by AC Cobble
The woman frowned then shrugged. “Well, it’s served me well enough. I was told there was nothing more to it, so I hope if there’s anything else surprising about this suit, it doesn’t come out at the wrong time, eh?”
“Aye, bursting into flame at the wrong moment could be rather awkward,” jested Raif, grinning at the woman.
She winked back at him. “I don’t need armor to do that, lad.”
Raif flushed.
Rew cleared his throat. “Your father gifted you this set, yes? Who was the enchanter?”
The nameless woman’s gaze fell down to the gleaming bronze, and she was silent a moment before answering. “I don’t know. My father never told me.”
Quietly, Rew turned from them and walked outside. The woman’s armor and sword were worth a literal fortune. A duke might be able to afford such a thing for an eldest child, and there could be half a dozen merchants in the kingdom with enough wealth, but that was it. Lesser nobles or merchants would be bankrupted attempting to finance that level of enchantment, and that’s assuming one was able to find an enchanter with time to do the work for any price.
Enchanters had no need of patronage like the other spellcasters, and they could be a fickle bunch. Sometimes, they worked for strictly economic purposes, sometimes political. Frequently, it was for protection. It wasn’t unheard of for an enchanter to be assassinated by a rival before they could finish a piece, giving them good reason for secrecy. Rew doubted there were more than a dozen in the kingdom capable of enchanting an entire suit of armor, and most of those worked for the king in Mordenhold, and they exclusively handled projects for Vaisius Morden’s most loyal supporters.
Rew rubbed a hand over his scalp, glad he’d found time to shave before they left, though the cool air on his head made him shiver.
He frowned. Vaisius Morden wouldn’t have found it necessary to direct so much treasure into a small cult of warrior priests, and if that much money had gone missing, it would have been noticed long before the equipment was finished. Except, it seems no one had noticed. At least not before the nameless woman had walked off with the armor. The armor had been fit just for her. Could that have been done without her ever meeting the enchanter? Whatever other properties it had, it was a finely wrought set, and he’d seen its efficacy in Jabaan. She was right. It was far superior than any mundane steel.
Someone with true skill had created the piece just for her. How? Why?
The nameless woman had claimed to have been born and raised in Iyre, never straying far from the city until her father burned down the temple of the Cursed Father. The Cursed Father, she claimed, was Vaisius Morden the First, who Rew knew was the same soul as Vaisius Morden the Eighth.
Burning the king’s temple was more than a simple distraction by a father trying to buy time for his daughter to slip away unnoticed. It was a declaration of war against the king. For someone who understood the king’s power and ability to reach into the underworld, it was a bold act. Beyond bold. It was foolhardy. Clear insanity. Who would challenge the king himself?
That thought elicited a bitter chuckle. Who was as reckless as he was? Rew could only think of one man—Prince Heindaw. The Prince of the Northern Province, the Prince of Iyre, the nameless woman’s home. An unparalleled enchanter.
Prince Heindaw wasn’t bold in the same sense Rew was, but he was arrogant. Only he might believe he could outmaneuver the king. He was the sort of man who thought six or seven moves ahead on a Kings and Queens board. He marshaled his resources and played with precision. He could have set a plan in motion four years prior, but what was the play with the enchanted armor?
Rew didn’t know, but the string of coincidence was too much. He was growing certain that Heindaw had been the one to enchant the woman’s armor, but why? Why would a prince of the realm have spent time crafting armor and a scimitar for an adventurer who’d been roaming Vaeldon directionlessly for years? Even for one with the prodigious skill of the prince, enchantment was a delicate, time-consuming art. With the Investiture looming even half a decade ago, Heindaw would have only invested his time in projects which would bear fruit in the fight against his brothers or against their father.
There were properties to the woman’s armor. Rew was certain of it. Heindaw had imbued something into that gleaming bronze, and he’d done so with a clear purpose that, according to the woman, he hadn’t shared. He’d aimed the nameless woman and her armor at a target, and had let her fly, but where was she directed?
Even before Rew had turned his back on the Investiture and the privilege of the royal family, Heindaw had known it was coming. He’d known he would have an opportunity to ascend to the throne, and he’d been planning. How deep did those plans run? How far had he expected the nameless woman to fly?
Her presence in Spinesend so close to Rew’s own time in the city was no error. Her move to Stanton just ahead of him wasn’t a mistake, either. She’d been placed in his path. Why? Anne was right. The nameless woman could have killed them dozens of times over by now, if that’s what she was sent to do. There was something else…
Shaking his head, Rew considered her arrival in Jabaan after they’d been taken prisoner. That couldn’t be a coincidence either, and as he mulled it over, he realized her story did not make sense. She couldn’t have known where they’d portaled to unless someone told her. That someone had sent her to help, not to hurt. Had she come to assist them killing Calb? If that was all, why hadn’t she left, or slain them in their sleep afterward as Anne had mentioned?
The nameless woman acted as if she was only with them to save her father, but there was more to it. Rew felt in his bones there was more to it. Her patron had further plans. What Rew couldn’t decide was whether she knew those plans, or if she was as ignorant about it as the rest of them.
Hours later, Rew was on the rooftop deck of the tavern which abutted the inn. It was his favorite place in the village, a quiet spot to drink and look over the still fishing fleet tied to the shore and the ever-changing lake beyond. With the wind rippling the surface of the lake, stirring the reflected light, the water showed him a different face each time he looked. It was both change and the illusion of change. The surface shifted, always moving, but beneath it was always the same. The water had lapped against this shore for centuries or perhaps millennia. It was permanence, but its color was a mirage, just a reflection of what shone upon it. The water had no color. It looked different, but it was always the same.
Was he like that? Changing but always the same?
He was drunk. He knew that much.
One last day in—well, not civilization, the village of Faevril didn’t quite live up to that grand title, but something like civilization. One last day to sit in the quiet storm of his own thoughts instead of the storm of the Investiture. He worried it would be his last chance for a while to dip into a full ale barrel and savor a tankard in quiet. He was taking advantage.
The sun was getting close to the horizon, and he knew soon the others would come looking for him. They would dine together at a proper table with someone else doing the cooking, though the tavern’s cook was a far cry short of Anne’s skill in the kitchen. Still, eating under shelter at a table would be a ritual before they left. Ancient magic suffused Vaeldon—the pull of the Investiture, grand sacrifices, and small motions like breaking bread before a journey.
Rew turned up his tankard, letting the frothy ale spill down his throat. Did she know? Did the nameless woman know what task Heindaw intended for her? Was she a blind pawn or a knowing agent? Did it matter?
“Rew,” called a soft voice.
He turned and blinked.
Cinda, garbed in the crimson robes of a necromancer, stood in the doorway to the tavern. In the shadow the building cast, her eyes glowed crisply green. Her hair shone, freshly washed, and her skin was pale. Her color had been like that following Jabaan. In the week since, it hadn’t regained the youthful glow she’d once had. She was beautiful in the moonlight, frightening, too. No longer
the child he’d met in the jail cell in Eastwatch. She was a woman now, and she knew where she was going. She smiled at him, and he suspected she knew exactly what he was thinking. She picked up her robes and twitched them in mockery of the flighty young noblewoman she’d once been.
“What do you think? Does it suit me?”
“Everyone who sees you wearing those robes will know exactly who you are, lass.”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” she agreed.
“Cinda… the king—“
“Do you think there’s any chance the king doesn’t know exactly who I am already? We raided his crypt for corpses and power, Ranger. Whatever shroud Alsayer threw over his eyes to fool him into thinking Kallie was the necromancer has been ripped away. He knows exactly who I am and what I’m capable of. Dressing me like a fishmonger’s daughter won’t fool the king, so I’ll not hide who I am from anyone.”
“The king knows who you are but not where you are,” reminded Rew. “Why make it easy for him?”
“Jabaan taught me much, Ranger. It taught me what I’m capable of and what your father is capable of. It taught me that the time for hiding is over. It’s time to stand up to him, so I will.”
“I’m not suggesting we turn from this fight, just that we select our ground and don’t shout to anyone and everyone who sees us who we are and what we’re doing. You have no idea what the king is capable—“
“What I am capable of!” interjected Cinda. “I bound those souls to those bodies, Ranger. I heard their pleas. I felt them. I felt those they killed as well, and I raised them too. I know what the king is capable of because I am capable of it as well. I know better than anyone how horrific that is, but I won’t hide from it. You’ve been hiding for ten years, and where has that gotten you?”
“It’s kept me alive,” suggested Rew.
“For now,” retorted Cinda. “You’re alive, but you have not won. You have not overthrown the king. You have not—“
Rew stood, jabbing a finger at the girl. “We beat Calb!”
“Not through careful planning and stealth,” argued Cinda. “We beat Calb because we accepted who we are. What happened in Jabaan, Ranger, is who I am. Our only success so far has been because I embraced it.”
“Aye, and if it gets you killed?”
“Won’t it?”
Rew blinked back at the girl.
She gave him a sorrowful smile. “Ranger, we know how this story ends, don’t we? You won’t say it to me, but I have guessed. How does an untrained girl stop the king? This isn’t a story about me living happily ever after.”
“You won’t stop him if you make it easy for him,” grumbled Rew.
“We are in this fight, and there’s only one way we’re going to win it. I have to embrace who I am and what I have to do. We have to fight to win. There’s no other way.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with your brother,” complained Rew.
“Maybe my brother has known something that I’ve just realized,” countered Cinda. “When the stakes are high enough, you cannot allow yourself to be held back by fear. You have to plunge in, to fight to win. There’s a reason berserkers are feared in battle. For us, it’s the only way.”
Rew rubbed his face with both hands, unsure of what to say to the girl.
“Come on, Ranger. Supper is ready, and the others are waiting. One last meal before we go back into the storm.”
Chapter Eight
The next morning, they set out from the village, leaving the lake, the gently rocking boats tied to the shore, and the dilapidated wooden structures behind. They followed a dirt tract that led north, cutting across sloping hills for half a league and then entering a forest of thin-trunked pines. The wood was thick with lush bushes and tangled branches. It would have been terrible travel off the path, but there was a path, and while there must be times it became overgrown and difficult, Jabaan’s refugees over the last week had beaten the trail through the woods. The party found it easy walking.
Rew waited until they were in the cover of the trees to broach the subject of where they were going. No one had asked. He imagined because they all thought they would take the shortest path possible to the northern capital of Iyre so they could confront Prince Heindaw just as they had Calb. But the difference between the princes was that they would have no opportunity for surprise with Heindaw. The prince already knew of Cinda and what she was capable of, and now that Rew had openly confronted Calb, Heindaw would be watching for the ranger’s visit. Heindaw was a cunning strategist, so he would be prepared.
They had to be prepared as well. They had to find a way to unlock Cinda’s talent. There was a place on the western fringe of the kingdom which Rew thought they could find help. So once within the cover of the trees, he raised his voice and declared, “I think we should go to the Arcanum.”
“Tell me that’s where they train arcanists,” interjected Zaine, grinning at him in the dappled light of the wood.
Rew snorted. “Yes, that’s where they train arcanists. There and Mordenhold. As you can imagine, there’s a bit more freedom outside of Vaeldon’s capital. The arcanists at the Arcanum have a reputation for… ah, creative thought. If someone is studying necromancy and is open to helping us, that’s where we’ll find them.”
“They’re all lunatics,” muttered Anne.
“You know the place?” the nameless woman asked the empath, sounding surprised.
“I do. There’s a women’s colony nearby which helps support the Arcanum. I… lived there, for a time. My mother brought me as a child and raised me there. Much of my early work, how I learned empathy, is thanks to the women’s colony and, while I hate to admit it, the Arcanum.”
“Interesting,” remarked the nameless woman.
“Why did you leave?” wondered Raif.
Anne offered a wan smile. “I left because of Rew. I met him there, and we ran off together. Not like that, Zaine. We spent the next few years wandering Vaeldon before we found homes in Eastwatch. You know the rest.”
“Not like that, huh? What were you doing in a women’s colony, then?” Zaine asked Rew innocently. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes belied her intent, though.
“Ranger.” The nameless woman laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought!”
Rew rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth and didn’t respond. It hadn’t been like that. It hadn’t been like that at all, but he didn’t want to tell them the truth, so he let them think what they wanted to think. Anne, perhaps recalling the bloody night they’d first locked gazes, remained silent as well.
For the first time in what seemed months, Rew felt at ease. In the back of his mind, he knew they were marching toward danger, and he knew that chances were they wouldn’t be successful, but there, at that moment, he felt like he was home.
He was stalking through the forest, Zaine’s bow in his grip, his eyes restlessly scanning the undulating grass in a clearing in front of him. It was half a league from their campsite, the farthest away from the others he’d been willing to go, even though the morning and the forest seemed peaceful enough.
A brace of fat rabbits hung from his side, enough to supplement their breakfast, but he was enjoying himself so he kept going. It’d been too long since he’d been alone in the forest, and he wasn’t yet ready to break that spell.
The branches in the wood were bare in the tail of winter, but the grass in the clearing had come back and grown thick. Rew smiled, listening to the wind rustle the emerald blades. He was still as the birds called around him, and then, a deer stepped cautiously from the trees opposite of him, walked forward, and ducked its head, drinking from a tiny band of water hidden in the grass.
Rew glanced down at the arrow nocked on Zaine’s bow. It was a straight, ash shaft topped by a sharp steel arrowhead. It was a surprisingly well-fashioned arrow, though he supposed Faevril had its share of hunters as well as fishermen.
Looking at the deer across the clearing, Rew couldn’t have asked for a better shot,
and for a moment, he pulled back the arrow, feeling the tension bend the bow. He sighted on the deer and breathed slowly. Then, he released the tension while keeping his grip on the arrow and lowered the bow. He watched for several more minutes until the deer drank its fill and meandered back amongst the trees.
Rew withdrew into the forest as well, moving silently, and crept back toward their camp. He smelled the woodsmoke from a quarter league away, and as he got closer, he detected the low murmur of conversation. If someone was out there looking for them, the party wouldn’t be difficult to find. Then, Rew smelled freshly brewed coffee, and any thoughts about going without fires fled. Sometimes, the risk was worth it.
“Any luck?” Anne asked him as he appeared in their camp, startling Raif, who was supposed to be on watch.
Rew unhooked the brace of rabbits and laid them beside the fire. “Took a couple of them early, but it’s quiet out there. Too close to civilization.”
Anne poured a mug of coffee and nodded toward the fire. “I found enough quail eggs for us to share, though I couldn’t get my hands on any of the birds. The rabbits are nice. It will be good to have something other than smoked fish to pair with the eggs. We’ve plenty of salt, and there’s a patch of mushrooms a hundred paces east, if you want to go collect them for me. I can fry the mushrooms in the rabbit’s fat. They ought to crisp up nicely.”
Nodding, Rew headed back into the forest, sipping his coffee and looking for Anne’s mushrooms. They had far to go and much to do, but for the moment, he was at peace.
The Arcanum and the women’s colony that supported it were situated north of Jabaan and along the southern boundary of a vast plain. The settlements were nestled along a string of hills. The women’s colony clung to the side, and the spires of the Arcanum stabbed skyward from the top of the hills as if they wanted to become mountains. The arcanists loved their towers, maybe because they granted a better view of the surrounding area, but Rew thought more likely it was because they caught better wind to blow away the noxious fumes that sometimes resulted from both failed experiments and successful ones.