Satisfied that his summonings were sent, Talo pushed himself to his feet, groaning as his bad knee protested the motion. Ignoring the pain, he crossed to a small oak cabinet beside his bed and opened its doors, pulling out another candle. With a thought it flared to life in his hands, and not a moment too soon as the dying flame on the desk behind him finally gave up with a last sputtering wink.
Smack!
“Ow!” Reyn Hartlet yelped, laughing. “What was that for?”
“That was for putting your hands where they don’t belong, sir,” Syrah Brahnt giggled from her place on top of him, straddling his naked hips.
“Well, you didn’t seem to mind that much last night, did you?” Reyn growled, sitting up suddenly and flipping the woman over onto her back so quickly she gasped and laughed.
They were in Reyn’s room tonight. As he’d selected to take on a permanent position in the Citadel as soon as he’d received his staff, his chambers were slightly larger and more lived-in. He had a small unframed mirror hanging from a nail on one wall, and a pile of books on a plain timber desk pushed up against another. Candles hung from the ceiling, suspended in thin metal cups, though none were lit.
Most importantly, though, was the fact that the bed was a good half width larger than Syrah’s in her current room.
Syrah laughed again as Reyn bent over her and nuzzled her neck, kissing it lightly as she fought playfully back. It was dark in the room, neither of them seeing any need for light, but he still managed to find her wrists and pin them on either side of the pillow above her head. Her laughter ended abruptly, replaced by a tantalizing “mmm” of pleasure as she arched her back, pressing herself against his bare chest.
“Every day you seem to learn something else I like, don’t you?” she whispered seductively into his ear.
Reyn chuckled, pushing himself up so that he could look her in the face through the dark.
“Not very hard, is it? You seem to like pretty much anything.”
“Guilty as charged,” Syrah breathed, and she lifted her head suddenly to reach his lips, kissing him roughly. He kissed her back just as passionately, letting go of one of her wrists so that his hand could stray down her arm, then her breast, reaching for the buttons of the simple nightgown draped over her slim form…
Then something darted into the room from under the door, and a small corner of the floor lit up with bluish-white light.
“Wait,” Syrah gasped, breaking off the kiss as she turned to look at the disturbance.
Reyn, noticing it too, didn’t protest, twisting off of her so that she could sit up and scoot to the end of the bed.
The narrow band of light was like a strip of thin silk, suspended magically in the air as it danced slowly in a gentle circle, casting a bright glow that oddly seemed only to fill the tiniest part of the dark room. Getting to her feet, Syrah made her way carefully towards the object and knelt beside it, extending a hand. The shining trail floated slowly forward, settling into her palm, where it hung for a moment.
Then it faded, and the room was dark again.
“Who was that?” Reyn asked through the black.
“Talo,” Syrah told him, standing up and reaching out to feel the nearby wall. The disappearance of the message had left her completely blind. “I have to go, I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Go. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Syrah nodded to the shadows, made her way carefully to the door outlined in the pale glow of the candlelit hallway, and opened it just enough to slip through.
Blinking and squinting as her sensitive eyes struggled to get used to the sudden light, Syrah turned and started walking, wondering what Talo could want at this hour. It was nearly midnight, and though she knew her former mentor was well aware of her and Reyn’s dynamic, she liked to think he would at least give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was asleep right now.
Which meant that whatever he needed to see her about was important enough to wake her.
Putting a little rush in her step, Syrah followed the familiar path towards the High Priest’s chambers. She’d been back at Cyurgi’ Di well over a month now, and her memories of the old halls—a little foggy when she’d first returned—were fresh in her mind again. It had been years since she’d been consecrated into the Priesthood and left for the western ranges, intent on working out a peaceful solution between the wild mountain tribes of the Vietalis and the valley towns of Metcaf and Harond below. Now, being home, it was as though she’d leapt bodily back into her time as an acolyte spent under Talo’s wing.
She couldn’t have been happier.
It was a few minutes before she was knocking on the wide door of the High Priest’s rooms, and she quickly flattened her white hair and checked that all the buttons of her nightgown were clasped as her former mentor’s voice boomed “Come in!” from the other side. Pushing it open, Syrah stepped inside. Talo stood behind his desk, Carro al’Dor and Jofrey al’Sen across from him, and all three turned to look at Syrah as she walked in.
“There you are,” Talo said with a smile, motioning her forward. “Come. I was just informing these two about this.”
As Syrah moved to join Carro and Jofrey, Talo picked up what looked like a letter from the desk in front of him and held it out.
“Kal Yu’ri, the High Priest of one of our faith’s smaller temples and a close friend of mine, has requested aid from Cyurgi’ Di. What do you think of it?”
Taking the letter, Syrah read it over quickly. Then she cursed.
“If only we’d heard from him sooner,” she said, biting her lower lip before handing the parchment to Jofrey to read. “We could have helped him then. As of now, though, I don’t really see how, unless we only send a few… But that would be useless, wouldn’t it? I don’t see how three or four more of us could do much to change the minds of Azbar’s council and Chairman if a whole temple hasn’t already been able to handle it.”
“It would depend on who was sent,” Carro responded quietly, blue eyes on his partner as he stroked his braided blond beard thoughtfully. “You’re not thinking of doing what I think you are, are you?”
“You know me best, don’t you?” Talo responded fondly with a gruff laugh. “What do you think I’m thinking of doing?”
There was a silent moment in which Syrah looked around at all three older Priests.
“Am I missing something?” she asked finally. Before either Talo or Carro could respond, though, it was Jofrey who answered the question. Reyn’s former Priest-Mentor had an oddly concerned look on his lined face as he spoke.
“He wants to go to Azbar himself.”
Another moment of silence, and Syrah gaped at Talo.
“You want to do what?”
Talo, surprisingly, cringed under his former acolyte’s angry outburst. From Syrah’s left, Carro laughed out loud.
“My thoughts exactly. She keeps her head on straight, this one. You taught her well, Talo.”
“Maybe too well,” the High Priest muttered under his breath jokingly.
Syrah, however, was less than amused.
“You can’t be serious.” She put both hands on the desk in front of her and leaned over it angrily. “You want to leave on a fool’s errand to the middle of nowhere just as the freeze picks up again? Never mind that you can barely make it to the dining hall for meals on that leg of yours! What about your responsibilities? Eret entrusted you with the Citadel, Talo, not anyone else. You would be leaving just as winter hits, and we aren’t even properly stocked yet. We have a week left to finish what we need two to do! You can’t leave now.”
“I wouldn’t bother, handsome,” Carro cut in with a chuckle as Talo opened his mouth to argue. “She’s got you nailed to the wall, and I’m with her on this one. Mind you, I’m more worried about your knee than anything else. Knowing how things have been the last few years, you’re liable to trip and fall down a mountain-height of stairs before you even made it to the Woods. Where would we be then?”
&nbs
p; “I think he should go.”
There was a moment of absolute silence in which Syrah, Talo, and Carro all stared openly at Jofrey in surprise. Fortunately for him, it was Talo who recovered first.
“Thank you, Jofrey,” he said quickly, holding up a hand to stop the angry outburst he could virtually see building on Syrah’s pale lips. “I’ll admit that of anyone I thought you might attempt to be the voice of reason, but I am grateful nonetheless.”
Jofrey chuckled, nodding his head in thanks at the compliment.
“I am being the voice of reason. You two.” He looked at Syrah and Carro. “While I admit you both bring up valid concerns, I would point out that Eret did leave Talo the mantle of High Priest for a reason. You should trust his judgment as a leader before you question it as a friend. Talo has been handed a situation that requires his attention, and in my opinion has found the best solution to deal with it. By only sending a few the journey will be quicker and the toll on Cyurgi’ Di’s manpower will be minimal, not to mention that the harvesting is already in motion and requires only supervision. As for the High Priest’s duties, Carro can handle them while he is gone. Beyond that, Talo’s history with Azbar could have great impact on the situation there, given the right circumstances. As I said: the best option.”
For a full five seconds Syrah and Carro continued to stare at the old Priest, open-mouthed.
“I-I suppose it’s possible,” Carro spluttered finally. “I still worry about your knee, Talo. And as for taking over, I’m sure there are other Priests better suited to the task of—”
“You needn’t worry about either,” Talo interrupted with a grunt as he sat down in the wingback chair behind his desk. “You’re coming with me. Jofrey, I would like you to handle things in my absence.”
It was Jofrey’s turn to stumble over his words.
“M-me?” the Priest demanded, shocked. “Talo, surely you can find someone more worthy of taking over. Priest Jerrom maybe, or Petrük. Laor knows that woman would love a chance to—”
“Jerrom is approaching the Lifegiver’s final embrace and has deserved his rest, and Valaria Petrük is a venomous cow who, if she had her way, would run this temple as a military outpost and see the return of hanging disobedient acolytes by their ankles in the furnaces. No. You are my pick, Jofrey. That is my final word.”
Talo’s sudden seriousness caught them all off guard, but they paid careful attention as he continued.
“You, Syrah,” he said, placing his elbows on the desk and leaning into them, “will ensure that the harvest remains on schedule, and will assist Jofrey in any way you can. I don’t plan on being gone more than three-score days, but if that doesn’t happen I still expect you both to be able to take care of things while Carro and I are away. Is that clear?”
“I know we haven’t had much time to ourselves lately, Talo,” Carro stepped in, “but this is a little over the—”
“Carro,” Talo sighed, “as much as I look forward to spending a trip alone with you, the reality is that you are both one of the best healers in this temple and our most talented scribe. I’ll need both skills to make it to and from Azbar in one piece, and likely to help me with the council. These are simple people. You would be surprised what a clever letter or intelligent phrase will do towards making them see reason.”
He turned to look at Syrah.
“You have my faith that everything will be in order when I return,” he said quietly. “Can I hold you to that, Syrah?”
The Priestess was quiet for a moment, considering the question carefully before speaking.
“Safe travels, Talo. Don’t get eaten by a bear. The poor thing might have indigestion.”
IV
“It was an odd thing to watch him grow, to witness how his actions shaped him into the half-man, all-beast creature he became. Killing was more than a profession; killing was an obsession, and one which I say with no shame that I played my part in fueling. But you should have seen his eyes that first night he found me… For all his strength, all his speed, all his ferocity, they were the eyes of a broken soul…”
—ALLIHMAD JERR, MASTER SMITH
RAZ WAS in trouble.
He’d known it for the last two days, but as his sixth night spent away from the Southern heat broke a late dawn, he was realizing just how much trouble he was actually in. The temperatures had been constantly falling with each passing day, plummeting so low after sundown that he’d had to keep a fire burning through each of the last three nights. This morning, though, as he stood up next to the smoldering remains of the previous evening’s fire, he swore silently to the surrounding trees.
It was barely any warmer now, as the Sun came up, than it had been for the hours he’d lain on his back studying Her Stars through the entwined branches.
He could see his breath misting in front of him. He was familiar with the concept of vapor. It wasn’t uncommon for the contents of a drinking trough to disappear in the space of an hour around the Cienbal, but this new phenomenon was something else entirely. Raz took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, marveling at the geyser of steam that rolled from his mouth and nostrils, fading quickly into the crisp, chilly air.
Despite the cold he couldn’t help but do it twice more, smiling at the sight.
But he had to get moving. He could already feel his feet stiffening against the cold ground, and his wings, their thin membranes shielded only by his roughly hewn fur cloak, weren’t much better off. Kneeling by the remains of the fire, he took a stick and prodded it back to life, enjoying the wave of heat that washed over him as he uncovered the embers under the built-up ash. There was no end to kindling. Everything from dead branches to whole felled trees were as common as stones and hills in these woods, and within five minutes Raz had another happy blaze crackling warmly. Sitting down and extending his wings around the flames, he sighed in relief as the heat soaked into him, loosening every tight muscle. Reaching out for Ahna’s haft, he dragged her and his supply sack towards him, pulled it open, and rummaged through it for the remainder of his dried meat.
“Third time’s the charm, right, sis?” he asked the dviassegai with a chuckle, eyeing the last four strips of dried flank he pulled from the cloth wrappings. “We’ll get a foal today. That, or just starve to death.”
By “foal,” Raz meant the strange, agile four-legged animals he kept running across as he made his way haphazardly through the woods. He had no idea what they were called in truth, but as they had a similar build to what he thought of as a very small horse, he’d decided “foal” was as good a name as any. This wasn’t an ideal title, of course. The creatures were tan with splotches of white across their fur, prancing about on slender legs, broad ears flicking in every direction as they grazed. A few times now Raz’s quick eyes had even caught a glimpse of what looked like oddly branching horns adorning a few of their heads. Males and females, he’d decided. Not that it made a difference. Twice now he’d tried to sneak up on one of them, hoping to get close enough for a clear throw with his dagger, and twice the animals had bolted before he’d even thought himself close enough to be noticeable.
“I’ll do better next time, Ahna,” he said out loud, patting the weapon’s haft. “Promise.”
Within a minute the meat was gone and, his meager breakfast finished, Raz got to his feet, kicking dirt over the flames and watching sadly as the fire died with a lingering trail of smoke. Tucking his wings in tight under the cloak and pulling his hood over his head, Raz threw Ahna over his shoulder again and started heading northeast, the designated random direction of the day. With no map to go by and the road being too dangerous to follow, Raz had little choice but to hope the North wasn’t as barren and empty as his father’s old stories had often made the realm out to be.
Not that the haphazardness of his situation bothered Raz. It was oddly pleasant, in fact. For once he had no plan, no desperate urge to get something done and do something quick. Even before the war with the Mahsadën, Raz had always been doing something.
There had been no shortage of work in the underworlds of Miropa, and even on the rare occasion that jobs were sparse he’d always felt the nauseating urge to get on with it, to find someone to hunt. There were always more bad men somewhere begging for a good thrashing, after all.
Here, though, and for the last week of his life, Raz had felt no such need. If it weren’t for the blistering cold and the occasional blasts of icy wind that had replaced the cool breeze mere days after his border crossing, Raz was fairly convinced he would have enjoyed his stray journeying quite thoroughly.
Unfortunately, though, reality was a bitch to be wed to, and Raz pulled his cloak as tight around his shoulders as he could, holding it closed over his body with one hand as he made his way carefully down the steep bank of a mossy hill.
The way he was seeing things, he had three options. The first: turn around and hope he made it to warmer climates in time to escape the winter, which seemed to have decided on an early show this year. Second: hole up for the next ten months and wait out the freeze. He’d come across a few spots that might do the trick, mostly shallow caves in the hillsides or rock overhangs he might be able to build shelter around if he hurried. Third: find some sign of civilization, as dirty and downtrodden as it might be. After the slums of the desert fringe cities and this icy emptiness of the woods, any place with a bed would do the trick just fine.
Raz snorted as he ducked under the lowest limbs of a blue pine. If only things were that easy.
His first option was a suicide mission. Partially because he very much doubted he would be able to make the Southern climates in time, but mostly because half the South was in a frenzy hunting him down, and would be for some time. Regardless, he was a dead man. His second option was better, but only slightly so. For one thing he would have to learn how to hunt—and soon, by the looks of it—but even this aside he had to find suitable shelter to get through months of weather he had no idea what to expect from. Even though he liked to think he could manage it, he would have to find a way to stay warm, and struggling with that for ten months was not going to be easy…
The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Page 3