The ache of the previous day’s ride was mixed with the bruises blossoming on his arms and back from sparring the night before with Endric. The headache from the night before still throbbed faintly, a quiet pulsing behind his eyes. Finally, there was the stiffness from his first night spent sleeping on the hard ground. His blankets had provided little padding, and it was good he had been exhausted, else he may not have slept at all.
As it was, it was a restless sleep. Dreams had come to him again, as they had so often of late. Visions of a strange woman calling for help and trapped in a fog. There was something regal about her, and he sensed a helplessness to her. He felt golden eyes watching him and found a strange comfort in that. Lastly, a man with flaming eyes had startled him awake, but not before it seemed the man saw him and laughed.
Jakob had finally settled into the deepest portion of sleep when the call went through camp waking him up. He sat up slowly, his body unused to the abuse he’d inflicted upon it lately, sending sharp pains of revolt from head to toe. He looked over to Novan, but the historian was already up and out of the tent. Jakob wasn’t sure the man had even slept.
Finally awake, he quickly gathered his few belongings and stuffed them in his sack before strapping the sword onto his belt and standing. It still felt awkward and strange, as if he was posing as something he was not. The feeling was one he had known most of his life.
Novan found him as he exited the tent and led him to breakfast where he kneeled and ate. A shadow crossed over him, and he looked up expectantly, a surge of anxiety pulsing through him before passing as he recognized the person. It was the Mage from last night, Roelle.
“Are you bruised?” the Mage asked.
When Jakob stood hurriedly, his sword smacked his shin, and he tried not to wince. “I am, Mage Roelle.” Jakob suddenly felt stupid. He didn’t even know the proper way to address a Mage.
“Roelle is fine.” The serious tone she used was belied by a slight smile to her face.
When she smiled, Jakob noted again how lovely she was, much more than any Mancley sister. A flush washed through him, and he hoped Roelle couldn’t sense his thoughts.
“I am bruised.” She paused, looking over to where Mage Haerlin stood whispering to Thomasen Comity. “Haerlin has turned a blind eye to my lessons, but it’s been many days since I last worked with Endric. I couldn’t hide the body aches well this morning.”
Mage Roelle chuckled to herself as she said it, finding mirth to it that Jakob didn’t understand. How could he understand the humor in upsetting a Mage? “I bruised, and I’ve been working with the general for a few weeks,” he answered without thinking, wondering if he should be so blunt with a Mage.
“Your bruises will be less if you relax more. How long have you been apprenticed to the historian?”
“Novan came to Chrysia over a year ago. It was around that time my father was trying to find something for me.” He remembered it well, having argued a long time for his father to let him follow Scottan into the guard. Strangely, it had been Scottan himself who had kept him out.
“What is it that you wish to become?” Roelle asked.
He had often asked himself the same question. There was never a satisfactory answer. Would that he could be Jarren Gildeun. It was what he had wanted as a child. There was something about the idea of wandering the land, exploring places no one had been in centuries... or ever. But he’d been stuck in Chrysia until now. “I couldn’t be the priest son my father wished.”
Roelle looked at him curiously. “Do you not follow the Urmahne way?”
Careful, he reminded himself. He was speaking to a Mage, someone who was the voice of the gods themselves, endowed with abilities by them. “I follow Urmahne.”
It was a cautious answer and not completely true. His faith had grown distant with the loss of his mother and had faltered more when Scottan fell to the madness. He was not yet sure what remained now that his father was gone.
There was a moment when Jakob feared what Roelle would say, feared what the Mage might think. He didn’t know how honest he should be with her but worried she would know if he was not truthful. Yet the truth was painful. His father worshipped the nameless gods, preached the peace he believed, but how could these peaceful gods let the madness touch the world? How could his brother be taken from him by it? How could his mother suffer the way she had?
And now they had taken his father from him.
He wondered if the Deshmahne had the right view. Were power and force what the gods understood? Jakob worried these thoughts showed on his face. What would the Mage Roelle do then? What would she say?
Does she speak with the gods? he wondered.
“I’ve found that you must question your faith in order to have it. If you don’t ask the questions, how do you know the answers?”
“My father once said something like that,” Jakob said, remembering the conversation the last time he’d seen his father. He felt a surge of sorrow with the thought.
“Your father sounds like a man of wisdom,” Roelle said, a faint smile pulling at her mouth.
“He was a priest.”
Roelle arched an eyebrow. “Was?”
Jakob nodded. “He was killed in the temple explosion.”
“Ah… I’m sorry.”
Novan came up to him then, casting a curious glance at the Mage Roelle.
“Don’t fear the answers,” she said, looking casually at Novan before turning and walking back to join Haerlin.
Jakob let his eyes follow her, trying to ignore the way she walked, and the sway to her hips, and focus on her comment. It was strange, and he didn’t know what to make of it. There was something different about Roelle, something less arrogant than Jakob expected from the Magi, something alluring.
Novan didn’t give him a chance to figure out what it might be. “It’s time to ride,” he said.
The ache in Jakob’s body made him wonder how he’d handle the saddle.
They rode harder than the day before. The sun was often hidden behind layers of clouds, and the day was cooler for it. The air was crisp, making it clear winter was not far off. There was a dampness in the air, a hint of rot, almost a sense of decay, though overtop this was the familiar scent of earthiness and the fragrance of flowers. He had noticed smells more often lately and began to wonder why.
Novan was silent for much of the morning. The historian rode tall in his saddle, making notes in a notebook occasionally before tucking it carefully away. “What do you see, Jakob?” Novan asked suddenly.
Jakob looked over to the tall historian, seeing the man’s thin features, the wrinkled face, and tired eyes. He had been pushing himself hard lately. Was there are reason behind it? “I watch the Magi,” he answered honestly.
Novan looked toward where the Magi rode, his blue-gold eyes rimmed in red today. He chuckled, and Jakob flushed. “The Magi are said to be the link to the gods. Some say the hands of the gods, some would say the voice. This is part of the Urmahne teaching. Your father would have instructed you on this, Jakob.” Novan turned toward him, a question in his eyes.
“My father taught me many things about the gods. I’m not sure what’s true.” Novan arched an eyebrow at the critical comment but said nothing. “Why do the Magi no longer involve themselves in the Urmahne?”
“What I think is of little consequence, Jakob. I’m little more than a recorder, a reporter, of what I see. That is what historians do.”
He had seen Novan acting as more than a reporter more times than he could count, including when discussing the High Priest. His opinion had been asked and given many times. “A historian is more than a reporter. There is an element of interpretation required, I think.”
“Oh?” Novan asked. “What makes you say this?”
“The books you have had me read have all had an interpretation of what they recorded. I have seen you do it as well.”
“I am, perhaps, not the best example. But you’re right. One must place what he sees in the appropr
iate context. That’s part of the historian’s duty.”
“Then what of the Magi?” Jakob asked again. Novan seemed to be avoiding the question.
The historian rode on in silence, and Jakob wondered if he would even answer. “The Magi are of the Urmahne. They await the Return. This they tell us,” he began. “Some would say they are the Urmahne, more so than those of the priesthood, as they are the Founders of the Urmahne.” Novan stared at the Magi. “I’ve seen the Magi do many things, great things at times. Their abilities are impressive, said given to them at the time of the Ascension, giving them powers others don’t have. This would seem to make them godly.”
Novan paused, seeming to be lost in thought, then continued. “Yet they seclude themselves from the rest of us while claiming that they still speak to the gods. Their abilities could be used for such good, yet these days they rarely are. Is this what the nameless gods have instructed? Is this what the Urmahne preach?” He shook his head in answer to his questions. “It was different, once. I fear it will have to different once more.”
It was more of an answer than Jakob had expected. He had seen how Haerlin set himself apart from others, but Roelle seemed different. Were the Magi more like Haerlin or more like Roelle? “Do you think they speak to the gods?”
“There are others who might better answer that question.” There was a long pause before he continued. “But are we certain that gods even exist?”
Jakob felt a moment of shock. He had never suspected Novan to be an atheist. “But the Tower—”
“Built by gods or by those with abilities like the Magi?” Novan offered.
Jakob shook his head, not knowing how to answer. He had felt guilty for doubting the Urmahne faith, but Novan took it a step further, doubting even the gods’ existence. What if he’s right? What would it mean?
Jakob wasn’t comfortable asking those questions so near the Magi. “How can Roelle learn the sword? The Magi are said to be the epitome of the Urmahne, and peace is the core of the teaching.”
Novan smiled. “That’s an interesting question. The first Magi were warriors, and I wonder if there are those among the Magi who would be like their Founders. That is another thing I would like to learn in Vasha. As to Roelle, I’m not surprised she’s drawn your interest.”
“I…”
Novan flashed a smiled, but fell silent once again as they rode north and west, and Jakob didn’t press. They moved steadily and stayed on the roads as much as was possible. As the sun peaked overhead, they stopped at a small stream to water the horses and to eat. Clumps of trees broke up the horizon and grew thicker in the distance to the east.
A growing sense of unease crept through Jakob. He had felt it all morning but thought it the effects of his conversation with Novan. This was different. Almost familiar, and he realized what it was that made him uncomfortable: the sense that they were being watched had returned.
Jakob did not know how to describe it, even to himself. It was a strange sensation, an unpleasant irritant in the back of his mind. He constantly resisted the urge to look quickly over his shoulder, yet he still found his head frequently turning, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he felt. It did not happen.
The feeling stayed with him throughout the day. The first stop was brief; it was only long enough for Jakob to stiffen again and dread the remainder of the day in the saddle. His body was not made for this, he decided, yet knew it was too late to come to this decision. The column continued in the same direction, and Novan said little more throughout the day, though he would occasionally make notes in the small book he carried.
The sun gradually drifted beyond the horizon, and stars appeared overhead. Still, the feeling of being watched was with him. Once, he had looked and thought he saw an animal stalking them, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t think it was what he felt. It wasn’t until they stopped and the camp was set for the evening that he felt it disappear.
Novan dismissed him, and Jakob used the opportunity to set his bags in their tent before wandering to where Endric once again practiced. Fires danced brightly, and the moon shined brightly overhead, letting him see more easily than the night before, not that it would help.
Roelle had again beaten him to the old general. They sparred a long time, the fluid dance going much the same as the previous night before the general finally ended it. The Mage came over to him, panting. “Relax,” she reminded when she stopped nearby to catch her breath.
Jakob stepped forward to grab the practice stave, doing his best to relax as Roelle suggested. Endric led him through a new series of catahs, his movements almost too fast to catch, and certainly too fast to remember. Jakob defended as best as he could, moving to the offensive briefly when he realized that Endric expected him to, before struggling to defend the barrage of attacks. It lasted longer than the night before, though Jakob wondered if it was just his imagination. He had been tired, and his focus had been lax, yet because of it, he had felt a little more fluid.
Endric ended it with a flourish before waving him off. “Tomorrow,” he called as Jakob was leaving.
At least he had that to look forward to. Perhaps when he was better rested, it would be different. Unlikely, but he could hope he would improve.
“Better,” Roelle offered as Jakob approached. This time, it was he who was panting, trying to catch his breath. “You didn’t force it as much tonight.”
He started to say something but was interrupted by a strange scream that split the night.
A call went rolling through the camp, a sentry yelling and ringing the alarm. There was an odor, one he couldn’t place. It was the stench of decay. The sound of steel ringing off of steel echoed through the camp and then came the sound of men shouting and screaming. Jakob started forward, but a firm hand on his shoulder held him back.
“You’re unarmed,” Roelle said. “Let the soldiers do their job.”
Jakob turned to her and saw a strange look to the Mage’s face. Concern? Frustration? He wasn’t sure.
“Raiders,” Roelle said. “We came across them on the way toward Chrysia, but they left us alone.”
“Then why attack the camp?” Jakob asked. It didn’t make sense for them to attack the Denraen unless they had enough numbers, and Novan had repeatedly said they were too unorganized for a sufficient attack. Yet they had attacked the Ur. And Deshmahne had been involved in that attack.
“Our numbers should keep them from attacking.”
A man suddenly burst into the firelight, dressed in dark trousers and a loose shirt. The light flickered strangely across his features, almost as if it was drawn to him. Two Denraen chased him, but the man reached Endric where he stood talking to another soldier. Endric was unarmed, but reacted quickly, grabbing one of the practice staves to protect himself from the raider’s quick thrust.
The man laughed. It was a hysterical sound, and he yelled something in a language Jakob didn’t understand. Endric’s smile showed that he understood, and he unleashed a volley of blows with his sword. The raider was good, deflecting most with ease and circling around Endric, keeping the Denraen in front of him. The raider parried, slicing forward and feinting an attack on Endric before catching the other unarmed soldier and dropping him.
Endric roared and danced forward, his movements so fast Jakob couldn’t follow, finally catching the man in the head and knocking him to the ground.
With that, the camp went silent. The underlying odor remained, and Jakob couldn’t clear it from his nostrils. He followed Roelle over to the raider as Endric knelt by the man, binding his wrists and ankles tightly before brushing himself off and turning to the injured man.
“S’all right, general,” the man said. “Just my arm.” He held it up to prove it, and Jakob saw a deep, angry cut through the man’s upper arm. It bled heavily.
Endric nodded to him before helping him up. “Hold pressure. And see that it gets stitched.”
“He shouldn’t have been able to reach this far into the camp,” Roelle said to En
dric.
“He should not have, yet he did.” Endric squatted beside the bound man, still unconscious, and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. Dark tattoos were etched into the skin, easily visible in the firelight.
Endric spat suddenly before reaching into his belt and grabbing a knife. He cut deeply into the tattoo, cutting out a section nearly two fingers wide, before spitting again. Dark blood oozed over the tattoos, smudging the designs. “Cover this,” he commanded a nearby soldier. Two men came over quickly and picked up the raider, carrying him off to be bandaged and restrained.
Roelle had watched this silently, waiting until Endric stood again before she said anything. “What—”
“Deshmahne,” Endric said, spitting the word as if he hated to even speak it. “The markings grant strength, quickness.”
“You think destroying the tattoo weakens him?” Roelle asked. “I haven’t heard that it was so.”
“Disrupt the pattern, and you disrupt the power.” His attention shifted to another Denraen who approached. “How many?”
“We counted at least twenty attackers. Ten of them are down, the rest ran.”
Endric nodded. “Ours?”
“Two injured, one serious,” he said.
“Search the bodies, then burn them. Look for any markings and let me know what you find,” Endric said.
The soldier nodded before running off.
“What were they after?” Roelle asked.
Endric shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “A test, I think.”
“Why you? Why not come after Haerlin or the ambassador?”
Endric shook his head and said nothing.
“And you think they’re Deshmahne?” Roelle asked.
“Perhaps not all.” The general didn’t say any more, turning toward his tent.
Roelle stood silently watching the old general leave. “He knows more than he says.”
“What do you suspect?” Jakob asked. He didn’t expect an answer. Why would one of the Magi need to answer him?
“I don’t know. There’s much that’s not known of the Deshmahne. Endric has seen these markings before, has some idea of what to do when he does. There’s something he’s not letting on.” Roelle turned to Jakob. “Did you see how fast that man moved before Endric knocked him out?”
The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Page 11