by Cat Bruno
Ravenfold had been built at the base of a large peak, and, around it, the hills rolled. It was colder here than in the King’s City, and the elevation made his breath come in rapid gasps as he tied the fraying cloak around his shoulders.
“I must not appear like I’m escaping,” he whispered.
It took him several moments to figure out which direction was east, for the stars had gone missing. Instead of walking the cleared path, he clung to the side, brushing up against bushes and trampling ferns. It was hours until dawn, he knew, but the Queen’s father would surely have guards stationed now that his daughter and the princes had come. On he walked, pretending to search among the low-lying plants.
When he was, by his own guess, halfway to Vesta, Pietro began to run, suddenly anxious to be free of Ravenfold. He could not recall a time when he had been alone, except in slumber, and the thought quickened his pace. Holding tightly to his bag, he raced, even when his chest burned and his breathing came in spurts.
Not until the scent of seawater filled his nose did Pietro cease running. Ahead, the outlines of sailed ships could just be seen. It was not until he was but steps from the piers that Pietro spotted the yellow-stained banner bearing the Covian sun. It was the last in line and unremarkable in appearance, yet he ran to it as if it was made of gold. Just before he could reach for the hanging ladder, a voice called out to him. One that he now recognized.
“What are you doing here, Pietro?”
Unable to control the shaking in his voice, he asked, “Did you follow me?”
She did not attempt to lie as she told him that she had trailed him from Ravenfold. It was not yet dawn, and the skies were still darkened with storm, although no rain had fallen. He shivered to look at her, and, for a moment, she reminded him of another woman, many moon years ago while he was at the Academy. Tanic looked nothing like Bronwen, yet her gaze unsettled him the same, as if she would sense any untruths.
“You should not be here,” he warned, as the skies began to rumble.
In response, she warned, “You should not be here! There are Tribesman about, and, soon, I will be able to find which ship holds them.”
Pietro should not have been surprised, yet he could not keep the worry from his face. Tanic was a Lightkeeper and had been trained since childhood as a weapon against the Tribe. For her, they were all enemy, even the half-breed who had come to rescue him.
“Tanic,” he groaned, “There is much that you do not understand. Be gone from here and forget that you came.”
Shaking her head, she stepped closer, until they both stood at the edge of the swaying dock. He could feel her warm breath on his cheeks as she spoke.
“I will not leave while you are in danger, Pietro. No Tribesman should be so far from the Tribelands. And none should be in Rexterra. Do you not know what this means?”
Her words were more whisper than warning, and Tanic reached for him, drawing him near, as if to protect him. Pietro shook free of her as he wondered how she had followed him, unnoticed.
“What trick is it that you are here, Tanic? And that not once did I sense you near.”
“I am a Lightkeeper,” she offered as a reminder. “And a fine one at that. I have long been trained to keep myself guarded. Now come with me.”
Again she pulled at him, and, when he would not move, she stated, “If we stay any longer, the Tribesman will know that I am here. If you will not leave, then stand back and let me fight.”
“You seek to kill him?” Pietro gasped in disbelief.
“No!” he cried. “You must not attack.”
As Tanic began to move her arms about, swirling them in a rhythm that he could feel but not hear, Pietro swatted at her arms. Grabbing her in a tight embrace, he pleaded with her to stop. “Now is not the time to fight. You are but one Lightkeeper, and I have vows that I cannot break. Tanic, please, be gone from here.”
He had not lied, for he would not intervene if Tanic chose to fight, despite having never met the Tribesman. Pietro understood little about the conflict between Tribe and Lightkeeper, yet he feared that the woman would not survive an assault. She had become the nearest friend to him in moon years, but he must board the ship. Already a day late, he knew not how much longer Blaidd would wait.
“Pietro, why would you defend the Tribe?” she breathed warmly in his ear.
“They are not all killers, Tanic,” he whispered thickly.
“Were you not there the day the old King Herrin was killed?” she responded with an increasing fury. “Was his throat not ripped open as if he had been eaten by a feral dog? They are killers, Pietro, and you are a healer! Why would you side with them?”
Light rain began to fall, misting his cheeks and dampening Tanic’s hair, causing it to settle across her face. Her eyes flared with concern as he looked upon her. Only then did he loosen his hold.
Half-heartedly, he explained, “I seek freedom, Tanic. And to fix a wrong I committed moon years ago. There is no other way, but to go with the Tribesman.”
Stepping back, he said, “He has come for me.”
“They will kill you!” she wailed, throwing herself toward him.
With his hands serving as shield, Pietro cried, “What other choice is before me? To be nothing more than the Queen’s healer, with no life of my own?”
“If it is freedom that you seek, then come with me. Return to Ravenfold. And when we make our way back to the King’s City, I will ensure your safety with the Lightkeepers. Not even the King could deny you if my brother Lerric says he has need of your skills.”
“He will never let me leave the Queen,” the healer protested.
Reaching for his face, her damp hands sliding against his cheeks, Tanic said, “Then he will never know where you have gone. The Lightkeepers are mage-trained, yet we are not immortal and have need for a healer. More now than ever. Think on it, Pietro. With us, you will have both safety and freedom. With the Tribe, you risk having neither.”
She paused, letting him consider what she promised. Kennet waited for him in Litusia. Assana and her children needed him in Ravenfold. Now, Tanic offered a new opportunity in the King’s City.
“I know not what to do,” he sighed, for his tongue had loosened under her touch.
When he next glanced up, Tanic’s round eyes, soft and innocent, watched him. For a moment, neither moved.
Her lips tasted of rain when she kissed him. Had he been another man, perhaps he would have shaken her free.
Had he been another man, he would have boarded the ship.
“We will stay at Ravenfold for a few moons, and then return to the King’s City,” she explained as her lips hovered above his own.
Pietro’s life pulse pounded against his tunic, although the sound was dulled by the heavy cloak and masked by the growing thunder. Crimson mixed with gray until all he looked at seemed washed with flames. It had been too long since his fires had been stoked, and the fury of his desire threatened to overtake him. Breathing hard, he stumbled toward Tanic.
For a moment, he thought of running, from Tribe and Lightkeeper both. But, again, she was on him, holding him tight against her, like a temptress that had risen from the sea.
Choking on his words, he moaned, “I cannot control the burning, Tanic. You are not safe with me.”
Her next words sounded like song, chiming and sweet, and tasted like wine, tart and exciting.
“You need not control it, Pietro. I know who you are. Come with me; it is not yet morning.”
Her fingers, supple and slick, laced with his own as she led him from the piers. Together, they walked back the way he had come. With each step, Pietro’s vision cleared, although he did not desire Tanic any less.
Once back at Ravenfold, she saw him to his room, and, despite a few questioning looks, none objected. He thought she would leave him then, for the sun had just started its ascent. However, she closed the door behind them, wordlessly, and stepped inside.
Against the silence, she walked toward him, pulling t
he robe free as she crossed. For a moment, he thought of Caryss, her face torn open by the Crow’s talons. But as Tanic began to remove his rain-soaked cloak, the memory of the healer faded. Pietro could think of nothing but the woman who now stood before him.
*****
“Fly swiftly, my darling,” she hummed, releasing the ivory-coated pigeon.
Attached to the bird’s green-feathered neck was a hastily worded message to her brother informing him of the presence of Tribesmen at the Vesta port. She hoped that his men would be able to reach the docks by the morrow, for Tanic did not know how long the man would wait for Pietro.
The healer had told her much of his plans, naming the young Tribesman who had come for him. Even a half-breed was dangerous, she knew, although Tanic had decided against striking him on her own. Her magics were strong, deceptively so, for that is how she most liked it. Few considered her a threat, and most of the other Lightkeepers assumed she had been given the title only because of her brother. For moon years, she attempted to prove herself to her peers. Yet, now, she cared little. Her way was her own, and none could have persuaded the healer as she had done.
Even Lerric did not know all of what she could achieve and how quickly she could call for shield or light. She had allowed the boy to live, to prove to Pietro that she was a true friend. It had worked better than she had hoped, and, soon, she would know as much as he about his past with the Elemental and the Tribe. It had taken neither burning light nor ward for Pietro to confess. Only a simple spell, taught to her when she was little more than a child, was needed.
“Men are so foolish,” she mused, staring across the back courtyard of Ravenfold as the pigeon soared further away.
Pietro had promised her that he would stay at Ravenfold and tell her if the Tribesman sent word. She also begged him to stay far from the port, convincing him that she made the request for his own well-being. In truth, she did not want him to warn the Tribesman that the Lightkeepers knew of his location. Despite their new closeness, Tanic believed that the healer had not confessed everything, for he would still not name who had introduced him to the half-breed. In time, she thought, pushing the window closed.
For now, she waited on a message from Lerric and instructions on what she should do next. Tanic had not admitted what it had taken to gain the healer’s trust, but her actions violated no Lightkeeper law. No harm had come from her night with the healer, and, in truth, she had enjoyed it. Until he had confided all to her, Tanic would continue doting on him. And when she finished with him, it would be time to return to the King’s City and move on to the Elemental. She might return within a moon, she figured.
As she walked by a long-mirrored window, Tanic gazed at her reflection. Her cheeks were still flushed and her lips full from hours before, and she had not tied her hair back so her chestnut waves framed a rosy face. When Lerric had first told her of what she must do, and whom she must befriend, she had worried. Yet, now, staring at her beaming reflection, Tanic half-smiled.
With a light step, she strolled down the hallway, humming quietly, as she searched for the Queen.
*****
The smell of fried morning ham woke him, and Jarek rolled from the thin sleeping mat. As he lifted his head, he struggled to open his eyes. Through a small porthole, he noticed that the sun was angling high, making it nearly midday.
“Hells,” he grumbled, squinting his eyes closed and rubbing at his aching head.
His absence from morning drills would be noticed, yet he could not yet rise. On his knees, he appeared to be in supplication, with his head hanging low and nearly touching the wide-planked floor. If he moved, Jarek thought he might vomit, so he crawled slowly toward the ladder. Biting at his lip, he pulled himself up, and then collapsed onto the prow.
Azzaro found him lying there and nudged at him with the tip of a scuffed leather boot as he barked, “Get some food into you, boy, and you’ll recover faster.”
“In a bit. It took some effort to even get myself here,” Jarek uttered as he curled himself against the sun-warmed planks.
The chortling laughter of Azzaro was no surprise, yet his next words only made Jarek’s head ache more.
“We must discuss our plans. I do not want to stay in the King’s City past the morrow.”
Furrowing his brow and rocking his head, Jarek attempted to recall the previous night’s discussion. There was much that he could not remember, for he had never drunk so much whiskey. He knew that he had begged Azzaro to take him to Lysandia, but the trip would be a foolish one, the thought no more than a drunken musing.
“I cannot go,” Jarek mumbled, sounding as if he had swallowed the sea.
The captain stepped back to the sizzling ham, but called, “So you mean to continue to be Delwin’s plaything? He means to head north within the moon. And no doubt he will take you with him. Once there, he will command you to call the storms.”
Jarek must have grimaced, for Azzaro continued, “You think that I did not know who you were? I have seen more of this world than most, and I know who calls Lysandia home. Think, boy! Delwin will use you as he uses his army, as nothing more than a weapon against Eirrannia. You do not seem the type who would welcome the slaughter of innocents.”
His words were meant to sting, and they did. Jarek had long known the day would come when the King would command him to strike. Over the moon years, Delwin had invited Jarek on trips to central Cordisia, home to few, where the King would watch as the Elemental moved the skies. Delwin had called it practice, and even had his men set up hay-filled targets that Jarek would have to strike.
He rarely missed.
“If we are to leave, then it must be soon. Already I have been gone too long. I am not known to have friends, Azzaro, and my absence will be questioned,” Jarek admitted, although his words did not sound convincing even to himself.
It was clear that Azzaro wanted them both to depart in haste, so he acted as if he had not heard the worry in Jarek’s response. Instead, he prattled on as he cooked, telling Jarek all that would need to be done before the morrow. Slowly, Jarek had sat up and leaned against the railing, pulling the musty blanket over his head and wrapping himself in it. In truth, he feared where to go next, for he knew of no kin in Lysandia. If Syrsha was not so far to the east, he might have joined her.
Now, he could only trust a man whom he had just met.
“Would my father think me a fool for leaving the King’s City with you, Captain Azzaro?”
“Aye,” the captain laughed as he brought Jarek a plate of ham and eggs. “He had grown sour before his death and trusted few. There was word that even his wife had plans to leave the King’s City.”
“Yet you advise me to leave here nonetheless,” Jarek sighed, reaching stiff fingers toward the food.
Crouching beside him, Azzaro stated, “The risk is more mine than yours. I am a fine seaman, but not fine enough to survive any storm that you would call, Jarek. Perhaps you should think on this for the day. You are safe here as long as you do not make your identity known. I will go to the square and get the supplies I need while you decide.”
Defeated and sullen, Azzaro left moments later. Jarek slowly ate, and, soon, his head ached less. Still leaning against the ship’s prowl, he contemplated his choices and was tempted to contact Syrsha for advice. Even without time-walking, he knew what she would say.
His escape had been moon years coming, although he always developed an excuse not to go. The life of a soldier was not a bad one, or at least it had not been during his time in the King’s City. For fifteen moon years, war had been delayed, and he learned much of Rexterra and the politics of ruling. But, in truth, Jarek had nowhere to go. Even Cossima was never a safe choice, for Syrsha was a child still and he fretted risking her safety. Jarek had been without kin and without friend for so long that the King’s City had become home. His infrequent visits to his mother had been his only peace, yet he could not return to life as a farmboy.
Until Azzaro had entered his life, cla
iming to know what his father desired.
With fair weather, Lysandia was a half-moon’s journey from Rexterra, and no more than three-quarter of a moon. Jarek knew not what to expect of the land, for even his mother was only half Lysandian and had never traveled outside of Cordisia. He could spend time in the Southern Cove Islands, inspecting what was instructed by Asha, although he knew her by name only. He dared not visit the Academy again, for that would bring attention on Kennet and Izaak both.
There was one more option that remained open to him, yet Jarek did not believe that Azzaro would see him there. The captain had admitted that his father had mentioned Caryss and retold the story of how she had taken King Herrin. That Azzaro knew something that so few did had helped make his claims seem true. Each time his father spoke of the healer, it was with sorrow, Azzaro had shared over fire-whiskey. Yet, even then, Crispin would not have approved of Jarek’s return to the one place where he had felt himself safe.
The Tribelands.
He had been there less than a half-moon year, yet he sparred daily with Otieno, learned of Cordisia from Aldric, and of the history between Elemental and Tribe from Conri and Conall. For those moons, Jarek had been content. And then Caryss had been killed.
“Hells,” he muttered, rising.
Deciding to hurry back to the palace to gather his things, Jarek climbed from the ship, unsteady still. With the blanket tucked around him as if it was a cape, he strode quickly, only lowering the blanket once he was far from the piers. It was dank and torn, so he discarded it as he walked on, nearing the eastern wing at the palace. Without his uniform to identity himself, Jarek had to answer queries from two guardsmen who stood outside an iron gate. He expected the guards and knew what to answer and was in the palace not long after.
His room was in the central wing, for Delwin no longer feared he would escape. As he neared a large dining hall, three men in King’s Guard colors, gold and red, joined him.