Heart of the Ocean (The Equilibrium Cycle Book 2)

by Jason A. Gilbert

  "Icarus said he'd ask you to go," Dio said, seeing the sack on Connor's shoulders.

  "Good luck, child," Lunete said, fear and sympathy on her face. It was the gentlest thing she had said to him.

  Connor nodded in response. He knelt in front of Laila, hoping to get her attention. Her eyes still stared blankly ahead, but she did appear to be taking in more of her surroundings. As her gaze wandered across the cave, her eyes finally rested on Connor's face. There was a brief glimpse of recognition that Connor could see, and then she retreated back within herself. She turned away from him.

  "I'm sorry..." she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He resisted the urge to reach his hand out and touch her shoulder, remembering how she had reacted the day before.

  "No need," Connor said in response, hoping that she was aware enough to hear him.

  Quickly he stood and made his way to the entrance of the cave. Icarus grasped his shoulder briefly, nodding. Connor took a deep breath and then made his way out into the still-raging storm. The rain beat against him as he climbed out of the small depression. Once he reached the top of one of the hills, he stopped for a moment, looking up into the sky and getting his bearings. Determining what general direction was north, he set off, trudging through the slick and muddy hills.

  Within an hour, he had fallen into the absent state of movement they had all experienced the night before. Rain poured down his face and soaked through his tunic and pants. He held onto the single strap of the sack on his back to keep his arms close to his body, holding in as much heat as he could. He would have to move quickly. The captain had said that the storm raged over the Straits, but it did not cover the entire island. Hopefully he could reach the edge of it before the end of the day and be free of the perpetual rain.

  He continued on for another two hours. His body moved into a state of numbness, the rain no longer making him cold, simply keeping him that way. His hands were tight with the chill. He flexed his fingers on the strap occasionally, reminding himself that he had not lost feeling...yet. Cresting another hill, he stopped for a moment, reaching into his pack and pulling out a small piece of dried meat. He turned as he took a tough bite and saw the edge of what looked like a forest. Perhaps that was near the edge of the storm. He looked into the sky but could not see a clear end to the clouds. But the trees were there, possibly a mile ahead of him. Trees would at least afford him some protection from the rain. His motivation returning, he moved on, sliding his way down his current hill and moving toward the line of trees.

  He reached the edge of the forest within another hour. The storm felt like it increased as he drew closer to the forest, as though it knew that he was close to escaping its wrath and it did not want him to. Stumbling into the relative protection of the trees, he leaned against the nearest trunk. Rain still reached him beneath the branches, but it was faint and he no longer felt as though someone stood over him with an endless bucket of water. He stood against the tree for a while, recovering. He flexed his hands and arms out, trying to unknot the muscles. Icarus might have been right. If the Edonin did live near the storm, this forest would be a good location. Depending on where the edge of the storm was, the forest would be a comfortable place to make a home. Custos had been located in the middle of a large forest. The trees gave Connor a sense of familiarity.

  Something rustled in the branches of a tree a few paces from Connor. He glanced up. The sound had been too big to be an animal. Connor pushed his back against the trunk, readying himself. He heard another sound just behind him, on the other side of the tree. His mind reached out to call on the Sword...but it did not come. Something blocked him. The energy and power was not where he had come to know it to be. His heart leaped into his throat with fear.

  Where is it? he thought.

  A sharp pain jabbed him in the arm. He glanced down, one hand reaching up slowly to pull the small dart from his upper arm. As he pulled it out, everything began to move more slowly. His hand left several impressions across his vision as it moved away from his arm. He felt himself begin to fall but could do nothing to stop it. His arms refused to obey. He crashed into the ground. Feet moved in front of him. Feet covered in leather shoes, not unlike the ones he wore. For some reason that surprised him as his consciousness slipped away and blackness covered his vision.

  Part Three: Sacred Waters

  Twenty

  Captured

  Piercing light broke into Connor's eyes as he tried to open them. His mind was groggy, his thoughts chaotic. He tried to remember where he was. He could smell wood fires and dirt. Custos? His home, how he missed home. His mother's stew, the butter rolls, the fresh scent of the trees. The pain of the light in his eyes began to diminish, but he could still not open them completely. He moved his arms at his sides, hoping to feel the cloth of his bedding.

  Hard ground and dirt rubbed against his arms. A pain shot through one arm and his memories came back in a rush. The storm, the Straits, his long trek across the barren hills, and then a pain in his arm and darkness. With a great effort, he rolled himself onto his back. The light diminished slightly, giving his mind some respite from the pain. Slowly he opened his heavy lids.

  He stared at a stone ceiling, circular and slightly raised in the center. His head pounded as he lifted himself up into a sitting position. He sat in a small stone building. It was empty. There was one door made of heavy wood to Connor's left and a small window carved into the stone next to that, though the window was also closed with a heavy wood shutter.

  "Where am I?" he asked aloud.

  "North Edonin," a gruff voice answered from behind him.

  Connor spun in surprise, searching for the source of the voice...and immediately dropped his head to the floor as pain and nausea ripped through him. He dug his hands into the dirt of the floor, searching for some sort of handhold to steady himself.

  "The drug should wear off soon. It can be...uncomfortable," the voice continued.

  Connor took a deep breath as the pain subsided. Slowly he lifted his head, searching for the voice. He saw a pair of leather shoes like his own, leather pants that were dotted with beads of water, then a leather cloak that wrapped all the way around the figure's upper body, covered with the same beads of water as the pants. Finally, Connor's eyes reached the man's face. A thick beard hid much of the man's expression, but Connor could see deep blue eyes gazing at him under heavy brows. The hood of the cloak was pulled back, revealing a long tail of hair tied at the back, just as Connor's was. The man's hair was more gray than black, but it was still thick. Connor pushed himself into a kneeling position, resting back on his heels.

  "Who are you?" Connor asked, his voice faint after the pain and dizziness.

  The man laughed mirthlessly. "Who am I? I am of the Edonin, you are on North Edonin, and you ask who I am? Boy, who are you?"

  Connor could hear the edge of danger in the older man's voice, and there was also a strange cadence to the voice, as though he was not completely comfortable with the words. As he faced Connor, Connor watched his right hand move toward his left hip and he could see the tip of a sword hilt just behind the cover of the cloak.

  Connor gathered himself before he responded. "I am Connor Seward, of Custos and the Phoenix Clan."

  The man's eyes widened slightly at the mention of the Phoenix Clan. "Custos? From the south, then. Tried to pass the Straits..."

  Connor nodded. "My friends. They are stuck in a cave to the south, in the storm. We need help..."

  The man considered Connor for a moment. "Your friends are dead. Few of the Edonin can survive in the storm for more than a few days. I doubt your friends will fare better."

  The man turned and walked toward the door.

  "Dead? No! They can't be! I have to help them! Please!" Connor pleaded.

  The older man stood in the doorway for a moment. Connor waited for him to turn back toward him. Without turning around, the man stepped out and Connor watched the door close behind him and heard a hea
vy bolt slide into place on the other side.

  Connor dropped his head to the ground. His anger and frustration mixed with fear for his friends—and Laila. Fighting through the nausea, he pushed to his feet. His head reeled with the effort, but he fought for control. Stumbling toward the door, he fell gracelessly against it, slamming his body weight against it. Balling his fist, he pounded against the heavy wood. He had to get out. He needed to help them!

  He could hear nothing on the other side of the door. No movement, no response. He continued to bang his fist against the door for some time, the cloudiness of his mind making it difficult to determine how long. Finally he dropped to the floor of the small building. A thought crossed his mind. He reached for the Sword. Again, nothing came. He could not find the familiar sensation of confidence and power that had always accompanied the Sword. What had happened? Had Laila done something to him when she had pulled his power through him? Was the Sword gone? That thought scared him almost as much as the thought of his friends dying back in the storm. The Sword had become a part of his identity. It was the mark of his role as the Warden. A role he had finally accepted.

  Weariness, nausea, and despair finally took their toll, and Connor felt himself slip back into unconsciousness, lying in front of the door. Dreams prodded at him. Dreams of strange people, speaking in an unfamiliar language. He dreamed he was back in the small cave he had left his friends in. They lay, strewn across the floor, unmoving. He saw Dio, Icarus, Lunete, and lastly Laila, curled up into herself, clutching at her stomach. He rushed over to her, turned her head to him and saw unblinking death in her eyes. He screamed but no sound came out. He clutched Laila's head to his chest, failure and pain wracking his body as the hunger had wracked hers.

  The incessant sound of the rain outside drummed at Icarus's ears. He sat near the entrance to the cave, looking out into the storm, silently willing Connor to return. He knew the mission he had sent the young man on was probably a foolish one, but they’d had no other choice. If the Edonin did not help, then they would die out here in this barren place. Icarus ignored the rumbling in his chest and stomach. The hunger had set in last night when the last of their meager food had run out. He had taken less of it anyways. He could find other ways to sustain himself, though even those techniques could only help him for so long.

  A stirring behind him turned his attention back into the cave. The surviving crew members were staring at the back of the cave where Laila sat huddled with Dio. Her eyes were closed and she was not moving, but blue light danced around her body. Icarus stood and moved toward her. Dio had backed away from her. Icarus placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  "What happened?" Icarus asked.

  "I... I don't know. She was asleep, I think. And then the light appeared. Is...is she all right?" Dio stammered.

  Icarus did not answer his question, moving toward Laila cautiously. Despite the blue light dancing across her form, she seemed unaware, her eyes still closed and her breathing still coming regularly. This was the Sword, or at least, the magic of the Sword. Icarus had felt Laila's immense effort to calm the raging ocean of the Straits before the boat had capsized. He had sensed her tap into Connor's own power, something neither of them had known she could do. He shook his head; there was still so much he did not understand about her, and yet she continued to look to him for understanding. She did not know that she had moved past his ability to help some time ago. She had proved that when she had freed the winds. The power she had exerted to do that was incredible and beyond anything Icarus had felt before.

  The light seemed to increase, running along Laila's arms. She still seemed unaware of what was happening. In a burst of light, it jumped off her arms and disappeared into the roof of the cave over her head. Icarus looked at the stone of the roof, unmarked by the passage of the energy. Had Connor been trying to use the Sword? Was he in danger? And Laila had been holding onto his power somehow. Icarus shook his head. The interest he felt at learning more of Laila's abilities turned quickly to fear for Connor. If he needed the Sword, then the Edonin might be too dangerous. Shaking his head of worries he had no control over, he turned his attention back to Laila and saw her open her eyes.

  "Laila? Did you do that?" he asked gently.

  Laila stared blankly ahead, reverting to her catatonic state. They had each tried to break her from her reverie with little success. Something had happened during the failed passage in the Straits, something that had struck Laila to her core.

  "Laila?" he pressed again, reaching his hand out to her shoulder.

  "I'm sorry..." She repeated her simple mantra, turning her shoulder away from Icarus.

  "What’s happened to her?" Dio asked.

  Icarus saw the concern in the young man's eyes. He truly cared for Laila. Icarus hoped, not for the first time, that that concern did not motivate Dio to make poor decisions.

  "I can’t say. I’m certain she will recover," Icarus said, the lie crossing his lips easily. "Stay with her. Hopefully she'll come out of this soon."

  "And that light?" Dio asked.

  Icarus shrugged. "She's the Magusari. I don't even know the extent of her power."

  Dio opened his mouth to say something more and then shook his head and took his place at Laila's side once again. Thankful that Dio had not pressed the issue, Icarus made his way back to the entrance to the cave. The rest of the survivors, content that Icarus would have warned them if something were wrong, settled back into their own silent miseries. With a deep breath, Icarus sat back down at the entrance, returning to his silent vigil of watching the storm rage on against the barren hills.

  The door against his back moved, bringing Connor back to awareness. He rolled away instinctively. The nausea no longer threatened to overwhelm him, and the desperation of his last dream was strong in his mind. Rolling onto one knee, he faced the door. The older man from earlier stood in the doorway. A small plate with food sat in his hands. Connor eyed the food and then his eyes darted down to the hilt at the man's waist.

  The older man saw where Connor's eyes went. "Don't, boy..."

  They stood, facing each other, for a long moment. The desperation of his dream finally overwhelmed him and with a shout, Connor rushed toward the older man. In two steps, Connor was on him. The plate had dropped to the ground in a crash and the older man had a hand on the hilt of his weapon. Connor held the man's hand on the hilt, preventing him from drawing the blade.

  With a sweep of his left arm, the older man struck Connor's head, knocking him back. He stumbled a few steps and then caught himself. The man may have been older, but he was strong. A ring of steel echoed through the stone building as the older man's blade leaped from its sheath.

  "Don't do this, boy." The man held the blade leveled at Connor's chest. "Your friends are lost, but you don't have to be."

  At the mention of his friends Connor's desperation reasserted itself. Lunete had worked with him on fighting an armed opponent. He feinted toward the man. The blade sliced through the air where Connor had been. With a quick spin, Connor was out of the path of the sword and behind the man's sword arm. Connor's hand dropped like a hammer on the man's sword hand. The blade dropped with a clatter against the dirt of the floor.

  With a roar, the older man reached across with his other hand, grasping onto the front of Connor's tunic. A jerk of his arms and a kick of his leg dropped Connor to the dirt. Connor struck hard, knocking the wind from him. As he gasped, the older man leaned down and grabbed his sword. He placed the tip at Connor's throat.

  "I didn't want to kill you, boy. You would've been given a chance to explain yourself as an outsider. After this though..." The older man shook his head.

  Connor felt his failure painfully. He would die, and now so would his friends. He could not help them. He could not save them. He could not even save himself. Anger and fear mixed with his desperation, and he felt a stirring. A shiver ran down his spine and a familiar sensation filled his chest. Confidence and power banished his fear. The Sword!
He had not lost it!

  Blue light wrapped around his arms and coalesced into his hands, forming the familiar blue blade. With a sweep Connor batted the older man's blade from his neck. He rolled away as the man stumbled back. Standing slowly, Connor raised the Sword defensively. The confidence accompanying it coursed through him. He would save his friends.

  "Impossible..." The older man's gruff voice was nearly a whisper.

  Connor did not say anything. He stood, ready to defend himself and ready to find a way back to Laila and the rest of them. The older man stared at the blue blade in Connor's hands. Taking his advantage, Connor struck out. The man's sword rose up just in time to block Connor's strike. Catching the man's blade, Connor made a sweeping motion and the man's sword clattered back to the ground. Stepping forward, Connor spun the man around, placing the burning light of his blue blade at the base of the man's neck. Keeping a hand on the older man's back, Connor urged him toward the door.

  The older man moved slowly, and Connor pushed the tip of the Sword closer to the man's neck. "Open the door," Connor said, anger and confidence coating his voice.

  The man nodded, reaching out slowly to push the handle on the door. The heavy wood door swung wide, allowing Connor his first view of his prison as they stepped through. The building he had been in was one of several with the same structure. They were circular stone building with bulges in the center, likely to keep the rain that would likely drift their way from the storms from pooling on top. They were built in small groups of three or four, and those groups look to be spread out in erratic clusters further away. As they moved away from the tighter group that Connor's prison had been in, a small group of men appeared near one of the other buildings.

  The men in the group were dressed similarly to the older man in front of Connor, leather pants and the same, odd, wrap-around cloak. The air was misty as Connor entered the larger clearing between the clumped buildings. Connor saw how the damp air beaded against the leather, rather than soaking into the cloth, as it did with Connor's clothes. The group approached Connor and the older man cautiously, seeing that Connor had something held at the older man's neck. The man before Connor raised his hands to the group.