Ema giggled and shook her head, then turned and ran back to gather her friends. Standing up again, Raz watched the children—all dressed in the plain rough garbs of Laorin acolytes—hurry over to the mounts, reaching up with little hands to stroke the smooth sheen of their hair. The mare took a few moments to adjust to the sudden attention, having arrived at the Citadel not more than a few days prior at Carro’s summoning. Gale, on the other hand, dipped his great black head down at once, offering the ridge of his nose for petting. Both horses were tacked and bagged, the thick cloth traveling sacks hanging off either side of their saddles already heavy with provisions, blankets, and spare clothes. In addition, the hilt of Raz’s gladius jutted skyward from where its scabbard had been strapped to Gale’s left shoulder, and the leather bag that covered Ahna’s wicked twin tips could be seen protruding from where the dviassegai had been lashed to his right side. Similarly, Syrah’s steel staff, the defining symbol of her Priesthood among the Laorin, hung off the side of the mare, within easy reach.
Neither of them was fool enough to expect an untroubled journey out of the faith’s lands.
“…horses are stocked with three weeks' supplies. It should be enough to get you both through the Arocklen and beyond the Dehn, but we can have more brought up from the larders if you think it prudent.”
Syrah had already started to say her farewells, and Raz turned his attention back to the men and women before him, gathered in a half-circle around the Priestess.
“No, no that’s quite all right,” Syrah was replying to a slight, bespectacled man when Raz moved to stand over her shoulder. “The temple’s reserves are strained enough as it is, given the extra mouths we had to feed this freeze. I’m sure the Woods will provide, should Raz and I find ourselves short.”
Jofrey al’Sen nodded sagely, causing the black strip of cloth sewn along the top and back of his hooded robes to shift. The High Priest of Cyurgi ‘Di was a smaller man in comparison to many Northerners, but there was a quiet confidence about him Raz had always found intriguing. Skilled in diplomacy and the arcane arts granted to his faith by their god, Laor, Jofrey had come into power suddenly the year before upon the unexpected death of his predecessor. Despite this, he’d risen well to the demands of the position, and Raz had found his respect for the man steadily solidifying over the duration of the winter.
“If you’re sure,” the High Priest said to Syrah before glancing up at Raz with a twinkle in his eye. “Given I’ve known your companion to consume more on any given day than a small family, though, I’d say the possibility of that is high.”
Raz snorted, and Syrah bounced back into him affectionately. “If that’s the case, then he can go hunt his own dinner every night,” she said with a sly smile, looking back at him.
“Sounds like fun,” Raz said with a shrug.
Jofrey nodded, his eyes not leaving Raz’s. “I know I’ve said it before, Master Arro, but I hope you understand why I must ask you to leave our mountains. We will always be grateful for what you did for this Citadel, but the sort of life you live—”
“And as I’ve said before,” Raz interrupted him gruffly, raising a hand to stop the man, “I do understand. There’s no need to rehash the facts, Jofrey. Cyurgi ‘Di cannot be seen to harbor a killer. It’s as simple as that.”
From behind the High Priest, Raz heard the quiet mutter of someone whispering “You mean murderer, lizard,” and he raised his eyes to meet the defiant glares of old Valaria Petrük and her favorite lackey, Behn Argo.
If Jofrey heard the murmured insults, he chose to ignore them. Instead, the old man nodded. “Your understanding is appreciated. On a related note, however,” he turned his gaze on Syrah again, “we received a bird from Ystréd yesterday evening. Tana Atler wanted me to tell you that her temple’s doors are open to you both, and she will be happy to accommodate you until such time as you find other lodgings.”
Raz and Syrah glanced at each other. Ystréd had indeed been their first intended destination, at least for the time being, though they’d planned on camping outside the city walls while Syrah took trips into the town to gather news while they formed their plans. The temple in Ystréd was a smaller one, particularly in comparison to the Citadel, but the faith had a significant enough presence across the North as a whole to make anyone think twice about approaching them while under Laor’s protection. Raz didn’t see too much harm in accepting the offer of shelter, particularly if it meant a true bed for Syrah to sleep in, rather than the grass under whatever tree they could find…
Eventually Raz shrugged, then nodded, and the Priestess did the same as they silently agreed.
“We would be pleased to take the High Priestess up on her offer,” Syrah told Jofrey, facing him again. “If you have a chance to respond, please extend our gratitude to her.”
“I’ll make sure to do that,” Jofrey agreed. “In return, I hope you’ll find the time to send us a bird when you reach the city. It will do us all good to know that you arrived safe.” He looked at Raz again. “Both of you.”
“We will,” Raz promised him simply, and Jofrey seemed to take that to heart, because he smiled before glancing over at the man who’d come to stand by his side while they spoke.
It had taken Raz some time to warm up to Carro al’Dor when they’d first met, nearly a year past now. The former Priest had been rigid, in Raz’s opinion, too set in his ways and unable to compromise. However, after weeks spent on the road together as they’d set off for Cyurgi ‘Di in the company of the Citadel’s former High Priest, Talo Brahnt, Raz had developed an altogether different opinion of the man. He was fair, strong of will and heart, and had made the greatest sacrifice a faithful of the cloth could offer in order to save his people. As a result, he’d lost much, his Priesthood being the least of those things, and the scar that marked that loss was one he would bear across his face forever.
But with a price paid often comes something in exchange, and in the absence of magic and the companionship of the Laorin, Carro had gained much in return. The mountain men called him “the Peacekeeper,” because in the span of a few short weeks Carro al’Dor had managed to disband the great army of their former Kayle, returning to the clans the freedoms they’d lost under the boot of Gûlraht Baoill. In doing so he had garnered the respect—and even the love—of many among their ranks. The dozen that stood behind him were only the closest handful of nearly five thousand warriors of various tribes who had elected to stay with the man they saw as their new Kayle, a more just and compassionate ruler than any they had known in their time. Even the old Sigûrth, Rako, seemed more than simply subservient to Carro now. The most level-headed of all Baoill’s former generals, Rako had sought to lend his knowledge to the Peacekeeper after the battle that had claimed the former Kayle’s life, as well as those of dozens of Priests and Priestesses of the faith. He’d proven himself indispensable in the end, even loyal, and though they had never been able to bring themselves to like the Sigûrth, Raz and Syrah had eventually come to respect him.
He had, after all, been integral in placing a great man in a position of immense power.
“Syrah,” Carro said affectionately, stepping forward and spreading his arms wide to grip the Priestess in a bear-like hug. “I will miss you dearly, child.”
“And I you, old man,” Syrah said in a hushed tone, and Raz heard true sadness in her voice. “Stay safe, will you?”
“I think those were meant to be my words,” Carro said with a smirk, pulling away and holding the woman at arm’s length so he could take her in. “Ystréd first, it sounds like?” He glanced up at Raz. “Do you have a plan after that?”
“No.” Raz shook his head. “No plan, and it’s for the best. The Mahsadën undoubtedly still want me dead, and we both know there are still factions among your tribes that yet favor Gûlraht Baoill’s vision of the North.’” He uncrossed his arms to put a clawed hand on Syrah’s slim shoulder. “No plan means no one can guess where we are, or at least where we’re going.”
Carro nodded in understanding, letting go of Syrah before looking over his shoulder and nodding to a Gähs warrior who was waiting there expectantly.
“No plan is the best plan,” Carro summarized as the mountain man ducked back between his companions, then reappeared holding what looked to be several layers of heavy pelts. “I see. If that’s the case—” he motioned the man forward, and the Gähs stepped up to Syrah at once “—let us assume you may well end up in less friendly climates.”
Carro reached out with his free hand to peel back the topmost furs and reveal what lay beneath. There, folded neatly over itself, was a mantle out of what seemed almost another life to Raz. A clean, pure white, it had been cut and crafted from what looked to be thin, breathable silk. Even folded as it was it shimmered in the faint breeze of the summer morning, and for a moment Raz was taken back to the ripples of the Garin, the desert lake around which he and his family had spent his childhood summers in calm comfort. The desert shined in that silk, somehow, as though the Sun above saw fit to reflect the best and worst memories of Raz’s life back at him from the fabric.
“Carro…” Raz began, stepping around Syrah and lifting a hand slowly, hesitantly, to run a hand over the mantle's layers. He had no other words, however, as he felt the familiar texture settle between his fingers, like wind made tangible.
“You recognize it?” Carro asked him, watching his face.
Raz nodded, looking back at Syrah. “It’s the mantle I gave to you, the day we first met.” As Syrah’s eyes widened, he turned back to Carro. “Where in the Sun’s name did you get it?”
“Talo kept it,” Carro told him, looking at the silk almost fondly. “Jofrey and I found it while cleaning out the High Priest’s quarters.” He indicated the man standing just behind him with a nudging elbow.
Jofrey inclined his head in agreement. “We thought you should have it back. I’m sorry our laws prevent us from replacing your lost weaponry, but we hoped this would be some small recompense of our gratitude.”
For the first time in several months, Raz felt the absence of a familiar weight on his hip. The war-axe that had once nestled there, looped into his belt, was the most inconsequential of the losses suffered that day, the day Gûlraht Baoill came knocking on the very doors of the Citadel. Still, it had taken its small toll on Raz after the battle was done. The weapon—like all his gear—had been crafted by Allihmad Jerr, the South’s premier blacksmith, and one of less than a handful of friends he’d left behind upon fleeing the fringe cities. Its absence was something of a dark realization every time he thought about it, like a hole in the few good memories he had.
The silk in his hands, however, was a gift of an altogether different caliber. It had been commissioned specially for him by his family when he’d grown too large for any of the capes or cloaks the other men could pass down to him. It would be somewhat short on him now, he knew, but Raz didn’t care. He’d just been handed back a piece of his old life. It was a small thing, an article he had taken for granted when he’d lived among the Arros as a thing of necessity against the cruel gaze of the Sun.
Now, though, vivid as the men standing before him, he recalled his father handing him the mantle, making a joke about its cost and how Raz had better stop growing before his food and clothing ran the clan’s coffers dry.
“Thank you,” he managed to get out, carefully lifting the cloth from the furs with both hands. “This… this means much to me. Thank you both.”
Jofrey smiled and nodded, but Carro glanced over at Syrah. “There’s something here for you as well.”
Syrah, who’d been staring at the white silks as Raz held them almost reverently in his hands, blinked and looked around. Raz, too, lifted his head at the old man’s words, and almost laughed at what he saw.
There, revealed now that he’d removed his own gift from atop them, were several more distinctive articles of clothing. Raz recognized them at once, noting first the paired gloves of thin, pliable leather bleached white, then the ivory robes they were folded atop, woven of silk. They were the very garments Syrah had been wearing when he’d first laid eyes on her, and he’d thought her mad for it. Whatever loon was fool enough to wear leather and full-length robes during the hottest time of year in the South had to be insane, after all.
Glancing at the woman now, though, he relived his folly all over again. Her pale, ghostly skin echoed the snows of the Northern lands he had come to love so much. Her hair, loose over the black wrappings that covered her missing right eye, was whiter than bone, and her good eye, pale and pink, had a sharpness to it that spoke volumes of the depth of the mind beneath.
Albinos never made it past infancy beneath the devouring light of the Southern Sun. He hadn't even considered it an option as he’d strolled past what he could only assume was a madwoman in the busy market streets of Karth.
“Talo kept these, too?” Syrah groaned, stepping forward and lifting one of the gloves up with distinct displeasure.
Clearly her gift wasn’t having the same sort of impact on her as Raz’s had.
“He did,” Carro chuckled, “and he repaired them. Whatever else you might think, they could come in useful.”
“Not likely,” Syrah grumbled, pulling the glove onto her right hand and flexing her fingers. It still fit. “The robes just tore when I was taken. I lost the shawl and veil completely.
The grin that passed between Carro and Jofrey then was so mischievous, one might have thought the two of them were nothing more than a pair of misbehaving children. At once, Raz had a suspicion of what was about to happen. Slowly, like a magician pulling a cloth out of some hidden pocket of his coat, Jofrey drew what looked like a length of yet more ivory silk from the folds of his sleeve, holding it up for her to see.
“Is that so?” he asked through a half-suppressed laugh.
It was a new shawl, dangling alongside what looked to be a thin, breathable white veil.
Syrah’s audible curse drew laughs from the entire crowd, this time.
Raz felt strange, stopping and turning one last time with Syrah to wave back at the mouth of the tunnel that was Cyurgi ‘Di’s outermost entrance. They stood, side-by-side between their horses, in the center of the wide plateau that acted as a sort of outer courtyard for the Citadel, a flattened space that hugged the mountain cliffs on one side and fell off into oblivion on the other. Looking back, Raz felt what could only be described as ironic disappointment overwhelm him, the sort of conflicted sadness that comes when one is leaving behind something they found themselves distinctly surprised to have enjoyed.
He recalled the first time he had laid eyes on the lumbering outline of the bastions that flanked the outer entrance, black-and-grey monoliths looming like living giants out of the endless snow of the winter storms. Raz had, in that moment, understood for the first time in his life the absolute truth of his insignificance in the greater existence that was the larger world. He’d felt small, powerless, even afraid. The stone had exuded a callous coldness to him, a lifeless quality he had feared, like the scaled skin of some dead titan fallen across the mountain’s face.
And yet now, taking in the outlines of the walls against the crisp blue of the cloudless summer morning, Raz could feel only the sudden absence of the Citadel’s warmth around him. It had taken him some weeks to forgo his distaste of enclosed spaces—particularly when said spaces were often half-a-mile below anywhere that saw the Sun—but in time he’d discovered himself coming to terms with, then even appreciating, the closeness of the stone around him, the kind heat of the tunnels and fresh breeze of the narrow windows.
Eventually, the place had started to feel almost like a home…
The others had followed them out, gathering around the mouth of the tunnel and raising their hands to return Raz and Syrah’s final goodbye. Jofrey stood close to Carro, their respective entourages on either side of them, the ranks of which had swollen significantly in the last quarter-hour. Raz brought his hand down over his eyes to peer against the
Sun’s light, seeing some hundred other figures crowding the entranceway, many with their hands in the air, others watching them go with tight lips and narrowed eyes. There was the sound of laughter, and Raz looked up to the ramparts high above, seeing the children of the temple clambering onto the crenellations to wave. He smiled, chuckling as he returned the gesture.
He was just about to turn around again when Syrah inhaled sharply from beside him.
Raz looked at her, only to find the woman staring at something along the very edge of the large group standing outside the Citadel walls. He followed her eyes, and it only took him a moment to find what she had seen, the familiar visage jumping out at him from the throng.
Reyn Hartlet had not changed as much as Carro in the last months, but his was still a face far different than the youthful one Raz had known in the first days of his arrival at the mountain temple. Once clean-shaven and strong-chinned, the young Priest now bore a heavy beard which gave him the look of a man twice his age. His hair, half-a-year ago kept clean and kempt, hung long and lank, loose strands falling across his eyes. It was in those eyes that Raz had seen the greatest change. It had come on slowly at first, a measured build of mixed heartbreak and confusion, but as the weeks passed, so grew the anger. Blue irises, once bright with life, were now dark, filled with something heavy and boiling as they took in Raz and Syrah. Disappointment. Disgust.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 135