In less than two minutes, the three soldiers that stood watch over the prison were dead and the floor of the watch room was slick with blood. Xenir crouched over the watch commander and plucked the ring of keys from his belt. As a unit, the Chosen moved toward the door at the back of the watch room. Finding the appropriate key, the Warleader opened the door and they descended into darkness.
A long stone corridor was lined with cells on either side. A few flickering lamps cast feeble circles of light on the corridor floor. Most of the cells were empty. Xenir checked each one, looking for the hulk of the High Priest. His despair grew with each cell they checked. Perhaps the dragon was wrong. Perhaps Zarfensis really had perished and his incarceration here was just a sick ruse by the vermin.
As they reached the last cell on the left hand side of the corridor, all Xenir's doubts evaporated. Crouched on the stone floor was the emaciated frame of the High Priest. Only the slight rise and fall of Zarfensis's breathing gave the Warleader any indication that he was still alive. Xenir was horrified that the High Priest, once a hulking brute, had been reduced to the creature he saw before him. Even so, it could be no other. The twisted brass and blackened rubber of the artificial leg could belong to no one else.
“Your Holiness?” He asked quietly. “Can you hear me?”
Zarfensis uncurled from his crouch, getting to unsteady feet with slow, steady deliberation. One side of his face was a ruin of naked skin and puckered scars that had robbed him of an eye. The skin hung from his bones like laundry on a line and the flame in his eye had died to the flicker of a single candle, holding its own against the growing black. With shuffling, grating steps, Zarfensis made his way to the door of the cell, standing well back from the bars. He stared at Xenir, his ash grey tongue flicking out to lick his muzzle. At length, he seemed to gather enough strength to speak.
“My brother,” Zarfensis rasped. “Is that really you? Has my freedom finally come?”
Xenir found the key to the cell door and wrenched it open, crossing the threshold and crushing the High Priest in an uncharacteristic embrace. Xenir felt him tremble and knew that they had arrived not a moment too soon. Any longer and he might have succumbed to the harsh treatment the vermin had subjected him to.
“You are free, my brother. It is time to go home.”
CHAPTER ONE
“How dare they?” Tiadaria brandished the letter at Wynn, as if he was somehow responsible for its contents. “They have no right! How can they just make demands of us and expect them to be followed?”
“He is the King, Tiadaria.” Wynn held up a hand to forestall her outburst. “I'm not saying that it's right. I'm just saying that being the King gives him the legal authority.”
“I don't care. When do I get to choose, Wynn? My father, the Captain, Faxon, and now this. When do I get to make my own decisions about who I want to be and what I want to do? It isn't fair!”
Wynn rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The tension there made his head ache. She stood, glaring at him, her arms folded across her chest. He knew that posture well. It was Tia at her most stubborn, her most obstinate. He wasn't going to get anything useful out of her until she got over her initial indignation and was able to think rationally again.
“Well?”
He didn't care for her demanding tone, but really, he knew that it wasn't directed at him. Not exactly. He just happened to be unfortunate enough to be in the way. He turned his good eye toward her, gazing back into the full force of her fury.
“Do you want an actual answer? Or are you just looking for a vent for your frustration?”
A pained look flickered over her features so quickly that he'd have missed it if he hadn't been watching closely. Her lips whitened as she considered his question and he waited patiently for her response. He knew it could go either way. Either she'd ask him for his council or she'd want him to listen while she railed against the injustice of it all. He didn't mind either way, he just wanted to know what to expect. They had lived together long enough for Wynn to be used to her mercurial moods and he had adapted to them early on.
Tia took a deep breath and blew it out in a gusty sigh. She made a show of unfolding the letter that she had crushed in her fist and smoothing it out as best she could. She offered it to Wynn and he took it from her, scanning the brief missive.
The Imperium courier had caught them on their way out of the cottage and handed the letter to Tiadaria before Wynn could intervene. He had wanted to get her up into the old training field so he could ask her something important. Now he wondered if he had any hope of getting her up there today at all.
Now that he read the letter, he understood why she was upset. She had every right to be. The King had demanded her return to Dragonfell for assignment of duties, without so much as a “by your leave” or a please, or thank you. It was unlike Greymalkin to issue such demands. The letter in itself was troubling. He couldn't really blame her for her reaction. He finished reading and folded the paper, slipping it into one of the pockets that lined the inside of his robes.
“You're not going to like--”
“Then why say it,” she snapped. “If you already know I'm not going to like it?”
Turning on his heel, he set off down the path toward the training field. The end of the path rose to the crest of a gentle hill. It was a place that they often came together, to talk, or just to sit and watch the stars together on clear nights. He stopped at the top of the rise, looking out into the conifers that ringed the small clearing.
Tiadaria came up behind him and stood there for some time. Finally, she stepped into his line of sight and looked at him. Wynn pressed his lips together and stared at her, saying nothing. Her blazing eyes met his, then flicked to his eye patch as they often did when she was nervous or upset. She seemed to crumple in on herself all of a sudden.
“I'm sorry.”
“I know.” Wynn knew her anger was as quick and furious as a summer rain shower, but ultimately just as harmless. “All I said was that he had the right, not that I thought it was proper, or that agreed with him.”
“So you agree with me?”
“I do, but it doesn't really matter what I think. You're a citizen of the Imperium, but you still have a choice. Maybe if you talk to the King...”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Because the King is so flexible?”
“Okay.” Wynn shrugged. “Maybe not, but he can't just conscript you.”
“Actually, I think he can. I think that's part of the deal with being King.”
“There's always Ethergate, or Overwatch.”
The surprised look Tiadaria shot him was almost comical. Her mouth dropped open and she tried to form words, failing miserably at it.
“Leave the Imperium?” Tia said it slowly, as if she were measuring the full weight of her words. “Could we?”
“Why not? I lived in Ethergate most of my life before you dragged me back here. Need I point out that you haven't even been a citizen of the Imperium for that long, all things considered.”
Tia stuck her tongue out at him. That was a good sign, Wynn thought. It meant her sense of the ridiculous was returning. With it would come her ability to see more than just her rage.
“I actually had a reason for wanting to come up here,” Wynn said, with some exasperation. “Do you think maybe we could move on to that? Or would you like to go on a bit more about the King and his demands?”
“No, I think I'm done. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“It wasn't so much talk as it was action,” Wynn replied.
“Well?” Tia made a show of crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot.
Getting down on one knee was something of a chore in quintessentialist's robes, but Wynn thought he managed it with a fair amount of aplomb. Tia cast a suspicious eye on him as he reached inside and withdrew a small parcel.
Wynn presented a small black velvet pad. A plain gold and silver ring rested on the pad. He had agonized over the de
sign for her bonding band, finally settling on something simple, almost utilitarian. He had indulged in a bit of whimsy, asking the artisan to craft a ring of two intertwining bands. The result was both simple and elegant. Perfect for Tiadaria.
“Wynn,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”
“I'm attempting to propose,” he said with mock exasperation. “If you'd stop interrupting me long enough to let me finish it.
So what say you, Tiadaria of the clans, last swordmage, and heroine of Dragonfell? Will you accept my handfasting?”
“I...” Tia faltered and looked away.
In that moment, Wynn felt like his world was going to implode. He had planned for so long to make everything perfect. From the ring, to the arrangements, to the guests. He hadn't overlooked a single detail and now she couldn't even look at him. He wanted to get up, wanted to run down the path to the cottage and just pretend that this moment had never happened, but he seemed to be rooted to the spot.
When she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears. They weren't the happy kind of tears, Wynn knew. He'd been stupid, thinking that she'd just be willing to accept his proposal. He should have warned her first. At least felt out her feelings on the matter. He had been so sure she'd want it as much as he did.
“Wynn...”
Her voice seemed to break the paralysis that gripped him and he was able to climb to his feet. It was awkward, but not nearly as awkward as what he'd just been through. He didn't trust himself to speak yet. The lump in his throat felt like a ship anchor and he wasn't sure he'd be able to get any words past it. Instead, he busied himself with tucking the ring back inside his robes and brushing the worst of the dirt from his knees.
“I'm sorry,” she said, sounding like a little girl. “Wynn--”
“It's okay.” Once he'd managed those two little words, he found that the worst of the shock was starting to ebb and he could think again. “There's nothing for you to be sorry for. I was stupid, I should have talked to you first.”
“No, Wynn, that's not...”
She trailed off as he started off down the trail back toward the cottage. Her rejection had stung bad enough. He wasn't going to let her see the tears that were welling in his eyes. The sun sparked a million rainbows in his wet eyes as he fled the hilltop. He knew it for a retreat and wouldn't embarrass himself by calling it otherwise.
When he reached the door to the cottage, he realized the full extent of his foolishness. The door was locked and Tiadaria carried the only key on a length of black ribbon around her neck. So he'd have to wait until she turned up to let him in, a fact that did nothing to assuage his sense of being the biggest idiot on all of Solendrea.
He turned and leaned back against the door, slowly sliding down until he was seated against it. Wynn propped his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his short brown hair. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
The gate at the end of the little path creaked and Wynn looked up, knowing that she'd be upset, or contrite, or both, or something else entirely. Maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought he did. He had been so sure she was going to say yes!
Tiadaria approached him slowly, as if he were some species of dangerous animal. As if she didn't know how he would react. Maybe she didn't. Maybe he had overestimated the strength of their bond in the four years they'd been together. If he'd been wrong in that, what else had he been wrong about?
“Wynn,” she said, her voice soft and steady. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay--”
“No,” her voice was firm now. “Don't brush me off. Let me finish.”
Wynn looked at her. He assumed that his eyes were rimmed with as much red as hers were. He had hoped today would have been a day for celebration. So much for that idea. He nodded. She sat down cross-legged in the middle of the path, close enough to him that she could lay her hand on his knee, which she did.
“I really am sorry, Wynn. I'm just...” She trailed off, casting her eyes skyward as if an answer were floating there. “I just need some time. I love you. You know I do.”
“I thought I did.” The words came out of him in a rush and he sounded far more hard than he'd wanted. This time he wasn't the indecisive one. He knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it, but it had been denied him.
“I do,” she protested, new tears in her eyes. “I really do. It's just...how can I? The King makes his demands, and Faxon decides when and where I need to train, when do I get to decide what's right for me?”
“Seems to me like you already have.”
Tia shrank back at the bitterness in his tone. The tears that had threatened to spill over did so, streaming down her cheeks. She didn't sob, didn't make a sound. She just looked at him. Something seemed to snap deep within him and his breath left in a rush.
“I'm sorry,” he said at the end of the massive sigh. “I love you and I know you love me. I just...well, I just wanted to make it official.”
“I didn't say no,” she said, her voice small and far away.
“I know. I can be patient.” He laughed without much humor and shrugged when she raised her eyebrows at him. “Just as well you got that letter today. We were due in Dragonfell at the end of the week. At least now we have a reason that doesn't make me look like a fool.”
“The end of the week? But what about a ceremony? Our clothes? Our friends?”
“All were taken care of, love. I've been busy these last few months.”
Tia gave him a sharp look and poked him in the chest with a finger. “All that skulking around on 'Order business' that I couldn't know about?”
Wynn looked away. The lump had suddenly returned, making it hard to answer.
“Yeah.”
Tiadaria said nothing and Wynn was thankful for that. Her rejection had been hard enough. He really didn't want to spend the rest of the day hashing things out. They sat in silence for a long time. It was Tia who finally broke that long silence.
“I just want to know who I am before I promise to be everything you need me to be.”
He caught her eyes and held them.
“Tia, when have I ever needed you to be anything more than you are?”
She shook her head, her eyes sad and welling with more tears.
“You don't understand,” she said, this time she sounded as if she were teetering on the edge of control. “It's not about you needing more. I can't even dedicate time to myself. How can I dedicate time to you and be what you want me to be?”
Her voice broke and she pelted down the cobblestones, through the gate, and down the wide lane that ran in front of the cottage.
“I just need you to be you,” Wynn said to himself.
#
The Community Hall in Dragonfell had once been the common room of a brothel that had held a certain black renown when Faxon was a boy. Perhaps it was for that reason that he seemed to laugh every time he entered the space. It made him happy and if he was happy here, he knew that Tia and Wynn would be.
Once the decorations were in order and the trestles and chairs set up, it would be the perfect place to hold the festivities. There was a small lectern at the front of the long room where Faxon would say the ancient and traditional words that would bind two of his closest friends together for eternity.
“Where do you want these?” The sharp tone intruded on his ruminations, dragging him forcefully back to the present from the near future.
“There is fine, Tionne,” Faxon said. He pointed to a corner of the room where other crates and boxes had already been stacked.
The elder quintessentialist wasn't sure what her problem was, or when it had grown so out of control. She was one of the most disagreeable and taciturn acolytes he had ever known and being involved with the education of so many students in the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences, he had known many. He had hoped that age would help her grow out of her shrewish temper, but so far, he had been disappointed.
“I don't understand the need for all this fluff anyway
,” she groused as she dropped the crate she had been carrying. “How does it change anything?”
Faxon peered at her. The girl he had known from a youngster had grown into a young woman. A young woman who would have been pretty if she didn't insist on drawing her hair back in such a severe braid. Her emerald green eyes sparkled, but not with the merriment of most girls her age. Instead, they danced with a quiet, cold malice that bothered Faxon far more than he let on.
“It's not supposed to change anything, Tionne. It is supposed to be pretty and pleasing to look at. It is meant to be inviting and welcoming and to make people feel good on a special day.”
Tionne nudged an open crate with the tip of her boot. She insisted on wearing boots under her robes, eschewing the traditional slippers that mages normally wore. Faxon raised his eyebrow at her. A sardonic smile twisted the corner of her mouth.
“I wouldn't let your guests get too near the garland, Faxon.” She tipped the crate toward him so he could see the contents. “Witchweed will strangle whatever it can reach.”
“It's been cured, Tionne,” he said, his patience wearing thin. “It isn't a threat to anyone, which is more than I can say for myself, if you keep pushing.”
“So sorry, Master,” she replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
“Get out,” he snapped, pointing toward the door. When she didn't move fast enough to appease his annoyance, he flicked his fingers in her direction, striking her in the back with a bolt of lightning just powerful enough to sting in the hindquarters, but not strong enough to do any real damage.
He heard her swear from the hallway, then all was quiet. She'd no doubt find no end of trouble to get into in the city, but he could deal with that later. In the interim, he'd have a few hours of peace and quiet and maybe that would serve to sooth the thundering headache she'd left him with.
The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 Page 36