so? Soul-bonded, her heart answered, but she shook the feeling away at once. Stonewall was a devotee of Tor, and she'd not seen him since their arrival here; telling this story was forcing her to think of him when she really didn't want to. That was all there was to it.
She fought to collect herself and continued. “They say he neither ate nor rested, only traveled until he reached the edge of the Laughing God's home, where a river flows with no beginning nor end. Once he reached the river, Tor bellowed a challenge into the black abyss.” She paused and looked up at her fellow mage. “Does any of this sound familiar?”
Sadira shook her head. “I have never heard this part of the story. I only know that Amara travels to the Shadowlands to face the Laughing God.”
Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2) Page 3