She wouldn't push. A lifetime had gone into shaping Brees's values. Change wouldn't come easy, and she didn't need to convince the shaman anyway. "What did Ormond and Dravin mean? Can you hold the emperor's power? I thought you said that wasn't possible."
Brees shrugged. "Trace claimed that only he can hold the orb's power."
"Or perhaps a boy born with the ability to take either a shaman or sorcerer's power?" She raised an eyebrow. "How many other obsith children have your gift?"
Brees shrugged. "I’ve never bothered to ask."
"Have you met another sorcerer or shaman who held the ability to take either power?"
"Not face to face," Brees said. “My father told me stories of others from the past.
"What did Ormond mean about a ceremony?" She said.
"I don’t know," Brees said. "I've never paid attention to sentinel business. I've preferred to go it alone."
"Sentinel business?"
"The elite shaman and sorcerers who serve the emperor. Most of them live here in Zen. They are the most powerful living channelers among us."
Brees might prove more powerful than them all. "I won't let you go into that nest of vipers alone."
"Danielle, I don't want you mixed up in this. I mean to clean up the Brotherhood, and removing Ormond from power is at the top of the list."
"What's your plan for tomorrow night? Are you going to enlist your sentinel friends?"
The shaman scowled. "That's a cheap shot." Brees shrugged. "I haven't given it much thought, but I'll figure something out."
She stifled a laugh and shook her head. "You'll have to do better than that. Is the orb here in the garden?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Ormond seems to think it's here."
She imagined Ormond held many secrets. Brees navigated dangerous waters. "I'm not going to let you face them alone."
Brees's eyebrow raised. "Your help is purely altruistic? You have no ulterior motive?"
Her face flushed. "Why can't it be both? I care about you. Isn't that enough? Besides, you saved my father when the first tree collapsed. I owe you."
Brees's eyes softened. "I can't let you build the portal Danielle."
"Then help me find the heartwood tree Trace hid in Zen," she said. "Besides, if we keep the orb away from Trace or his cronies, they can't build the gateway either."
"You make a good point."
"Keely and I will help you."
A thin smile crossed Brees's face. "Just you and Keely? Did you cross the desert alone?"
"Two others came with me," she muttered.
"Would one of those others be Jeremy?"
She nodded.
"How do you plan on getting Jeremy inside the palace?" Brees nodded toward the ventilation shafts riding high on the ceiling. "Unless you can shrink him to the size of a sparrow."
"I can't," she said. "But, we need him. You need him."
With arms folded, Brees held her gaze for a long moment without answering. "Have him meet me outside the palace walls before dusk tomorrow. I'll get him inside."
Keely fluttered from the nearest treetop and shifted into human form. "There's nothing here but a bunch of trees and flowers. Useless."
She glared at Keely. "Hey."
Keely shrugged. "Unless you can make a tree tell us where to find the orb of power. I can't find it here."
"We'll let Ormond lead us to it." Her stomach fluttered. Would she find the heartwood tree with it?
Keely glanced upward. "It's time to go Danielle. Arber and Jeremy will be on the rooftop soon."
She turned to face Brees. "Tomorrow night?"
Brees's expression turned grim. "Tomorrow night."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Tarbin’s Goodbye
Twilight left the forest draped in macabre shadows. A forest with ever-thinning trees and loose flaky soil. A carpet of white mist blotted out the forest floor. Chattering cicadas and early-evening crickets crowed for supremacy.
Ronan inhaled. Dry air with a hint of moisture coiled through his nostrils. The earthen swamp had given way to the arid aroma of dry grass and strange new scents. He wouldn't miss the soggy bogs and ankle-deep marshes.
A dozen yards ahead, Tarbin paused beneath a steep bluff. The banther’s head angled upward as if surveying a possible ascent.
He'd grown used to Tarbin's guidance across the swamp. He would miss the banther's calming presence in the days to come. But, the world’s edge awaited where the Ruins of Mistros might heal his infected soul thread. What would happen if never came back? He pushed the thought aside.
Tarbin's staff plunged into the rich soil, brown and flaky like fresh coffee grounds. The banther leaned into the staff and ascended the eight-foot climb in three rapid steps.
He scrambled behind using his own make-shift walking stick. Loose soil churned under his fingers and slid away under his boots. What he wouldn't give for a hand up.
General Demos leaped, more than climbed, landing with a dancer's grace on the bluff's edge. With an eye to the south, the general’s forked tongue slithered outward.
Tarbin peered behind, as if for the hundredth time that week, to check on his flagging progress.
His muscles screamed for a break, but he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Not with the world waiting for him. His breathing came in rapid bursts and his fingers grabbed a gnarled root near Tarbin's feet.
"Human, come look," General Demos said staring ahead.
He tossed one leg over the edge and with a hard grunt, pulled himself over the bluff. What he wouldn’t give for five minutes with enhancement magic.
Tarbin grunted and pointed the skull-tipped staff southward. "Savanna," the banther said and stepped forward.
General Demos's outstretched hand appeared before him. He took the offering and held tight.
With childlike effort, General Demos pulled him to his feet.
He brushed the loose soil from his tunic and turned to face the southern horizon.
A blanket of mist hung across a vast plain. Trees bearing high limbs and thin green leaves dotted the landscape. Their time in the swamp had come to an end.
His breathing came easier and he nodded his thanks to General Demos. "Why do I get the feeling the hard part is yet to come?"
General Demos faced the horizon. A wry smile touched the general’s face.
Tarbin strode onto the plain. Waist-high mist swirled around the banther's silver fur. Tarbin turned back and waved both men forward.
He glanced at General Demos. "Let's go." He tightened the straps of his leather pack and stepped forward into the mist.
General Demos followed.
Tarbin turned and walked a dozen yards further. The banther paused, leaned against the skull-tipped staff, and turned.
He followed taking tentative steps. Dry grass rustled around his boots while he crossed shifting uneven ground.
Tarbin's gaze drifted across the forest's edge. The banther’s head rolled back as if soaking in the savanna's scents.
He and General Demos reached Tarbin's side and paused.
Tarbin's gaze passed between them. The banther pointed to the ground then to the trees. "Wood," Tarbin said with a deep throaty purr.
He nodded and the tension in his shoulders eased. Fire to warm his bones and ease his pain. Fire to chase away the mist and show the earth beneath his feet. He could ground himself to this savanna. His gaze shifted to the horizon where the last slivers of sun scraped the sky. They would have to hurry.
He reached into his pack and tossed a canvas wrap to General Demos. "Use this. We can gather enough in one load for the whole night."
The three creatures, each from opposite ends of the world, set off toward the forest's edge.
The mist curled upward fingering his collar and lapping around his wrists. He'd have a hard time finding any firewood in this stuff. He remembered dead limbs near some of the larger trees.
At the forest's edge, he shuffled his feet forward. When he kicked a fallen limb,
he added it to the satchel strapped to his shoulder. After fifteen minutes, the satchel bulged with wood.
He glanced over his shoulder into the mist thickening across the plain. What creatures lurked there?
Shadowy figures moved further down the tree line. General Demos strode through the mist carrying a satchel bulging with twice as much wood as his.
Shadows pressed in around him and a shiver zipped along his spine. He hustled through the mist on a course toward General Demos and the campsite.
Tarbin's silhouette shifted among the trees. The banther seemed content to take full advantage of the fading sunlight.
He paused beside General Demos at the campsite.
A high-pitched wail and a sickening gurgle came from the forest's edge.
His flesh crawled. He tossed aside the wood, reached for his longbow, and spun.
A silver blade reflecting the last rays of daylight slid across Tarbin's throat. Blood sprayed from the wound and the banther's eyes widened in shock. Gathered wood tumbled from Tarbin's arms and the banther teetered in the mist.
He brought his weapon to bear with arrow knocked a full second after General Demos.
The two men stood in the mist waiting for a glimpse of Tarbin's attacker.
The banther held his gaze for a last lingering moment. Tarbin's arm raised as if to point and breathy gusts of air pumped through the wound at the banther's throat. Tarbin’s arm trembled and pointed south across the plain. The banther toppled forward and disappeared into the mist.
He swallowed willing moisture into his throat. His breathing came labored pulls. Patron Tyrell had taught him how to shoot a bow long before he'd dreamed of Elan's magic. He tugged on those memories and shielded himself in their armor. He exhaled and searched for calm at his center.
A figure clad in black stood in the mist clutching a blade dripping with the banther's blood. Shadows cloaked the murderer's face.
Adrenaline surged through his body burning away the fear. He pulled back on the bowstring. Its steady weight greeted him like an old friend. He didn't want to question the assassin. He had scant tolerance for despicable acts of cowardice. With shoulders relaxed, he let his fingers go and the bowstring thrummed.
Beside him, General Demos's arrow hummed like a bumblebee over the mist. The arrows flew true never wavering in their course and the figure made no attempt to move.
The arrows hurtled forward and the black-clad man vanished. With a hollow thunk of finality the arrows sank into a weathered oak hovering at the forest's edge.
Blood drained from his face. People can't vanish into thin air. But, hadn't he vanished using a spirit shield and a trick of the eye? This felt different. He'd seen no spirit shield. Was he losing his mind? Back in the swamp, General Demos said he'd spoken in puzzles and riddles. He glanced sideways.
General Demos stared across the mist. The general's bow hung limp.
He hadn't imagined the figure. General Demos had seen it too. "Where did he go?" He managed a hoarse whisper.
General Demos's tongue flickered in and out like a man possessed. "Danger," the general said in a low leering hiss.
A rustle. A shift. The blade flashed behind General Demos raking upward through the mist.
His mind recoiled but his body reacted. He ripped the blade from his belt sheath and lunged forward.
An arm covered the general's chest and the blade whistled upward. General Demos fell back into the black-clad figure’s chest.
Letting go a feral scream, he plunged the knife into the attacker's arm and ripped downward.
Without a sound, the figure's shrouded face turned to meet his gaze. Smooth gray flesh covered the figure's face. Unblemished by eyes, nose, or mouth.
He gasped and staggered backward.
The crisp sound of a blade sliding from its sheath came from General Demo's waist. A moment later, the general sent a long sword flashing near the faceless man's head.
The faceless man vanished and reappeared on the general's exposed side.
General Demos stumbled whiffing on air.
From the mist, a low rattling sound curled his toes.
The faceless man twisted as if searching for the noise.
He lunged striking downward with his blade.
A shift. Empty air.
More rattling came from behind and to his right and left.
The faceless man appeared behind him. Overwhelming death, like that of a rotten carcass, rolled over his nostrils.
Hot saliva formed in his mouth and his throat constricted. He reached for his power. Nothing. Elan's magic had forsaken him.
The faceless man loomed over him in the mist.
The rattling grew louder accompanied by the shrieking hiss of voices. Inhuman voices.
The faceless man spun scouring the mist.
The rattling deepened and wailing echoed through the mist.
With blade held out, General Demos whirled in a tight circle.
He staggered to his feet and reached for his longbow.
The screeching grew to a fever-pitch and the faceless man vanished.
General Demos's wide-eyed gaze met his. "Run."
He sprinted following General Demos south through the mist.
General Demos ran ahead setting a pace he couldn't hope to match.
His breathing came in hard staggered pulls. On trembling legs, he willed himself to run faster.
General Demos slowed as if unwilling to leave him behind. The general would not abandon him.
White cottony spittle flew from his mouth. His heart hammered threatening to explode, but he ran deeper into the mist. Deeper into the savanna's heart.
The rattling fading and the screeching disappeared. They ran without looking back.
A quarter hour passed and he staggered unable to keep pace. "I can't," he said through haggard gasps.
General Demos slowed and turned back appearing as fresh as a spring morning. The general's eyes scanned the mist still searching.
Had he met this man, this friend, in open combat could he overcome him? A decent man he would strike dead with all the pomp of chopping down a pine tree. A shiver slid across his neck. He didn't want that. He didn't want to cross swords with this alien man from across the sea. "Thank you."
General Demos's tongue flickered in and out tasting the wind as if willing a sense of normalcy. "I sense nothing in this place."
"Did you see him?" he said.
"I saw."
"It was the same creature that came through the portal."
"Or one like him," General Demos said.
His gaze flickered to the satchel still attached to the general's shoulder. He stared awe-struck at the stuffed wrap holding at least twenty pieces of loose timber. "You never dropped your pack?" Using the back of his hand, he wiped away a wall of perspiration streaming down his forehead.
General Demos's gaze passed to the bundled wood swaying above the mist. "So I didn't."
The southern wind picked up. Like a steaming cauldron, the mist swirled around his waist. The day's last gasp of light settled beyond the horizon leaving the savanna awash in a shroud of darkness.
The chattering mewls of some unknown creatures carried on the wind. The moon's smooth edge appeared on the eastern horizon.
General Demos unclipped the satchel and the wood rattled onto the dry grass.
Sounds, alien and pressing, closed in around him. In the distance, a throaty roar came from what he imagined a vicious animal. From the near mist, a cackling burst of laughter set his skin crawling.
General Demos knelt beside the logs and built a make-shift campfire.
"Hurry. I don't think we're alone out here."
General Demos glanced at him eyes rimmed with panic. "I can't find my flint."
He slipped his leather pack from his shoulder and rooted through the contents.
The moon rose above the horizon enough to shed light inside his pack.
"I found it," he said clutching the flint. "Here." He turned to Genera
l Demos and froze.
A dozen sets of glistening eyes burned through the mist all bearing down on him and General Demos.
He spun in tight circle.
More eyes. All around them closing in. Like a madman's song, the cackling came again in high short bursts.
His chest tightened and his heart raced.
"Give it to me," the general said in a fast hissing cadence.
He stood, hurried to General Demos's side, and handed over the flint.
"Watch my back," General Demos said.
He unhooked his longbow strapped to edge of his pack and pulled a fresh arrow from the quiver perched beside it. Turning in slow circles he armed the bow and let go a feral shout of warning.
Sparks flew from the flint and steel and rained on the dry grass General Demos had layered atop the wood.
A beast darted forward.
He loosed the arrow. The air whistled and a sickening crunch came a half-second later. The beast let go a high-pitched squeal and the grass rustled a few feet from General Demos. "I can't hold them off much longer. Hurry with that fire."
Flames licked the dried grass and a newborn fire sprang to life.
General Demos's palms hovered over the flames while a gust of wind swirled the mist around them. The general leaned forward and blew willing the flames to take hold of the wood beneath.
Bursts of cackling laughter sounded across the pack. Their tones urgent bordering on desperation.
He whirled searching for the telltale eyes glistening in the mist and thanked Elan for the moon rise.
Like golden marbles, the eyes shifted in the mist. The cackling intensified, but the animals held back as if distracted.
A deep roar like that of an Ayralen forest cat came from behind the pack. A yelp preceded the sounds of a brief struggle and the pack scattered in every direction.
Rivulets of fear rattled along his spine and he glanced toward General Demos.
A single flame licked the kindling and the welcome sound of popping wood came a moment later.
Another set of eyes shone through the mist. Then another pair, larger and unafraid, moved in from the night. Roaring and the grotesque sound of ripping flesh raked the back of his brain. The big cat's fought over the fresh kill, but what if they smelled the dead beast lying near General Demos?
Maylin's Gate (Book 3) Page 24