Vilmos was trembling. Only now that the threat of death loomed near did the happenings seem real. He tried to beg for his life, but his pleas only brought laughter. The priests enjoyed desperation; they fed on it.
“Stand as Gandrius and Gnoble,” the shadow walker whispered in his mind. Suddenly he understood. Memories of old washed before his eyes. He could see the stone giants, Gandrius and Gnoble, standing tall as they defended Qerek from the Rhylle hordes—and it was then that his fear became anger.
He began to focus. A trickle of magic built within him. It circled outward.
The power overtook him; he could deny it no more. Like floodwaters racing along a stream bed, magic in its purest form raced to his fingertips, engulfing the outstretched fingers of his hands and arcing wildly. The deadly flames lashed out, engulfing the priests as though they stood within flaming waterfalls.
The dark priests began to writhe and scream. To Vilmos it seemed a horrendous sight, but he could do nothing to stop the flow of raw magic from within. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see their agony, didn’t want to hear their screams.
Adrina followed Myrial to the caravanmaster’s tent. Anyone that stood in their way moved aside when Myrial raised her palace pass. “Being housemistress has its rewards,” Myrial whispered as she hurried along.
Once inside the tent they made their way to the caravanmaster’s table. The table strewn with charts and inventory scrolls looked in complete disarray but the caravanmaster seemed to know where everything he needed was as he passed out orders to those seated around him, often pointing to one of the items on the table.
Emel stood behind the caravanmaster, slightly to the right. It was a position of honor. The position reserved for the caravan’s master at arms. A fresh cut along his left cheek told of a test of steel that Emel had won, if only barely.
Myrial and Adrina stopped in front of the table. The master looked up, spoke. “If you seek passage or wish us to convey goods, you are but late. Yemi will see to you at any rate, turn you away or not as he will.” He nodded and pointed to a tall thin man seated at the far end of the table.
Adrina stood her ground, lowered the cowl of her cloak. She cleared her throat several times in an attempt to get the caravanmaster to look at her, thumped the table when he didn’t. “Imagine I have your attention now, do I not good caravanmaster?”
The caravanmaster’s aid bent over and whispered in the man’s ear. “Yes, princess,” the caravanmaster said, his far south accent only now clear to Adrina, “I did not know it was you. Is there something I can do for the Royal House of Alder?”
“You make for the Territories, do you not?” The caravanmaster nodded agreement. “Good,” she said, smiling. “I would speak to this one.” She pointed to Emel. “Dismiss him.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
Emel glared at Adrina as he walked toward her. “My princess,” he said, stopping in front of her. “What is your will?”
Adrina beaded her eyes and turned. The three exited the tent without a further word passing between them. Myrial took the lead as soon as they were outside. She walked to a secluded area where they could talk.
Adrina was near tears when they stopped. She turned to face Emel. “You were going to leave just like that? Without so much as a goodbye and taking what’s mine with you?”
“It was for the best, Myrial knew.”
Adrina turned to Myrial. Myrial said, “Yes, that’s why I brought Adrina here.”
“Why?” Adrina asked Emel. “Why are you doing this? You don’t need to, it serves no purpose.”
“There was an opening, I’ve pledged my service.”
Adrina grabbed Emel’s chin, turned his face so she could see the long wound clearly. “I see, and you got this how?”
“I am told it will heal without scarring. The blades see and understand.”
“They understand that if you slip up they can cut your throat and take your place. That’s what they understand.”
“That’s not fair, Adrina. I’m needed here.”
Adrina slammed her fists against his chest. “I need you. I can’t do this without you.”
Emel grabbed her wrists. “You are doing this without me.” He stopped, looked at Myrial, seeming to judge her thoughts by her eyes. “Don’t you understand? I can make a difference here. I’ve decided, I’m going.”
“Going where?” Adrina glared.
“The Territories, surely you know that.”
“What use to you is the orb then? Why did you take it?”
“It is for the best. I have seen what it can do to you. I will be its keeper and where better a place than the wilds of the Territories. It will be safe there and you will be safe from it.”
Adrina played a hunch. “The southlands are a long way from the Territories.”
“The caravan’s to Krepost’.”
“And you shall be there before the winter snows set in the forests?”
“Yes, before the snows set.”
“Return in the spring?”
“Yes, in the spring.”
“Yet I see no winter gear being packed, and your caravanmaster—”
“—Your point being?” Emel snapped. Myrial took a step closer, another step and she’d be standing in between them.
“I’m getting to that. I’ve eyes you know, and ears. I see, I hear.”
Emel swept around Myrial, grabbed Adrina about the shoulders. His firm grip caused Adrina to wince in pain as he pushed her up against the wall behind her. He had been holding the orb in his hand and had dropped it just before taking action. Myrial picked up the orb. She attempted to wedge herself between them. She looked back for a moment to ensure that no one was watching or near.
“Forget what you think you know,” Emel said, despite Myrial’s attempt to put herself between them.
Myrial held the orb up for both of them to see.
“That’s not fair,” Adrina said. “You were using the orb. You know?”
“Yes, I do,” Emel said.
“And I,” said Myrial gripping the orb, smiling as she tried to remember to breathe and focus as she had learned from Galan.
“What then do we do with what we know?” Emel said, releasing Adrina.
“Nothing,” Myrial said, pushing the two apart. “Nothing at all.”
Adrina straightened her dress, and glared. “You will remember to treat me like a lady, like the princess that I am. Do not touch my person again, I warn you.”
Emel scrunched up his eyes, wondering at her sudden formalness. Then he followed her eyes, turning, understanding as he saw several palace guards approaching. Their look said they were on official business. Before the guards got too close, Emel snatched the orb from Myrial’s hands and slipped it into the leather pouch around his neck.
None of them were really sure what the guardsmen had seen, if anything, so they waited.
“Your Royal Highness,” the two men said as they came to stand before the trio. “We’re minutes from sealing the city. You must come with us at once, by order of the king.”
“My father?”
“Yes, you’re to return to the palace.”
“What’s going on? I demand that you tell me.”
The guardsmen looked at each other, unsure what to say for a moment. “Please, I beg of you. I’ve a family to think about, and I cannot—”
Adrina raised a hand as a sign for the guard to stop speaking and he did, midsentence. She turned back to Emel, touched his hand. “It won’t be the same without you. Be well.”
Emel put his free hand on top of hers. “And you,” he said as he turned and walked away.
Swordmaster Timmer’s presence near Valam and Seth was potent. Casually, the swordmaster walked over to Seth and corrected his stance and grip, tossing a sharp glare at Valam, then sat back down without saying a word. Thereafter Timmer conducted their movements with a point of his hand or a gesture, grunt or groan, never breaking their concentration.
&nb
sp; Seth was gaining speed and agility dramatically—it was through Timmer that Seth had related his years of weaponless combat training with sword fighting. Indeed the movements were in many ways similar, and as soon as Seth realized this he was able to tap into his previous training and deliver attacks that increasingly put the young prince on the defensive.
As he planned movements in his mind’s eye Seth focused on Valam. His thoughts fixed only on Valam’s intentions. The thoughts that flowed into his mind helped him easily counter the prince’s attacks and the expression on Valam’s face became one of utter surprise.
Each time Valam attacked, Seth blocked. Valam found no openings and it seemed he was being pushed into a corner, making defense his only option. Only one other person could best him with such skill and that was the one who had trained him, Timmer. Out of breath from guarding, Valam yielded. He called a halt to the match.
“Are you two conspiring against me?”
“No,” Seth said honestly.
“You weren’t giving him private pointers, Timmer?”
Seth put the tip of the heavy training blade to the ground and leaned his weight against it. “Your mind is so open.”
Valam thought about Seth’s words before he replied, “By open, what do you mean?”
“Your thoughts flowed to me without effort. I used them to decide how to block and attack you.”
Valam looked to Timmer who in turn stared back blankly. “How do I protect against that?”
In jest Valam plopped down beside Timmer, put a hand on Timmer’s shoulder, and said through exhausted breaths, “Your turn, old friend.”
I’ll teach you. It is easy.
Teach me? I don’t know how to use will, thought Valam, allowing Seth to read his mind.
“I only instruct now,” replied Timmer softly, belatedly, “My sword arm isn’t what it used to be.”
You don’t have to. Will is in everything—and besides, I’m not talking about reading minds. I’m talking about defending from a mind probe—a simple clouding of thoughts.
“You are still the best swordsman I have ever seen,” Valam said replying to Timmer as he sheathed his weapon and waved for Seth to follow him.
“An unused dagger rusts,” Timmer mumbled as the three walked through the entryway into the palace proper.
“Nonsense,” added Valam as he turned toward the armory.
Chapter Five:
Stark Reality
Vilmos braced himself, clasped his hands to his ears. The screams, the screams. He couldn’t take them anymore. Why didn’t it end? Why did they still scream? Why couldn’t it be quick—and over? Why? Why? Why?
He begged, pleaded with himself to let it end, to ebb the flow of magic. Then he realized that he wasn’t hearing desperate cries of dying men. What should have been screams of pain had turned to raucous laughter and as he opened his eyes, he saw the dark priests standing within the flames, untouched by the fire.
The one who laughed the hardest was the one who had abducted Vilmos, but he was not a man like the others. His eyes were milk-white with blindness and yet he saw. He saw with the second sight of his kind. The sight that was inborn to those of his demon race.
The demon’s scaly hands agilely stroked a medallion that was suspended on a thick, gold chain around his neck. His voice boomed with laughter as he spoke. “He is the one,” the demon said. “He has the mystic power of the keeper to be certain, and perhaps more.”
Vilmos turned in a tight circle. His eyes wild, wide.
“Did you honestly think that we were unprepared to fulfill our duties?” scoffed Talem. “I assure you, you are not the first. You will not be the last.”
The priests pounced on Vilmos. Two held him while others bound his hands and feet, put a gag in his mouth. Then they slipped a large sack over him, propelling him into a sightless world of darkness.
For a time he relied on his sense of hearing. He listened to the fall of footsteps that were circling him and the muffled voices debating angrily. Then a smell, potent and sour, found its way to him. Afterward only darkness and unconsciousness.
Adrina paced in her room. It had been a long day. So much had happened. She was upset, but happy for Emel, because he had appeared to be happy. Everything seemed so wrong though. Why was the caravan train leaving Imtal now? Why was her father sealing the city? Why did Emel have to go?
The trail was muddy and wet from rain. The mud would make progress along the road slow. Wagons could get stuck. Pack mules could become reluctant or agitated. The rain could return. Passengers and crew wouldn’t be happy.
The rain was only the beginning. It was late in the day. Caravans normally left early in the morning or at least by midday so they could make progress along the road before nightfall. So why was this caravan leaving the city when only a few hours of daylight remained? Did the caravanmaster know something she didn’t? Was he planning on driving the caravan through the long night?
Myrial touched Adrina’s arm, partly to remind the princess that she was there and partly to get her attention. Adrina turned to Myrial and frowned. “You know what I’m thinking. Don’t you?”
“Sealing the city against the night isn’t that unusual, especially with all that has happened recently. Besides, I’m sure there is good reason.”
“Then why does it all seem so wrong?”
“Go see your father. Talk to him.”
“He told me nothing last time, only that he was pleased to see me. Like I was some prize toy that he had requested the guards to fetch.”
Myrial touched a hand to Adrina’s, then filled two cups with tea. “Sit, drink. It’s one of your favorites. Strong spice and tropical fruit from the southlands. The aroma is wonderful, soothing.”
“And the biscuits?” Adrina asked with a soft laugh.
“Fresh-baked, with a hint of lemon. I spoke with the baker, just as you asked.”
Adrina took a sip of tea, then bit into a biscuit that seemed to melt in her mouth. “You did, didn’t you?”
Myrial didn’t reply. She sipped her tea quietly, concentrated on the biscuits. She hadn’t eaten much all day and was hungry.
Adrina watched Myrial eat as she nibbled on a biscuit and sipped her tea. “He shouldn’t have dismissed me like that,” she said, breaking the silence. “I’m not a child.”
“It was for the benefit of the council I’m sure.”
“For a bunch of old men that care nothing about anyone but themselves. They could care less if I were alive or dead.”
“Exactly,” Myrial said looking directly at Adrina. “I’m sure that’s the truth of it. Your father couldn’t act pleased or surprised to see you. He only wanted to see that you were well. Oh, don’t you see? That’s what it was about.”
“You know something, don’t you?” Adrina put down the tea cup, stared intently. “Tell me what you know, Myrial. Please, I beg of you.”
Myrial said quietly, the tone of her voice so low Adrina had to lean forward to hear, “You don’t want to know what they say in whispers Adrina, you don’t want to know. The whispers are hurtful, they always are. You are better—”
“Whispers?” Adrina pushed, though she could see Myrial was frightened.
“The word in the hall, in the city, in the land. Things you shouldn’t know or hear, Adrina.”
“What do the whisperers say?”
Myrial turned away. She couldn’t look at Adrina as she spoke, “If the whispers were even half true, I would tell you. The whispers don’t have a spark of truth. Your father is a good and just king. Your family is strong and will rule for many generations to come. I know this as I know no other thing.”
“Does my father know the things the whisperers say?”
“I’m sure he does,” Myrial said quietly, turning back to her tea and acting as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Adrina knew then that Myrial was hiding from the truth of the whispers. Myrial didn’t want to face painful truths anymore than she did and t
he truth was in Myrial’s words. The whisperers must be saying that the House of Alder was weak and that it’s time had come and gone.
Adrina didn’t like the stark reality that she was faced with. She was frightened and hurt. If such whispers had spread throughout the land, very dangerous days were ahead. She knew her history, how monarchies were toppled, how kings were born, bled, and died.
The people rewarded good kings in word and deed. Good kings could rule with open hands, but that hand must be ready to clench into a fist, to strike, to defend, to keep land and people. A weak king was no king at all. He was a puppet on the throne who would bow to the will of the strong. Was her father weak?
Light filtering into the thick burlap bag caused Vilmos to wake. He could tell that he was outside. He couldn’t tell where he was. Every now and then those carrying him would switch shoulders, jerking him around violently as they did so. He tried to struggle, to fight, to free his hands or at the very least find a comfortable position. His legs were cramped and he ached. His wrists stung where the ropes bit into them. His back hurt where bruised shoulders swelled.
Through it all, the shadow walker was there with him, whispering that he should calm himself and not worry, for they followed Stranth’s trail back to Pakchek Daren where they would find safety. But Vilmos didn’t want to listen to the voice in his mind. He wanted freedom and so he struggled.
Suddenly movement stopped. Vilmos was dumped onto the ground. He heard a creaking sound, perhaps that of a warped door being laboriously opened.
He was picked up again. Still in the burlap bag he was deposited in a box of sorts. He couldn’t tell what kind of box, only that he heard the cover close over him and a lock being set in place, felt the walls about his shoulders.
Shrouded in total darkness now, Vilmos guessed the box was completely sealed. The air became stuffy and warm, hard to breathe. His listened, but the movement of those around him became the least of his worries. He fought to keep his eyes open. He was suddenly so tired. Sleep called out to him.
He beat against the box with his elbows, struggled to maintain consciousness. He knocked his head against the top of the box until it hurt. The last time he did so he saw a crack of light enter the box. A puff of air followed. It brought life to his burning lungs.
Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle Page 54