The Silver Sorceress (The Raveling Book 2)

by Alec Hutson

  “And whoever it was, they opened the chest?”

  “They d-did. The warlocks have sensed the Betrayers since th-then, moving in the n-north.”

  “And what would you have me do about it? Why did you recall me from Red Fang Mountain?”

  He reached out a trembling hand and clutched at her wrist. “I n-need you, Lin. I cannot fulfill our family’s sacred duty. Only you can satisfy our ancestors. Our father.”

  “What would you have me do?” she repeated, barely whispering.

  Her brother peeled away the cloth from the object on the table. Tapering steel glimmered in the sunlight as the legendary Sword of Cho was revealed.

  “When I heard he had died in far-off lands, I feared it had been lost.” Her own voice sounded distant to her ears.

  Her brother’s shaking hand closed around the black dragonbone hilt. “No. A p-prince of a city near where our father died sent the sword south when he realized who our father was. With it was a letter describing our father’s death, at the hands of a d-demon that wore the skin of a man like a cloak.”

  A new demon? An ally of the Betrayers?

  He watched her carefully. “The warlocks say it sounds like a demon from Shan’s lost past. But they were all thought to be d-dead thousands of years ago, long before the Raveling.”

  “Has the emperor bestirred himself after hearing of this new threat?”

  Her brother choked back a laugh. “He is consumed with his own p-petty interests, and cares not for what happens outside the palace walls. The w-warlocks suspect the Raveling’s servants have penetrated even the heart of the Jade Court. Before they move openly, they wish for us to try once more to recover the chest or destroy the Betrayers. Our family has always been first among the d-demon-hunters of Shan.”

  “Assassins were waiting for me when I descended from Red Fang Mountain. Did the Raveling send them, or another house?”

  Her brother shrugged, stirring his tea with a long nail. “House Cao, I would suspect. But perhaps another lurks in the shadows. It is a d-dangerous time. We have few friends, and with father gone, our enemies think us weak.”

  “Us? So I am a Cho again? I thought you disapproved of me.”

  Her brother looked out over the lake’s tranquil waters. “I did, first sister. But with father dead only you are left who c-can bring honor to our house. Only you can finish what he started, and what our ancestor began a th-thousand years ago when Cho Xin first bound the Betrayers.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then the Cho are finished, and the ghosts of our ancestors will howl in sorrow and rage.”

  “Do they have any suspicions about who stole away the Betrayers?”

  He told her. When he finished, Cho Lin rose, searching his eyes for any hint of falseness. The Nothing within the Self she had been so tantalizingly close to reaching seemed to be tumbling farther and farther away as she stood motionless within that tiny pavilion in the middle of the lake.

  Her brother smiled to himself as he watched her walk back across the curving bridge, carrying their father’s sword.

  “We rest!”

  With a relieved sigh Keilan slid from Storm, his fingers tangling in her sweat-damp mane. His poor horse must be exhausted, as his own legs felt like jelly, and all he’d done the past day and a half was try to stay in his saddle while Storm struggled to keep up with the rangers’ long-legged mounts. He stroked her lathered flank, feeling the muscles trembling beneath her blotchy coat.

  “Empty your bladders and your food bags,” barked the scarred captain. “We won’t be stopping again until we’ve caught the paladin.”

  Keilan uncorked his water skin and took a long swallow. They had halted outside a squat stone building flying the dragon banner of Dymoria, and a plump soldier was at that moment rushing down the path from the fort to the road, his face red and his arms flailing comically. It looked like he had just donned his mail shirt and surcoat for the first time in several years, as both were several sizes too small, revealing a protruding bulge of pasty white belly. Behind him a pair of soldiers were hurrying to catch up.

  The ranger captain watched the officer approach with barely-concealed disdain.

  “God’s blood… what is going on?” gasped the soldier when he reached the rangers. “Rangers of Dymoria, riding south in strength?” The man’s mouth shaped numbers as he made a quick calculation. “Twenty! And you’ve worked your horses hard getting here. You must have ridden through the night!”

  One of the rangers near Keilan leaned over to his companion and said, “Not as hard as he worked to get off his arse.” A snort of laughter followed, cut short by a sharp glance from the captain.

  “Commander. We are chasing a fugitive who has committed crimes against the crown. We require fresh mounts and supplies at once. Time is precious; the longer we delay, the more chance our quarry has of slipping away.”

  The fort commander’s eyes widened. “A fugitive,” he repeated, squinting down the road, as if he could catch sight of whoever it was they were pursuing.

  With an annoyed sigh, the captain rummaged in his saddle bag and drew forth a roll of parchment bound by a red ribbon.

  “This is a writ from the queen herself. It gives me authority to requisition whatever I need to fulfill my duty. Hurry up and bring me what I asked for, or I’ll be forced to inform Her Majesty of your lack of quick cooperation.”

  The officer’s face blanched, and he seemed to emerge from his fog of bewildered surprise. He turned to the soldiers behind him, both of whom had watched this exchange with wide-eyed amazement. “Ghervis! Empty the stables! Bring every horse down here at once! Farin, tell Cook to gather up all the hardtack and cured meat we have in the larder and put it in some travel bags for these men!” The soldiers hesitated for a moment, and the officer’s face flushed crimson. “Now, or I’ll have both your hides tanned!”

  The leader of the rangers twisted in his saddle, turning to Nel. “We’ll be on our way soon, my lady.”

  The captain had barely blinked when Keilan and Nel caught up with the hunters a few leagues outside of Herath. He had recognized Nel, and knew that she was in the service of one of the most senior magisters. Keilan he’d barely spared a glance, probably assuming he was her servant. Even still, Nel had flashed an amulet with Vhelan’s personal crest to allay any suspicions the captain might have. Keilan suspected that she had ‘borrowed’ this without asking. He doubted very much that anyone else knew they had taken it upon themselves to join the hunting party.

  Nel slid from her saddle and began working at the straps securing her bags. “Captain d’Belin, do you think we’ve gained any ground on the paladin?”

  The Dymorian frowned. “We should have, Lady Nel. At least a little. But from here is when we’ll start closing. His horse should be exhausted, and we’ll be riding fresh mounts—unless, of course, he’s seized a new one along the way.”

  “And that doesn’t sound like something the Pure would do.”

  Captain d’Belin nodded, rubbing at the scar on his cheek. “Aye. But sneaking into a castle to assassinate a queen isn’t what I’d expect from one of those paladins, either. So I’m not assuming anything right now. We ride as hard as we can for Lyr, and if the Pure gets there first then we’ll come up with a new plan. I swore an oath to the queen I’d bring him back to Dymoria, and I will do that.”

  Nel glanced over at Keilan. “I like that kind of confidence.”

  A soldier reappeared from behind the fort leading a line of horses. Keilan laid his hand on Storm’s side protectively. “What will happen to ours?”

  Nel unlashed one of her saddle bags and tossed it on the ground. “Don’t worry, they’ll be waiting for us when we return. The soldiers here will want their own horses as well when we come back. But the captain’s right—there’s no way we’re catching the Pure unless we get on some fresh legs. He’ll ha
ve to rest eventually, or his horse will give out.”

  Keilan stroked Storm’s face affectionately. “I’ll see you soon, girl,” he whispered. His horse whickered and tossed her head, as if trying to argue with him that she still had the strength to continue the chase.

  The old coastal road that bound the kingdom of Dymoria with the Gilded Cities was well-trafficked, and on occasion they passed strings of wagons heading north. Captain d’Belin halted briefly each time to ask if they had seen a man matching the paladin’s description. Most of the merchants only blinked in surprise, taking in the score of grim-faced rangers, and muttered that they had not. But one grizzled old man laid down his reins and pointed at a magnificent white stallion that towered over his other two nags and told them that not long ago he had traded horses with a man who might have been the one they were chasing. The man’s hood had been drawn up, but the old merchant had glimpsed a few stray strands of hair, and yes indeed good sir, may Garazon steal away his soul if he lied, it’d looked to be silver.

  The captain had cursed and urged them to ride faster.

  Evening stole into the sky, and unlike the previous night the moon was now hidden behind a veil of clouds, plunging the road into darkness. The captain called a halt when his horse stumbled and nearly fell, his frustration evident.

  “Enough. We stop until first light. These damned horses will lame themselves if we continue.”

  “We could light torches, sir,” suggested another ranger, but the captain shook his head curtly.

  “If we still had our mounts I would. But these horses haven’t been trained to ride at night.”

  “What if the paladin reaches Lyr before us?”

  Keilan could hear the edge of exhaustion in Nel’s voice. She needed rest, even if she would never admit as much.

  The captain slid from his horse. “I still don’t think he will. You saw the other two nags that old merchant had yoked to his cart. The Pure must have slowed down since he traded away his horse, and he’d be foolish to press on through the night.”

  “I hope you’re right, Captain,” Nel replied, still astride her horse. “The temple of Ama in Lyr is a veritable fortress. And there’s no way the archons will countenance any action within their walls that might risk Menekar’s wrath. He’ll be lost to us if he passes through those gates.”

  “The only way he’s reaching Lyr, Lady Nel, is if our horses break their legs in the dark. If you want to order us on tonight, you know I can’t countermand your wishes. But I hope you’ll listen to reason. A few hours’ rest will do us all some good.” The captain’s last words were almost pleading. They were exhausted, Keilan realized, glancing at the shadows slumped in their saddles. Surely none had slept more than a few hours since the assassins had invaded Saltstone three nights ago, which meant most were going on four days without rest. They were like pieces of frayed rope, close to breaking.

  Nel muttered something under her breath, but still she swung herself down from her saddle. Keilan did the same, the anticipation of throwing himself onto the grass and sleeping for a few hours pushing aside his desire to catch up with the Pure.

  Yet even though he could feel the heaviness pressing behind his eyes he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest well tonight. His thoughts were scattered—so much had happened in the last few days, and he felt that if he could just concentrate a little harder the larger pattern he sensed would finally resolve. A mysterious sect of assassins thought by most to be legend had allied themselves with ancient, immortal sorcerers to try and steal him away from the Scholia. Why? He was special, or so the queen had said, a powerful natural sorcerer. But surely that man in black, Demian, was even stronger. Keilan had seen him before, in the memories of the sorcerer Jan, when the queen had tried to help him recover his lost past. Keilan remembered Demian practicing his swordsinger routines in that great empty mountain hall a thousand years ago, his blade flashing silver in the light of hanging mistglobes. Then Demian had been standing across the table from Jan during the terrible ceremony as the crystal drew the souls from the uncountable dead and thrust them into the gathered sorcerers. What use did such a man—or his accomplice Alyanna, the sorceress who had challenged the queen herself—have for him?

  And then there was the other mystery, the woman he had glimpsed in Jan’s memories. How could she look so much like his mother? Since leaving his village last summer Keilan had visited three great cities and many villages and towns, and never had he seen anyone with the same silver hair or cast of face. The closest might actually be the Pure, but the paladin’s hair was more a pale white, while his mother and the mysterious sorceress shared hair that shimmered like polished silver. The thought that there might be some thread connecting them seemed beyond all reason, and yet Keilan could not shake the sense that if he could find out who this woman was he might discover something about his mother. If she had been there during the ceremony to make them all immortal, could she still be alive? His skin prickled as he considered this, staring into the darkness spread above him.

  He did not remember falling asleep, but suddenly Nel’s boot was in his ribs, prodding him awake. He opened his eyes to find a crescent moon still etched sharp against the gray dawn sky.

  “Up, Keilan. This is the day. Either we’ll catch him before he reaches Lyr, or he’ll make it to the city before us.”

  Keilan slowly climbed to his feet, wincing at the pain in his back. The ground here was stony, yet still his sleep had been deep and dreamless.

  “Already used to the Scholia’s featherbeds? You look like an old man… or a spoiled prince.”

  Keilan quickly rolled his sleeping mat and lashed it across the back of his new stallion. “I’m ready,” he said to Nel, swinging himself into the saddle.

  “Have some breakfast,” Nel said, handing a strip of dried jerky up to him. “We ride hard today.”

  Captain d’Belin set a brutal pace, and before the sun had fully emerged from the horizon they were thundering south, the horses misting the air with their labored panting. The stunted forests hemming the road gradually disappeared, until they followed a narrow path which clung to the side of a cliff, the ocean spreading westward like an endless dark plain. Keilan urged his stallion as close to the edge as he dared and peered down, to where gray seals clustered on rocks draped with seaweed. He was glad Captain d’Belin had decided not to brave this road at night, as the image of a horse and rider tumbling off the cliff in a tangle of flailing limbs refused to leave his thoughts.

  Once, he saw a sail in the distance, a square of white stamped with a lidless black eye. Nel saw it as well and pointed.

  “The black eye of Lyr!” she yelled over the pounding of hooves. “We’re close to the city!”

  The road rose and fell with the ragged coastline. Sometimes they could actually feel the spray rising up from where the waves crashed against the cliff, and then the way would ascend again until the basking seals were just tiny splotches of color speckling the black rocks below. Keilan stroked his horse’s neck, whispering encouragement as they labored to climb these stony paths.

  It was well past midday when they finally caught sight of the paladin. The ranger at the front of their column saw him first, giving a shout of triumph as he crested a hill. Keilan urged his horse forward, jostling with the others as they all strained to glimpse the one they hunted.

  The road descended sharply before them into a low, wide plain that was empty save for an occasional tree or watchtower, and in the far distance soared the gray walls of a great city. Towards the gate a white rider galloped, his armor flashing in the sun. Keilan remembered dimly that Senacus had been wearing leather and mail when the Pure had brought him out of Saltstone; he must have donned his white-scale armor sometime along the way.

  Captain d’Belin cursed. “He’s too far.”

  It was true, and Keilan’s heart fell. The paladin was nearly halfway across the plain and riding hard.
<
br />   Nel snarled something unintelligible and spurred her horse down the slope. The rangers glanced at their captain, and this seemed to wake him from his stupor.

  “With me!” he cried, and his horse surged forward. “H’yah!”

  They charged down the hill, but Keilan knew they would be too late, that the paladin would find sanctuary behind the walls long before they could reach him.

  Then the unthinkable happened. Far ahead of them the paladin’s horse stumbled and fell; the white rider rolled into the grass, but he was up in moments, pulling on his mount’s reins. The horse stayed unmoving, and Nel let out a triumphant cry.

  To Keilan’s surprise, the paladin did not turn and flee. Instead, he reached up and unclasped something he had been wearing around his neck. Keilan gasped as the radiance of Ama suddenly filled his eyes, blazing even in the light of day. The paladin drew his white-metal sword and waited as the Dymorians thundered closer.

  “Behind him!” one of the rangers cried, pointing beyond the paladin.

  A line of riders had appeared, issuing out of Lyr’s gates. They held long spears, and as Keilan neared he could see Lyr’s black eye emblazoned upon their dark blue tabards.

  The Lyrish warriors arrived shortly before the Dymorians, forming a half-circle with the Pure and his fallen horse in the middle. Captain d’Belin held up his hand, and the rangers slowed and halted, mirroring the Lyrish formation. The paladin turned slowly, his calm gaze taking in the warriors surrounding him. He did not raise his sword, but he also did not return it to its sheath.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. The wind strengthened, rippling the paladin’s white cloak and bending the long grass.

  Finally, one of the Lyrish warriors nudged his horse forward. His helm was shaped differently than those of the other soldiers, a plume of purple horsehair falling from its crest, and the dark blue cloak he wore was clasped by a brooch shaped into a lidless eye.