She gulped a breath of air, and then gasped for another as if her lungs had forgotten how to breathe. When she finally spoke, her voice shook. “Someone died here,” she said, “a wanderer they didn't mean to capture.”
“Who?” Artair asked, dropping his hands from her shoulders. “Who died? Who captured him?”
“The tribe,” she answered. “They build traps for animals by digging holes in the ground, then covering them with thin netting and dirt. Canton has the power to turn the covering into quicksoil.”
“You mean someone in the tribe can create that stuff so we couldn't tell it apart from the rest of the ground?”
“There is a warning, kind of like a shimmer that covers the area where his power has been used.”
“The area, but not the specific location,” Artair said. His eyes widened in understanding. “Cal is underground and we have no idea where.”
“It gets worse,” Élana told them. “There might be other traps.”
“Then we'll have to be careful.” Faillen said. He picked up a long stick and poked the ground ahead of him as he followed Cal's course. Artair did the same, and Meaghan realized the situation was grimmer than she initially thought.
“What's quicksoil?” she asked Élana.
“Ground that seems solid,” Élana answered. “But pressure turns it into liquid, allowing something to pass through. After the pressure is relieved, it turns solid again. It's usually a funny shade of gray, which makes it easy to spot, but Canton can give any object quicksoil properties.”
“So the wanderer suffocated because the ground doesn't allow air into the trap,” Meaghan realized. Panic gripped her. She picked up a stick and made her way uphill, following a course to the left of where Faillen and Artair hunted. Élana did the same. Meaghan extended her power to probe ahead. Several minutes passed when she sensed nothing, then dull emotions pushed against her mind. She held her breath, first unsure of what she felt, then took off running when she deciphered the muted emotions—fear and confusion. They had to be Cal's.
“Meaghan!” Faillen yelled after her. “Stop! You don't know where the traps are.”
She did not care. She had to take the chance. She chased Cal's emotions further up the mountain and to the right, stopping short when they grew close. Out of breath, but not out of strength, she used her stick to continue prodding as she worked to calm her heart. The others caught up with her a second before the end of her stick disappeared into the dirt.
“Here,” she exclaimed. “I've found him.”
“How did you—” Artair said, but Meaghan interrupted him.
“We don't have much time. Do we have any rope?”
“We didn't expect to need it for a day trip,” Faillen answered and she nodded. They had few supplies with them for that reason.
“Artair,” she said. “See if you can find a vine.”
“How long?” he asked and Meaghan looked to Élana for the answer.
“The traps are usually around ten feet deep, so twenty should be more than enough.”
Artair took off into the forest. Meaghan dropped to her stomach at the edge of the quicksoil and Faillen joined her.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
“We need to pull him up.” She pressed her hand to the dirt and it sank through. It felt less like water, as she had expected, and more like a thick pudding studded with small pebbles. She tensed, prepared to jump back if the quicksoil sucked her in like quicksand on Earth would, but it remained passive, reacting to her touch instead of becoming an active threat. She continued pressing her hand down until her arm disappeared to her shoulder and soil gave way to empty air. The quicksoil hardened when she stilled, but as soon as she moved her hand it shifted into liquid once more.
“The vine won't provide enough pressure to activate the quicksoil,” she decided. “We'll need to tie a rock to the end of it. If we hold the other end, Cal can climb up. The soil should be activated by his weight on the vine.”
“He doesn't know where he is or what's happening,” Faillen pointed out. “And it's probably dark down there. He won't see the vine, so how will he know what to do?”
“Cal knows the light spell,” she told him. “If he hasn't already activated it, once he hears the rock drop, he might use it to see what fell.”
“If he's conscious and if the spell occurs to him. But even if both of those scenarios turn out to be true, tossing a large rock down there would be dangerous. We don't know where he is. We could hit him.”
Meaghan frowned and withdrew her arm from the soil. “Then there's only one way to ensure this works. I'll jump in and tell him what to do. If you drop the rock into the center of the quicksoil, I can make sure we're out of the way.”
Faillen narrowed his eyes at the suggestion, but did not get the chance to protest before Élana voiced her own opinion.
“You won't,” she said. “You could be injured by the fall.”
“I'd rather risk a possible injury than Cal's guaranteed death.”
“I agree,” Élana said, “but I'd rather the injury isn't yours.”
“Then who do you propose—”
Before Meaghan had the chance to finish her sentence, Élana stepped forward and plummeted from sight. Meaghan cursed, but Faillen only chuckled.
“What's so funny?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” he replied, and then grinned when she glared at him. “Let's just say I now know which side of the family you get your temperament from.”
Meaghan huffed and stood as Artair raced toward them, a length of vine gathered between his hands. He halted in front of them.
“Where's Élana?” he asked.
“Down there,” Meaghan said and pointed to the quicksoil. “Let's get them out before they run out of air. We need a large rock.”
Faillen located one not far from where they stood and dug it out of the ground. “Tie one end of the vine around it,” he instructed Artair. “Then tie the other end around your waist. We'll grab hold in front of you to keep Cal from pulling you down.”
Faillen waited until Meaghan was in position and then tossed the rock into the center of the quicksoil. As soon as the rock passed through the dirt, Faillen locked his hands around the vine in front of Meaghan and stood firm.
The vine disappeared after the rock, sucked into the ground like a slithering snake, then stopped and she knew it had hit bottom. One breath passed, and then another. The vine remained slack.
“Do you think Cal ran out of air already?” Artair asked.
Meaghan shook her head. “I can still feel his emotions. He's not confused anymore, he's—”
The vine jerked in her hands. She pitched forward and then leaned back, fighting the vine's pull with strength of her own. Long, graceful fingers broke through the ground, followed by Élana's dark hair. Hand over hand she pulled on the vine until she reached solid ground. Then she rolled away from the trap and sat up. The vine went limp and then pitched forward again.
“Pull him up,” Élana commanded. “The air is stale down there. He's weak.”
“On the count of three,” Faillen instructed them. “One, two…Three!”
In unison, they walked backward. Meaghan had always thought of Cal as a large man, but she had never realized how solid his physique was until now. She strained against the vine, gritting her teeth as she struggled not to let it slip through her fingers, and she knew those with her did the same. They pulled backward, moving in small, shuffling steps until they saw Cal's head break through the quicksoil as if he emerged from a lake. He opened his mouth wide, gathered a loud, gasping breath, and the victory gave Meaghan a resurgence. She managed one final heave and the three of them yanked Cal from the soil, dragging him away from the pit with enough force to leave grooves in the ground. Faillen and Meaghan dropped the vine as Artair tried to untie himself. He fumbled with the knot around his waist, cursed when it would not loosen, and then grinned when Meaghan slipped a knife from her belt to cut him free.
Cal grunted and rose to his feet. He ran a hand through his hair, showering dirt and pebbles around him. “I'm surprised you didn't leave me down there,” he said. “I haven't exactly been pleasant today.”
“We thought about it,” Faillen replied, then ducked when Cal picked up a rock and tossed it at him. He bobbed back up, opened his mouth to taunt Cal again, and then reached over his shoulder to grab his bow as the smile dissolved from his face. He had an arrow ready and aimed before Meaghan saw the danger he had spotted or felt the emotions of those who meant to attack.
The men, painted to blend into the trees, hid as well as they disguised their emotions. Their eyes remained focused and hard with the seriousness of their threat. Meaghan had to concentrate her power to read them, but when she understood their intent, her own fear erased all other emotions. They felt threatened, and to protect their own, they would kill. Meaghan could not ignore the intensity of their willingness.
And all six of them had arrows pointed directly at Faillen's heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“LAY DOWN your bow,” one of the men commanded. “We won't hesitate to shoot.”
“They're telling the truth,” Meaghan whispered.
“I know,” Faillen said. “I'm not afraid. I can take out three of them before they kill me.”
“And you'll still be dead,” Cal reminded him. “Don't forget about your boy. He's already lost his mother.”
Faillen hesitated, relaxing his hold on his weapon. “They'll kill us anyway,” he decided, and tightened his grip again. He redirected his aim toward the man who had spoken. “You're first.”
“So be it,” the man responded. He drew back his arrow, matching Faillen's posture, but before he could take the shot, Élana rose from the ground, blocking Faillen from the man's aim. At the same time, Meaghan pulled two of her knives from her belt, and Artair formed an orb between his palms.
“Your survival is less likely now,” Artair told their attackers.
One of the six men redirected his aim from Élana to Artair. Another pointed his arrow at Meaghan's head.
“Don't!” Élana cried, reaching a hand toward Artair when he lifted his orb. “They're my tribesmen.”
Meaghan had guessed the possibility. Each man had the same deep olive skin and dark hair as Élana, as well as the same defined facial structure. But each of them also held her in their sights. Meaghan knew they would not hesitate to kill Élana in Faillen's place.
“Are you sure?” Cal asked. “They don't seem to know you.”
“They don't,” Élana said. “They're too young. They would have been no more than toddlers when I left, but that doesn't change the fact they're part of my brother's tribe. I can't let you kill them.”
“They'll kill us,” Artair protested. He shrank his orb, but refused to dissolve it entirely. “If they don't know you, they won't hesitate.”
“Don't fight with them,” she begged and looked over her shoulder at Faillen. “Please.”
Faillen hesitated, but Meaghan sheathed her knives without hesitation. She had felt something else surge behind the men, a strong emotion she could not ignore. She knew they would be safe.
“Do as Élana says,” she commanded Faillen and Artair.
Artair's orb fizzled and disappeared. Faillen hesitated, but obeyed when Meaghan held his questioning gaze with unwavering demand.
One of the six men drew back his arrow in threat, and the emotion Meaghan felt turned into anger and surged over her with tidal strength.
“Stop!” a voice bellowed from behind the men. “Put your weapons away.”
The men showed the same hesitation as Faillen, but gave into the authority the voice behind them harnessed. They stowed their weapons and parted to make way for their commander. He stepped forward to stand in front of his men.
Meaghan sucked in a breath, her eyes wide in recognition. Much like Élana, age had lined his face with wrinkles, and turned his hair white, but his defining features looked the same as they did in the story Meaghan had read about him. He still sported a slender frame and a kind face. His eyes still shone a pure, crystal blue that reminded Meaghan of a lake on a spring day. And he still held his bearing with a regal presence that hinted of unwavering confidence. But unlike in the story, his eyes were not dark with grief and anger, but bright with the joy she had first felt from him.
He held Élana's gaze and Meaghan felt his happiness grow, but he did not show it. Instead, he kept his face neutral, his mouth nearly turned down in a frown.
“They aren't your brother's tribe any longer, Élana,” he said. “They're mine.”
Élana tied her hands together in front of her and nodded. “You're right, Everel. Forgive the slip.”
“I won't,” he replied, his voice stiff, and Élana cast her gaze toward the ground. He covered the distance between them to stand in front of her, and then brought a hand to her shoulder. When she looked up at him, his façade crumbled. Grief drew his face into shadows and though the joy Meaghan felt remained, his pain overwhelmed it. “It's me that needs forgiveness,” he whispered, “if you can spare it. My last words to you were harsh. There hasn't been a day since that I don't remember and regret them.”
“Everel—”
“Let me finish,” he said and dropped his hand. “I was wrong to say what I did, but I never thought you'd take it seriously. Every year on the anniversary of Ed's death, I returned to that lake. I kept thinking you might do the same, but you never did.”
Élana reached a hand toward his face. “Everel—”
He caught her hand in both of his. “Forgive me, Élana,” he said. “Come back to the tribe. It's been far too long since I've seen your face, since I shared my secrets with you and sought your advice. I laid my grief for Ed to rest, but my grief for you remains strong. I need your forgiveness.”
“You have it, Everel,” Élana whispered. “But I can't return. My village has grown. It's not just our brethren any longer. Refugees from Zeiihbu and Ærenden have joined us over the years. They depend on me. I also have a husband and two sons.”
“You lead?” he asked, and a smile pinched up the corners of his lips. “The woman who claimed to have no skill for leading is in charge of her own village?”
“I am,” she said and inclined her head. “It seems under the right conditions, I'm not too bad at it.”
“I've always known you'd make a good leader,” he replied and drew her hand to his lips before letting it go. “Ed would be proud. But just because you live in the village, doesn't mean you can't visit and maybe bring your family with you. I have three boys of my own now.”
“And you're wed to Matti,” she said and smiled when his brows knit together. “I didn't think you'd want to see me, but I've seen you. Your children are beautiful and your eldest will make a fine ruler someday.” She stepped forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I've missed you.”
“I've missed you, too,” he responded, then turned his eyes toward Cal, who had moved a few feet to Élana's left when Everel approached. “Always the protector,” he said. “I recognize you. You fought with my cousin during the skirmishes on the border after the Zeiihbu War.”
“I did,” Cal said, and shook Everel's hand. “Though I don't recall meeting you.”
Everel grinned. “You didn't. Ed pointed you out to me once. He told me he intended for you to be his next Guardian. I'd wager that happened. Ed always got his way.”
Cal chuckled. “Not always with Adelina, but with everyone else.”
“Ah, well, a wife's a different matter,” Everel joked, then turned serious again as he studied the Guardian. “I imagine you haven't come all this way to deliver Élana back to me. Why are you here?”
“That's a long story, and one I'd rather wait for a more discreet place to discuss,” Cal told him. “I'll introduce the rest of our party at
that time, as well. But the main reason I'm here is because, uh,” he brought a hand to the back of his neck and slid his gaze toward Élana. She gestured for Meaghan to come closer.
“Cal has a new charge,” Élana offered, slipping an arm around Meaghan's shoulders.
Everel's eyes widened when he saw her. “Is it truly her? It must be. She looks so much like him.”
“It is,” Élana confirmed. “This is Ed's daughter, Meaghan.”
“It's a pleasure to finally meet you,” Everel said and bowed low. “I'd heard rumors you'd returned, my Queen, but I dared not believe them until now. It's with great honor that I receive you into my tribe.”
Meaghan arched an eyebrow and pressed her lips together. “We're family. I wish you wouldn't do that.”
Everel chuckled and rose. “Ed said the same thing the first time I bowed to him. It's nice to know part of him lives in you.” He turned and addressed the men who remained among the trees. “I'll lead the visitors back to the tribe. Hurry ahead and let the others know. Tonight, there'll be a feast.” He looked back at Meaghan and Élana and grinned. “Tonight, we celebrate.”
§
“PLEASE TELL me you're not serious.” Everel lowered the mug poised at his lips and frowned at Cal. “You fell into the trap?”
“Tumbled head first, just about,” Cal said. “But I wasn't alone for long. Élana dove in after me. There's no shortness of bravery in her.”
“No, there never was,” Everel muttered and set his mug down. “Though she always thought differently. I've never been a fan of using those traps, especially after the Zeiihbuan fell into one. Now I'll have no problem convincing the others that it's time to dispense of the tactic. Once they hear the Queen nearly fell into one, they won't argue.”
“I wasn't even close to falling in,” Meaghan protested.
Everel shrugged. “They don't need to know that. As far as they're concerned, the Queen's personal Guardian might as well be the Queen herself.”
Cal grinned at that statement and Meaghan rolled her eyes. “Don't let it go to your head.”
Aerenden: The Zeiihbu Master (Ærenden) Page 24