As she entered the main part of the citadel, she began to see men and women clad in the colorful cloaks of the Eye. There were also people in regular dress, plain folk leading animals, carrying baskets of food or linens, bales of hay or potted flowers. Rhinne kept her hood down and kept moving, making as little eye contact as possible without looking suspicious.
An army of doubts assailed her as she moved through the citadel towards the south, taking the most deserted passages she could find. Once again, she was running away from a safer situation at the bidding of a dream. Nothing Ascarion had said in the impossible wilderness made any sense, now.
The cobbled paths ended on a dirt path heading east. It wound through the woods along a high stone wall like a goat trail. She passed two people, and managed a kindly smile. Then she reached a steep stair that dropped at the bottom onto a wider path. Holding her belly, Rhinne went down.
Scot, indeed, she grumbled inwardly. Twenty miles. At this rate it would take her twenty days just to reach Caerroth. She would need a horse and some food. Then she would have to get passage on a ship. She would have to be swift, clever, and thorough. She would need coin. Her sword would get her something. Who cared about that damned sword anyway? Nothing but trouble from the start.
Stars had begun to appear in the sky as she reached a wide arch draped in ivy. It had an important look to it. She passed through, not knowing what lay at the end. A torch lit a short flight of steps. At the bottom stood a tall wrought-iron gate. It didn’t open, of course. Rhinne leaned against it and quailed. On the other side, a quiet street led to freedom.
How did all those other non-wizards get in and out of here? She turned around and considered the rooty dark. She didn’t have the time or the strength to go back and find another way out. That black-haired wizard would surely have discovered she had gone and released the hounds by now.
Her heart shot into her throat as someone appeared on the other side of the gate. Ascarion shone faintly in the dim light. He lifted his hand to silence her, then spoke a word. She nearly fell into the street as the gate opened.
“There now,” the war god said softly, tucking an escaped curl of her hair beneath her hood. His touch felt like light.
“I thought you weren’t going to help me,” she said, overjoyed to see him despite everything.
“I broke the rules. That’s the last time. Fly now, and don’t forget what I told you.”
Rhinne opened her mouth to speak, jumping as the gate clanged behind her. As she turned back around, the passage was empty.
“Rules,” she muttered as she set out into the night. What rules?
*
The night was still young when Rhinne hurried across a narrow street carrying a sack of food. She wore black boots of soft leather, thick gray woolen leggings, a warm tunic of forest green and a fine gray cloak. Her pouch was heavy. She would never have imagined her sword was worth so much: she got enough money to buy a horse, clothes, a cloak, all the food and supplies she could carry, and still have enough left to go to Tromb several times over. Enough to buy her own warship, for all that.
The dark brown mare she had earlier bought—and paid too much for—stood with her head hanging low, as if asleep. The horse trader had called her “Princess.” Chillingly ironic.
“Time to go, horse,” Rhinne said softly. She couldn’t bring herself to call the beast anything else. No sense in getting attached. Breathing deeply to gather strength, Rhinne packed her things into the saddlebags, including the clothes Ascarion had earlier given her. Then she braided her hair and pulled her hood over her face.
With a heavy heart, she untied the reins from the row of hitching posts on the edge of the street and went to mount. It took her three tries, and on the last she nearly fainted with the pain. The dressings on her abdomen dampened. Clutching her new cloak over her belly with one hand, she swung around, jammed her heels into the mare’s flanks and cantered stiffly up the road out of Eyeroth, recalling the shopkeeper’s directions.
Trying not to dwell on how easy it would be for someone like Lorth to track a fugitive in his own realm, Rhinne rode without note through the streets until she reached the gates. A huge torch hung on either side, casting weird flickering shadows on the ivy-draped stone. People milled about near the opening, talking and laughing. They were dressed in fine clothes of rich colors. Merchants. One man wore a large gold ring that flashed in the torchlight as he moved. Rhinne cast a glance around the edges of the enclosure, looking for pursuers. She saw nothing obvious.
She started across the clearing. Two of the merchants mounted, swung their steeds around and headed for the gates. Jumping into action, Rhinne clopped by the others, closed her eyes and rode through. As she reached the road she clapped her heels with a gasp, relieved as she passed beneath the eaves of the wood.
She rode through the dark and damp away from the light of Eyeroth, anxiety closing around her with tripled force. Her blood felt different, somehow, more her own, and she felt nauseous, even after the quick meal she had eaten in the city. Perhaps that horrid tea was finally wearing off.
The road was dark, but easy to follow, as there were many travelers out. It was still early enough that cottages, barns and inns along the road were lit. Rhinne rode at a stiff pace through the wooded country for hours, until the night was deep. Thirsty and worn from pain, she stopped on a desolate, unlit section of the road. The forest hung over her, unfathomable. She reached for her water bag and took a long drink.
She continued on. Her horse, for some reason, clopped along at a conservative pace no matter how Rhinne urged her to quicken. “Come, horse,” Rhinne said, leaning close to the mare’s neck. “I do have to get away from this place.” The mare trotted on, smoothly and without haste, causing Rhinne to wonder if the wizards were able to affect the beast’s mind from afar.
“Princess,” she relented. A short distance behind, she heard the sounds of a pony and cart she had passed earlier. Her abdomen hurt very badly now, a knife within, slowly twisting; it was damp there, and radiated heat like a bed warmer. Her legs and back felt suddenly too weak to keep her in the saddle. Frightened of the approaching traveler, she turned the mare from the road and entered the shadows of the forest. She pulled a deep breath from the cold, damp air and tried to straighten, to dig her heels in.
A branch struck her on the face. The mare stopped. Dizziness swept up like a pastel wave of muffled cotton voices. The saddle no longer held and the horse no longer moved. Rhinne spiraled into the rift between fantasy and reality. Just another foolish, suicidal quest. Ascarion’s tale of a warrior named Scot came to her. He traveled twenty miles, wounded and losing blood, to reach the boundaries of his land to save his people from invasion.
“Twenty miles my ass,” she whispered. The trees watched without interest as she tried one last time to grab on. Scot hadn’t drunk some horrid magical tea.
Darkness enveloped her before she hit the ground.
Friends in the Otherworld
The last rays of dusk beamed through the circle of windows around the hall of Onesee like a fan of pale gold, illuminating the crystalline star stretched across the ceiling. Wulfgar sat in the first row, gazing at the Source beaming up from the center of the floor. His face was clean-shaven and his blond hair was woven into a long braid that hung down his back. He wore dove gray leggings, a white tunic, and his sword. Its presence in this lofty place seemed ludicrous, even as a formal gesture to salvage his identity.
The book he had brought at the queen’s final bidding lay near his feet. At some time during the night, in which he had slept little, it occurred to him that soon he would have to tell Rhinne that their mother was gone. He pictured the conversation over and over. But he knew better than to make any assumptions about how his sister would take it.
He had spent the day with Lorth and Eaglin, the Raven of Eusiron, half-immortal and brooding in every stitch of it. The black-haired wizard claimed to have seen a vision of Rhinne in a scrying pool in his homeland.
Wulfgar might have found that tale more unnerving if not for his experiences on Tromb, especially after he related them. The wizards had questioned him in brilliant, terrifying detail, leaving him with not only his grief but also new fears that hadn’t been there before.
They had taken particular interest in his amulet. Lorth had held it in his hand and made a strange sound in his throat. Almost like a voidstone, he said to Eaglin. It’s in Mother’s domain. It can’t be deceived. As far as Wulfgar understood it, the amulets were capable of sensing and dissipating evil. But he didn’t need a wizard to tell him that.
Clearly, the Keepers of the Eye had great power and strength of purpose, and their tasks were noble. Wulfgar would have liked to feel more expanded by this discovery, but under the circumstances, it didn’t mean much. These men had no power over what transpired in Tromb; their only defense lay in shadow. Wulfgar had hoped for more than that. But as he waited for the creator of the world with his mother’s book by his side, he clung to hope nonetheless.
He worked to recall everything Lorth and Eaglin had told him about such beings. A god moved above time and space and could appear anywhere, any time. He saw a mortal’s whole life stretched out before his mind as an eagle flying over a landscape, and could appear in a moment knowing something that wouldn’t happen for another ten years, in every imaginable permutation of the event. Their only perceivable limitations came through the Old One, who alone knew the source of light and the connections between every living thing. And so, though Ealiron wouldn’t be able to penetrate Wulfgar’s mind where he chose to keep it, the entity already knew everything Wulfgar had told the wizards—and then some—by his having done so.
The sound of a closing door echoed through the empty hall. Lorth moved down the steps, his cloak billowing behind him. He stepped into the center ring, smiling as he approached. “Found it all right, I see. Sorry for the delay.”
“Where’s Master Eaglin?” Wulfgar asked. Lorth had explained how to address a Raven, and though he had quickly added that he didn’t require hearing the title, Wulfgar didn’t feel comfortable taking such liberties with the Aenmos’ son.
“He went to check on Rhinne.”
“I need to see her.”
The wizard put his hand on Wulfgar’s shoulder and sat next to him. “The Aenmos told Eaglin she will likely awake today. They’re going to move her into the Hall of Wren.”
Wulfgar nodded. The wizards had brought him to Wren earlier that morning after he told them about Asa. He had stood beneath the willow trees before the entrance and gazed up at the now familiar standard of Wren, the Healers’ Order, carved high into the stone, his heart snowing grief for his friend. He hadn’t known that Asa hailed from such a place. Trained here. Healed here. Loved and laughed here. It left him feeling like an ignorant fool.
The two men sat together in silence for a short time, until Lorth stirred. “He comes.”
As the men rose to their feet, something shimmered in the clear light spiraling up from the Source. A man stepped forth. He had ivory skin and shining black hair flowing over his shoulders. He wore beautiful clothes in shades of grays and greens. Lorth dropped to one knee, and Wulfgar followed. Eaglin had explained that the entity could appear as any race, creature or landscape and be that very thing to the heart of the observer. Wulfgar saw something true to his own heart, mysterious, perfectly balanced and sublime, his breath giving life to the world. The lies and isolation of Tromblast stood in stark, almost absurd contrast.
“Rise,” the entity said quietly, his voice caressing the air.
Wulfgar rose, his mind scattered. He forgot why he had come until Ealiron said, “Welcome, Child of Ascarion. You wish to speak to me?”
Wulfgar’s heart flipped a beat. Child of Ascarion? What did that mean? He risked a glance at Lorth. The Raven lowered his chin into a reassuring nod.
Wulfgar swallowed his throat dry. “Aenmos.” He knelt and drew his mother’s book from the saddlebag. Ancient and beautiful, it felt strange in his hands, as if it might disappear. He rose and held it out. “Queen Lorelei of Tromb bade me to give this to you. She gave her life to guard it.” As the god took it from him, Wulfgar stepped back, his heart thumping.
As Ealiron settled his attention on the book, he grew still, even pale. After a moment, he looked up at Wulfgar with the force of a winter storm. “Where did this come from?”
“Southern Tromb, in the Widow Tears, near the shore. ‘Twas hidden in a cave.”
“What cave?” the entity pressed, one hand hovering over the book.
“It’s called Lafnarin,” Wulfgar said, just then realizing he had neglected to tell Lorth and Eaglin the name of the place.
Lorth said, “That’s an old word for something, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It means ‘library,’” Ealiron informed him. The entity’s hand came down on the book. He balanced it gracefully on one arm and opened it. Then his expression changed. As he closed the book, his mood closed with it.
Just then, a door slammed above. Eaglin came down the stairs two at a time surrounded by a whirlwind of trouble. He didn’t bother to greet anyone as he jumped into the ring. “She’s gone,” he panted. “Not in her bed, not in the woods, not anywhere.” He glanced at Lorth. “Those clothes you left in that closet with her sword are gone, too.”
Lorth hissed a creepy laugh. “Well.” No one needed to state that Rhinne wouldn’t have known about the closet or anything in it.
Eaglin continued, “I sent watchers into the citadel to find her. She can’t have gone far.”
His immortal father leveled his sea-green gaze on Wulfgar as if he might have something to add. “It would appear your sister has friends in the Otherworld,” he said almost dryly.
Eaglin started to pace, his fingers pressed into his forehead between his eyes.
“You don’t know where she is?” Wulfgar asked the god in unwitting disbelief.
“She is hidden in darkness.” He paused, holding the book close to his chest. “As are her enemies.” He addressed Eaglin and Lorth. “Do not trust to watchers: find her. Rhinne is a Web. She can slip from the grasps of warriors or wizards without help.”
Eaglin stopped pacing. “A Web? When were you going to tell us that?”
Lorth cleared his throat. “Aenmos,” he ventured. “If I may be so bold. What is that?” He gestured to the book.
“War,” the god replied, his voice resonating through the hall. “Find the princess and await my orders.”
He turned and vanished into the light, leaving the three men stunned.
*
The first light of day painted the landscape in dull watercolors. Lorth stepped up to the southern gate of Eyrie with Wulfgar looming in the tunnel behind him. They were dressed in travel gear, fully armed, and each carried a pack. Lorth spoke a word and the gate screeched open. Their boots echoed from the stone as they entered the street beneath a drizzling mist. The closing gate thudded dully in the heavy air.
Well into the night, wizards, spies, and warriors had roamed the mountain in search of Rhinne, to no avail; she had vanished into the dark like a dream. Being a Web, Lorth had borne a greater part of the responsibility for finding her. But it wasn’t that simple. He had learned long ago that perceptions of the Old One’s domain occurred on her terms, not his. As it was, she had already shown him things he didn’t understand.
During what sleep he found the night before, Lorth had dreamed. Visceral and intense, it continued to haunt his nerves. The scent of evil drifted on the damp air, drawing him forth. He caressed the earth on large paws, a steady lope blending him with the shadows. Slowing, breathing, silent as mist, he rose into a powerful leap for the warlock’s throat, knocking him to the ground as he freed his blood from the fragile sinews of his neck. Silence returned, breathless.
Wulfgar strode beside him, saying nothing, as he had all morning. The night before, after the Aenmos commanded them to abandon their search and rest, the men had talked, warmed by a fire that didn’t
reach their hearts. Lorth and Eaglin had explained to Wulfgar the intricacies of the time-space matrix, the nature of cloaks and shields, the ways of gods and the nature of the Old One. And Eaglin told them what he had learned.
The one they call the Riven God, he had said quietly, the firelight flickering in his hair, is named Carmaenos. He is a warlord, his heart is black, and the Destroyer awaits him. He fell in love with a priestess named Eifin, who was Rhinne in the timeline that existed before he changed it. But she belonged to another war god named Ascarion.
Ascarion, the source of Wulfgar’s identity. The prince had asked about it after the Aenmos addressed him as a child of the god, prompting Lorth and Eaglin to describe the nature of entities and their mortal creations. Wulfgar had taken this with a warrior’s silence, leaving Lorth to wonder if the man believed anything they had told him.
Eifin was Ascarion’s lover and the vessel for his mortal child, Eaglin had continued. Carmaenos destroyed Ascarion, took Eifin by force and impregnated her. That book is the tale she wrote before she killed herself. Others in her order continued to write in it after her death, elaborating over time until it became a work of history of the gods of that realm and the wars that resulted from Carmaenos’ violation. Somehow, Eifin placed it into formlessness, giving it the power to bridge dimensions. It should not exist in this timeline and yet it does. She put it into the Old One’s domain.
Wulfgar’s silence had dived after that, his jaw clenched, his eyes smoldering with some knowledge he hadn’t shared. Perhaps he protected his sister’s honor; or fled into the shadows of his ancestry and his mother’s secrets, now lost. Like Rhinne, the Sentinel of the South had a way about him, mysterious, unaware, and yet holding power in some unseen place. It felt like the serpent amulet he wore. Lorth had never seen magic like that. It bore the mark of a loerfalos but he couldn’t discern the connection. Eaglin later told him that Tromb was a pocket of ancient knowledge that had escaped the awareness of the Eye.
The Riven God Page 18