She bathed in the basin, which, although small, had met her needs. The water was cool and caused her to shiver, but as she placed the dress across her shoulders, she warmed up. She wondered at the sudden change in her captors—or tormentors rather, as she thought of them.
The hours passed slowly after she had bathed and eaten, and now she waited, growing increasingly agitated. “Were they playing another game with her for some pleasure unbeknownst to her?” she wondered. If so, it was a cruel game with evil intentions. Nevertheless, she waited, still pacing back and forth, waiting to hear a sound, the click of a key in a door that she knew was just at the end of a long hall though she could not see it, or the shuffle of feet against the hard stone floor.
The sounds were all she had left, tiny shuffles and tiny clicks, for she never heard voices, not even when she was served. Not a word broke the guard’s lips, and after some time she had given up hope of it ever happening and had stopped speaking as well. Momentarily her eyes fell to the sole source of light, a lamp that burned ceaselessly just out of her reach. She had never seen anyone filling it though it was always full.
Her thoughts wandered for a time to Midori, who had been with her when she was taken. She recalled her capture through shadows and unclear images, but she could not recall why. A tender spot high on her forehead still attested to her struggle though soon it would be gone, healed with time, much time.
A faint echo far down the hall caused her to freeze. She strained her ears against the silence, but only silence returned. She passed the sound off as yet another phantom of her imagination. She hesitantly returned to her methodical pacing, content for the moment with only the thoughts flowing through her mind for a companion.
Heavy on her mind was the whereabouts of her lord husband, Edwar Serant. She didn’t know how but she sensed that he was not dead, that he was near. She longed to feel his touch, to touch him in return—the warmth of his hand in hers, the feel of his lips on hers. She longed to see that rare smile, to know again a few private moments when the steel in his veins slipped away. It was in those moments that she knew the truth of life, love, and laughter.
“Oh Edwar,” she whispered just to hear a voice spoken aloud and to know something other than silence. “What game do they play with us? Will we be together when it is done?”
It was nighttime before Xith and Noman found their way beyond the Two Hands. Nijal offered his story of Awn and the ship he promised to acquire for their use, but at the time neither Xith nor Noman was in a mood to listen to it. Xith was clearly the more irritable of the two. As he not only told Nijal to shut up, but he snatched the coin from Nijal and retired without a word, muttering something to the effect of, “No-good thieves and heartless beggars.”
Nijal considered Xith’s rash act long before he took the coin back from the shaman’s hands as he slept. He had plans of his own for this evening; it was too early to retire. With Shchander as his accomplice, he ventured out into the city, finding little comfort in the gray shadows the night brought.
Torches around the perimeter of the cliffs cast an eerie glow and cast odd shadows about, but they did not let it dampen their determination. Nijal stopped beneath a lamp in a doorway and took a close inspection of the coin on both sides. The front bore the outline of some figure; the face was worn, its outlines indecipherable. The back was a weapon perhaps, maybe a sickle, or so Nijal thought.
The streets were not lively at night, which was not odd. They had been mostly deserted in the day although there were lit lanterns in many of the doors. The sound of laughter ahead drove them on, around a corner, across a street, and into an alleyway. They stopped, however, for no lamp or sign graced the door the sound carried them to. They waited in the dark of the alley, listening to singing and cheerful shouts.
A pleasant memory held Nijal there lingering for a time, but Shchander was agitated and tapped his foot nervously. Dim areas brought him little joy and much discomfort. “Let us be off,” he whispered to Nijal, who did not listen to him, “let us be off quickly.”
“Okay, okay,” replied Nijal moving back into the street. For a long time afterward, the only noise they heard was the soft pounding of their own feet, broken only by the sight and sound of a night guard passing by. The guards had only slowed to scrutinize them but did not slacken their pace for long as they did so.
Abruptly, they heard singing again. A group of three approached cheering loudly, obviously prompted by an evening of drinking. Nijal joined in the merriment of the mood, shifting into their chorus, a common song in many places. He took a chance, using the spontaneity of the moment, and took the small coin from his pocket, asking the three to look at it.
One man stopped cold in his song, the one who had been in the middle, and walked up to Nijal, blowing his foul breath in his face. “You, friend, would do best to put that back into your pocket and be on your way.”
Shchander quickly pulled Nijal away from the man, fearing that a brawl might take place at any moment. He continued to drag Nijal by the arm until the two were well away from the others. He didn’t know what the sudden shift in moods was over, but he wasn’t about to delay and find out. It was only as he stopped that he noticed Nijal tucking the coin back into his pants.
“Did you have to go and do that?” Shchander yelled, “We’re not looking for a fight.”
“I wasn’t looking for a fight, only information.”
“Well, it seems you picked the wrong group to ask. We have to be more careful; remember we are the strangers.”
“You are right about that, but we are not the strange ones.”
Teren discarded the calls at the periphery of his consciousness, turning his attentions back to the words of Prince Valam and Brother Liyan. “Nothing but darkness,” he told himself, “nothing but darkness.” Valam clenched his fist until nails bit into his palms. He was openly angry, which didn’t happen often. “We must fight!” whispered in the hollows of his thoughts. His words wore the shape of his mood; if there were those who should pay for their deeds this day, he would make them pay.
“Some very dear fellows passed this day to rest in the house of the Father, as it is said in your words. I grieve in my heart though I know I should not. They died as they lived, struggling to the last.” Valam could speak no more. He paused long before his rage led him on. “The storm, is there a way to fight it? Can we send it back upon its masters?”
Liyan, Seth, and Tsandra considered Valam’s words in earnest. They did not know for sure whether they could or not. After a time of reflection, they vowed to try. Liyan was the first to journey to the center if his soul and reach out with his will. For now the others waited.
The sky was dark and sad about Liyan as he touched his will to the air about him, bringing it in gentle circles up to a lofty height. Darkness was the immediate response to his center, but he moved through it as his spirit shifted through the very billows of the clouds overhead. A sudden sense overcame him, perhaps a taste, a taste sour and vile, causing him to withdraw.
Awaiting Liyan’s return and his approval, Seth began his own journey of will. He proceeded with caution as Liyan instructed. Weather, clouds, and rain were mostly outside the things Seth had learned, though he alone perhaps knew more about its control than did anyone else present, having undergone each of the seven teachings.
Seth did not take the same route that Liyan had, which had been a direct route to the center of the storm. No, the eye was a dangerous place to linger. Seth chose the most indirect path to the storm, sweeping his will lazily inward from a great distance upon a slow easterly breeze. An image flowed to him of clouds, huge puffs of black and deep shades of gray. The sky above was mostly clear, save for a light haze much higher up.
Seth adopted the haze as his vantage point; it was a form of nature that he understood, and it was completely separate from the fury spinning below it. Yet even at a distance, the pervading omens of evil were gnawing upon him. He delayed no longer than he thought he should before he
quickly drew his will inward.
Tsandra followed Seth’s cue and reclaimed the search for her own. As an initiate of the Brown, she held a slight advantage over her counterparts; she knew well how to find the heart of the enemy. She was quick to pursue it across the distance, finding it almost at once. A quiver befell her chin, a tremor flowed from her head to her feet, and a black cloud caved in her will and sent her in anguish to the floor.
She was still and cold and her breath was scarcely perceptible as the cloud took on the form of an eye, a great, grave, ebony eye in the window of her mind. It held her paralyzed in its grasp, mocking her as it drew life from her veins. Tsandra’s face paled and her eyes closed.
“Sever the link!” thrashed Seth into her mind with a tidal wave of force, “Break it now!”
Tsandra did not respond. Liyan joined in, tugging the darkness away from her thoughts. Seth screamed again, this time both aloud and in thought, “For the love of the Mother! Be gone! Crawl back to your dank recesses!”
The darkness gradually faded, and a tiny flutter of a breeze began to blow in the room, rustling the scrolls spread across the table. Jacob clamped his hands over them, spilling pen and ink as he did so. A lull came over the chamber but not before another victim was claimed. Seth joined Tsandra on the damp floor, wheeling about and smashing the back of his head against the table as he went down.
A voice again reached out for Teren’s mind. Tiny and weak though it was, he heard it but did not recognize it until long after it and the disquiet faded from his thoughts. Seth stirred, and all seemed right. He knew life yet flowed through Tsandra. She would not be so easily felled. He knew this well.
The three suddenly realized a thing that had been a haze in their minds, and though they revealed it to a fourth, they told no one else. Teren left immediately after the telling, parting with few words. He alone knew more than the others, not because of any special powers he was endowed with, but rather because he was privy to a small piece of knowledge the others knew nothing about. He would reveal nothing until his return; though he dreaded enduring the elements, he did so without hesitation.
“My compliments to the chef, once again. Was the buzzard finished or was he still licking the bones of this carcass when he found it. A man cannot live on dried bones and water. And another thing, the feces in the corner is growing a little stale. Would you mind disposing of it?”
“The bones are from a friend of yours; I thought you would like the claws.”
“Really, these are a bit small. Perhaps you could bring me a bit of water. My friend in here does not look well. You really should show some compassion. I promise—if you bring me a bucket of water so I can wash my face and hands, I will seal my lips for an entire day. I will speak no curses. I will bite my tongue. I swear.”
The guard scoffed but seemed to approve of the idea. His gait was still slow as he moved to retrieve a bucket of water. He thought it ironic that something he was going to do anyway could get him some hours of abatement. Bucket in hand, he returned, removing the grin upon his face as he approached the cell door.
“Now, you promise to speak not a word for the remainder of this day. Right? Swear it on the great book.”
“I swear I will not speak a word that will fall upon your ears this day, and I swear it upon the great book. Would that I had it with me now for knowledge and comfort.”
“I take that as a yes?”
“Yes.”
“Move back, back away from the door, or you will get this water across your face!” shouted the guard, as he unlocked the cell door.
Geoffrey had been listening to the chatter shifting through his thoughts, but the queasiness had not fully left him. A recent beating had done him no good, and while he sought to blame it on his companion’s rashness, he could not. He had also been enjoying the heckling—well at the time, anyway.
Using his elbow as a brace and a lever, he pushed himself up against the wall, taking extra care not to let his head touch the wall although the cold of the stone did feel soothing. He marveled as a second bucket of water was placed in the room. He took it as a sign that the bulwarks were repenting for their cruelty.
He wondered just how many days it had been since he had seen the sun upon his face or tasted the sweet smell of fresh air upon his nostrils. He did not envision food, for none was in his belly nor had any been in his belly in the immediate past. A hollow gurgling reminded him of that without his having to think about it.
“You have a gift with words, my good friend,” spoke Geoffrey as the other placed a bucket of water before him. He splashed the cool water, not noticing its lack of foulness, across the back of his neck and up onto his brow. Afterwards, he drank it in hearty gulps, filling the cavity in his gut.
“I am truly sorrowful for what they did to you. I did not know they would do that.”
“I know, I know. I am all right; the worst has passed. Is it day or night?”
“I would say it is day. I can see the sun high over a calm and pleasant scene. Not a whisper of cloud to mar its beauty.”
“Yes, but that is only in your mind.”
“It is all I have left. Remember, they can never take that from you.”
“No, they can’t,” said Geoffrey, laughing, retreating into his own thoughts. It was a pleasant place he found. For a time his vision faded in and out, and he just relaxed, leaning firmly against the wall, feeling its coolness run through him.
Noman was the first to awaken to the fullness of a new day. His mood was cheerful, and he woke Xith without a second thought. Xith, continuing to play the game for the watchers, awoke in a frightful mood, but it was quick to pass.
“Well what is it? What is the terribly important reason you detained us all through the day and almost into the night?”
“None whatsoever. Just a whim, I guess.”
“A whim?” demanded Xith.
Noman worked his cheeks into a grand grimace, “The story was good, don’t you think?”
Xith returned the smile and gave in, adding a hurried apology for his earlier shortsightedness. “I deserved it, wholly and completely. Yes, I did.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You don’t have to agree with me.”
“A quick breakfast, and off we go.”
Noman gestured ever so slightly; Xith took in the opening of the peephole in the wall with a panning glance. His chuckle was low and hearty, building up all the way from his diaphragm to the tip of his tongue. “What was I thinking?” thought Xith, as he scratched his forehead absently. Puzzled, he looked about the room. Amir lay in a cot near the sole window in the room; across the room two cots were empty, but that was not what he had been thinking about. He walked into the hall and knocked on the door of an adjacent room and entered.
Xith surveyed the room all in one glance. Content, he walked back out and closed the door, nodding to Shalimar, who had opened the door for him. Adrina was still asleep, so he had not wished to disturb her though she seemed to be having a fitful dream, turning over twice in the short time he had been in the room. Nijal and Shchander weren’t present, as expected.
As he stood back in the hall, he had to think hard before he recalled which room he had come from; but before he opened the door, Noman came out and led him downstairs, where they ate a light but wonderful breakfast of fresh baked bread and thick, meaty soup.
Leaving the inn, Xith and Noman by-passed the market, circumventing it by a wide berth. The walk seemed to ease the haze from Xith’s thoughts. He noted for the second time a faint thought wandering by, but he was not able to grasp it. Soon they stood beneath a now-familiar sign that swayed slightly in a light breeze, pausing, hesitant for an instant, before they entered the small wooden door.
The tavern was mostly deserted at this time of day; only the stalwart of stomach could partake of ale or mead first thing in the morning. Neither was surprised to find Vajlar. It was, after all, the seventh day, a day of rest, the fourth since they had crossed into the territo
ries. This day was the only day the market opened late.
Vajlar sat, mug in hand, cheerfully preoccupied with matters of his own. Noman nodded pleasantly but did not join him. His gaze moved to two who sat in the shadows in a far corner, almost out of sight. Only as he approached did he see the third. The last man was larger than most, built broad at the shoulders, yet squat. A black hat, round and flat, sat just above his brow.
“I seek Two Hands!” called out Noman. “I heard a tale that he has the best ships in the east and is fairer than most with his fees.”
“You heard right,” retorted a thin, pale man.
Noman eyed the man up and down, crossing the last bit of distance to the group’s table. “You do not look like the one I envisioned.”
“That is because he is not he. What is your business? And I do not mean to be rude when I say be quick about it, for we have some rather pressing matters to discuss.”
Xith watched the man who sat in the middle, the large one. He had seen many of the shipwrights though he did not know most of their names or their affairs. He had never seen this one before. He thought about the market yesterday and for the first time, he was aware of an absence, but he did not know what.
“I seek passage north for myself and a fair number of companions.”
“You look like a man who knows a great many things; surely you know the storms are upon us. I will venture none of my ships, no matter the sum.”
“Our journey will not go as far as Taliltan.”
“But where else would you go, my friend? Stay here in Krepost’ until the spring and then I will give you passage. I could even arrange a bargain fare. Now if you please, we must be alone.”
“Would a price in gold equal to twenty times our number be worth your trouble?”
“That, sir, would depend entirely on the number of your company.”
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