Ashes

by C B Samet

  Shuddering, I tried to shake the image of him half-naked and lusting for me out of my head. I’d need to be guarded in our interactions from now on.

  I made my peeks into each room briefer and briefer. I didn’t find Joshua tonight so I suspected he wasn’t sleeping at this moment.

  I found Orrick, laying in his bed in his forest home and thrashing. He appeared to be suffering from a nightmare. Small, vicious brownies swarmed over his body, as he twisted and writhed beneath them.

  “Orrick?”

  He sat up, the brownies tumbling off of him and vanishing into the floor. “Abigail?”

  I lifted my palm, the moon tattoo shimmering in the dim light of the forest around us. “Moon magic?”

  He grinned with boyish giddiness. “It worked! Yes, you are now a dreamwalker.”

  I pursed my lips. “Some people’s dreams make me want to gouge my eyes out.”

  He chuckled.

  “Any other surprises I need to know about?”

  He shrugged. “Spontaneous can be fun.”

  “And disturbing.” I rubbed my eyes.

  “I’m experimenting with magic I know scant about, so I’m ill-equipped to fully inform you as to its benefits, dangers—and potential.”

  I blinked at him, “One might suggest you shouldn’t meddle in magic you don’t fully understand.”

  “Bah.” He waved a hand at me. “Then there’d be no meddling at all, and the supernatural would go untapped.”

  “I’m an experiment for you?”

  “In a good way—not the way your tone suggests.”

  I eyed him skeptically. “I can jump into anyone’s dream?”

  “Anyone you’ve met.”

  I thought about my children. I missed them, but wondered if entering their dreams would be something that would bring them joy or turmoil.

  “Are you doing okay?” I asked the meddling magician, thinking of his nightmare swarm of brownies.

  Orrick’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “You have the fate of the world weighing you down and you stop to ask an old man how he is? You’ve seen the worst of my worries—harmless, well-intentioned brownies.”

  He clasped his hands together. “Tell me, young champion, are you close to the cure?”

  I looked down at the dirt floor and kicked my toe against a root. “Hardly. There aren’t an abundance of survivors on Kovia, and the remaining ones we’ve encountered are fanatics.”

  As he placed gentle hands on my shoulders, Orrick spoke, “Keep to the quest. I believe in you.”

  I swallowed, feeling his pale, blue eyes bore into me.

  With small retreating steps, I exited his dream. “I want to check on Joshua.”

  When I entered the corridor again, soft sobs caught my attention. Hesitantly, I drew back another curtain. Goran Foal, warrior turned Kovian diplomat, knelt beside a small bed. A stuffed bear was its only occupant.

  Merciful Monks.

  Had he lost a child?

  I started to turn to leave him to his grieving when his gaze caught mine. “Lady Cross.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  He stood and walked toward me, wiping at his eyes. “Don’t go.” He reached for me, clasping my arm.

  As his grip closed gently over my skin, his eyes widened. “Are you truly here?”

  “I am. I’m a dreamwalker.”

  —Or so I just learned.

  Glancing down at the bed, I felt my heart wrench. “I’m so sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Gwen is still alive. I was having a terrible nightmare.” He squeezed my arm, as if assuring himself I was still here. “You need to be warned about a sickness spreading across Kovia.”

  I nodded. “I know. The Omega plague has already reached Crithos. All the way to Marrington.”

  He released me as his shoulders sagged. “Then, there is no hope. My family and I isolated ourselves outside Kovo, but we are ill. My wife is the most dire. We’ll die together, as a family. Is your family ill?”

  “My husband is ill, my children are safe.”

  “That is one blessing. Your health?”

  I bit my lip, struggling with honesty and the risk of giving him false hope. “I’m in Kovia, between Billington and the Waterlands. A group of us are traveling to the salt mines in search of components for a magical cure.”

  “Magical cure?”

  “This plague struck your continent hundreds of years ago. It was stopped with magic. We’re hoping to replicate that.”

  With a contemplative gaze, Goran stared down at the empty bed in the room. He squeezed the stuffed animal in his hands. “I’m a practical man, but if the champion has magical powers to bring hope through my dreams, then I’ll place that hope in a miracle. I will do anything for the life of my children and wife.”

  I took a step back and narrowed my eyes at him. “I require nothing from you. I’m not a profiteer who uses my skills for a price. I’ll do the best I can—that’s the only promise I make. I can’t even promise this plan will work.”

  He lowered his hand. “I didn’t intend to insult you.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “The train is the fastest way to the salt mines.”

  “The train is shut down. We’re on horseback. We’re cutting through the Waterlands next.”

  His face paled. “Be careful. Keep your wits about you.”

  “So, the rumors that they show the future are true?”

  “They aren’t rumors. The Waterlands show the future. The truth. I had a vision that I would see a woman with bleeding eyes and evacuate my family from Kovo ten years before it happened. The Waterlands are the reason we still live. The danger lies in segments of the future being subject to misinterpretation. Take the segments for the little insight they offer, but don’t dwell on them.”

  His downtrodden spirits clutched at my heart. This once formidable warrior turned self-made diplomat was reduced to waiting for a magical cure, and hoping his family survived long enough to be healed by it.

  I sat in a small wooden chair in the dream version of his child’s bedroom. Although I couldn’t promise I could save the lives of his family, I would at least ease his pain and let him share some stories about them. “Tell me more about your family, Goran.”

  16

  The next morning I woke early and left the tent with my satchel in hand.

  I pulled out Isabel’s memory puzzle. Although it didn’t belong to me, I felt a connection to her through her memories—as though they were in part meant for me. Isabel had been a mother and a wife, with both magic and obligations, and it made us seem so similar. If I was to learn anything from her in the brief time I had access to her memories, I needed to capitalize on it now.

  I twisted the device.

  I suddenly found myself in her memories.

  Isabel sat in a chair, as an attendant wove ribbons through her satin brown hair and another selected the jewels she’d wear.

  Her face remained impassive, but with an element of sorrow at the corners of her eyes and mouth. I heard her voice fill the room. “Dinner is with the Emperor of Kovia tonight. How do I face a man I know will be assassinated by the king of Bellos when he returns home? Sometimes, the expansion of my magic to seeing the future is more of a curse than a gift. I probed my options. If I warn the Emperor, and he takes his family into exile, I’ve seen his fate. He’ll be tortured, and his family suffers greatly before their own deaths. If I offer refuge at our castle, he declines and doesn’t become an ally owing to his own skepticism and distrust of my abilities. I have no course of action to save him. If I don’t tell him, then at least his death will be swift and merciful.”

  Isabel blinked slowly, and her gaze dropped to her ring finger. “I don’t think I’m the wife King Dallik wants me to be. I’m not a docile creature at his beck and call. Not an obedient dog at his heels. I have my own political agenda—one of peace. I sense his frustration at my impudence and my assertions that a road t
o peace exists. I want to explore magical opportunities while my husband insists on meeting might with might. Since his and his father’s methodology hasn’t succeeded in ending the war that has raged for nine decades, what delusion would lead him to believe fighting was still a logical solution?”

  When I finished the memory, I returned to our campsite.

  It was early morning, and I rekindled the fire and situated a pot of water over it. One by one, everyone woke up. We quietly ate oatmeal, watching the fire. I sipped warm orange spice tea, trying to rid my bones of the cool morning air. Although Coco and I had shared a tent, we hadn’t shared much warmth.

  I now knew why we’d never become friends. She was jealous of the relationship Baird and I shared. He and I were good friends—the type of friend in whom I’d trust my life and the lives of my children. Our friendship was born of kinship, made malleable in the volcanic lava of Mulan, and then shaped by the hammers of battle. It was as unbreakable as a Ballik blade and as irreplaceable as a Che stone, but it was in no way, shape, or form romantic.

  Boyo chucked the remainder of his unconsumed tea on the dying embers and set his cup on the ground. As he stretched, he said, “If we ride steady, we can be near the Waterlands by early afternoon. From there, I’ll find my own transportation south to Sylvia.”

  He turned and walked toward Phobus. He lifted the saddle off a log and laid it across Phobus’ back. My horse gave me a half-confused, half-pleading look.

  Amused, I stood to help. “Have you never saddled a horse?”

  Phobus sidestepped, tilted his back, and let the saddle slide off him and land with a thud on the ground.

  I plucked the saddle blanket from inside my tent, where I’d stored it overnight to keep it dry from the morning dew.

  Boyo gave an embarrassed smile and took a step back from the horse. “I usually take the carriage, or the stable boys prepare the saddle. I’ll watch and learn.”

  I smoothed the hair on Phobus’ back before applying the blanket. After picking up the leather saddle, I knocked the dirt off it and laid it on top of the blanket. I flipped the girth belt over and retrieved it under Phobus. Securing the belt, I looped the leather strap to the saddle.

  As I worked, I explained, “You have to make it snug, but the horse knows what you’re up to, so he’ll puff his chest out. Wait a minute and cinch it a bit tighter when he’s not expecting it.” I patted Phobus’ belly.

  He snorted.

  Boyo nodded and proceeded to study the belt and loops involved.

  With the horse saddled, Hans and I cleaned dishes while Baird and Coco disassembled the tents. Soon, we were mounted, and we trekked east once again. Carrot opted to fly, while Raven rode Fury alongside us.

  Without stopping for lunch, we rode until the horses needed a break. Then we walked further, eating dried berries and nuts while the horses grazed from the side of the road. Even resting, we made onward progress.

  Boyo walked beside me. His gaze flickered to Coco ahead of us, and then back to me. “She is a captain, yet I sense you are leading this group as much as she is.”

  “I’m a servant to the Queen,” I replied, aware that my words provided no answer to his unspoken questions. I had no desire to elaborate on my role as Avant Champion to a stranger.

  He shook his head slowly. “Crithian culture is vastly different from that of Bellos. There are no women in our armies.”

  “That’s your loss.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. I’d be intimidated to encounter someone like Captain DeFay on the battlefield. Most of our women stay home, bear children, and teach the next generation.”

  “I have three children, I teach at Marrington University, yet I can still serve my country on a quest.”

  His mouth gaped slightly, before the diplomat in him recovered. “You have children?”

  Judging by the incredulity in his voice, I suspected he refrained from saying: ‘You have children you’re neglecting?’

  I arched an eyebrow.

  He gave me an apologetic, though not entirely sincere look. “We do have a warrior class of women, chosen for their prowess for certain tasks. But they don’t breed.”

  Preoccupied, thinking about how absurd he sounded, I couldn’t muster a reply. Prowess? Were these women spies? Were they assassins? As far as I knew, Crithos had no such warriors. Did these women warrior not have children because they chose not to? Or did someone else chose for them?

  “Where are your children now? Who cares for them?”

  “My parents.”

  Boyo fell quiet, his expression suggesting he thought that culturally acceptable. “And their father?”

  “He’s a healer in the castle.”

  He leaned closer. “I’ve heard some healers on Crithos use magic. Is it true?”

  I listened to the sound of birds chirping, as I considered an answer to his question. “What does Bellos know of magic?”

  He shrugged and added a casual saunter to his walk. “Rumors mostly. Talk of Crithos being a magical hub of sorts. Having magical rocks. Traders tell of a great battle against evil over a decade ago. Apparently, an evil destroyer was slain and magic was involved in vanquishing him.”

  Uh, yes and no. Magic was involved. Malos was evil, but technically I banished him and didn’t slay him.

  “And what is your impression of those rumors?” I asked, betraying nothing.

  He gave a smirk, conveying to me that he saw truth in the tales—and also saw through my evasive questions. “Sounds fanciful. Stories told to children about an evil-doer named Malos, just so they behave. And yet,” he made an odd, absent-minded gesture of tapping his belly, “this plague can only be the work of dark magic.”

  “Is that so?”

  Dark magic? What in the name of Crithos was that supposed to be? The only dark magic I knew of belonged to Mal, and it was fueled by our own evil. Now who was telling scary bedtime stories? Yet, Mal and I both knew the world of man’s suppressed evil was changing. Was it because of dark magic somewhere? If Crithos was the land of light magic, was Kovia the land of dark magic?

  My mind dizzied with unanswered questions. I needed to consult with Wizard Oak.

  “Yes,” Boyo replied. “The evil in this land is palpable. Don’t you think so?”

  I looked at the greenery—trees, grass, and bushes—all around us, and frowned. The cities had been laid to waste and Moontown had been eerie with its ash and bones. However, a dark shroud of death and devastation didn’t equate to the presence of dark magic.

  “Thus far, I’ve seen dark deeds done by men. I don’t know about any dark magic.”

  He brushed at his sleeves and straightened his tunic, as if ridding himself of the conversation. “Baird told me he and Hans are monks?”

  “That’s correct.” Mostly correct. Hans was still in training. He’d accepted the vows of his order, but his order still needed to accept him.

  “And they simply volunteer for quests? They are some sort of philanthropic group?”

  “Monks dedicate their lives to helping others. Sometimes it’s a quest, sometimes it’s cultural studies, sometimes it’s education. Sometimes, it’s just helping others become monks themselves.”

  “Peculiar.”

  After we finished eating, we resumed riding at a fast walk. An hour later, when we slowed the horses to let them recover and drink from a small stream, I hopped off Prince from behind Coco and stretched.

  I drank water from the stream and watched as Baird approached.

  He clasped Boyo on the shoulder. “Tell us about Bellos.”

  Boyo smiled. “It’s a big country. The crowning jewel is Victoria. The capital city has over two-hundred-thousand inhabitants. Traders from all across the world come to sell their wares in the market. The king’s estate is made of alabaster stone, and bronze statues pay tribute to former kings. The white structure rises above the city as a beacon of magnificence.”

  As Boyo knelt to dust dirt off his boot, I wriggled my eyebrows at
Baird.

  Sounds fanciful, I told Baird. Do you suppose there’s a virgin for every man, and they dine nightly on gold plates?

  Baird didn’t reply. I saw only the barest curve in the corner of his mouth acknowledging my comment.

  I spoke to Boyo, “Baird has written several books on Crithian culture. Perhaps he could travel to Bellos and write a book about culture in Victoria.”

  “That would be splendid.” Boyo beamed.

  We mounted our horses again and set off a brisk pace.

  Two hours later, we reached the edge of the Waterlands—Boyo’s departure point. The road veered north and south, but didn’t continue into the Waterlands itself. We dismounted, and Boyo thanked everyone for the food, the company, and the hospitality. He may not know how to wash a dish or saddle a horse, but he’d mastered the art of gratitude.

  Boyo handed me Phobus’ reigns. “I’m trying to grasp how a group of your making comes together for the quest of finding this cure. Obviously, Captain DeFay is crucial as a warrior and leader. Baird Fox would have the cultural sensitivity for such an excursion, if the population had not been decimated. He brings an apprentice to learn—Hans Stallman. But you’re a chemistry teacher, dressed as a warrior. What is Abigail Cross’s role in all this?”

  Coco stared forward; but from the slight tilting of her head she was keenly interested in my reply.

  Hans stiffened. “Abigail is—”

  “—a chemistry professor,” I interrupted him with a smile. I wouldn’t have Hans blurting my title out again in some misguided defense of my honor. “I offered to help. My husband tends to the sick as we speak. I hope to end the suffering and protect my family from the spread of the disease.”

  Boyo nodded, but I sensed disappointment to my response. Perhaps he would have been impressed to know I was the greatest warrior on the continent, with the strength of a giant and the ability to transport almost anywhere I pleased. However, I only trusted a handful of people with my secrets. The last stranger I’d helped in a time of crisis had betrayed me, and cut my stone necklace off my chest, stripping me of my magical strength. I’d not make that mistake again.