The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One

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The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One Page 27

by Kim Wedlock


  "Because," he began with his usual apathy, "someone has to do it, and I am capable."

  She nodded slowly, having expected such a practised and evasive answer. "But is there nothing that drives you, personally? No dream as a child? No pivotal event in your life?"

  He didn't reply. Instead he walked away from her without even a glance - in fact his eyes hadn't so much as grazed her since they'd reached Stonton. She stared flatly as he passed. "This," she grumbled to herself, "is going to be harder than I thought."

  A long groan creaked out of the forest behind her and startled her feet into moving. She hastened after him, but faltered as she cast a wary look back towards the trees. They were swaying with a greater force than they had been only a few minutes ago, and their aged protests had equally risen from a warning to a threat. She looked anxiously towards Garon as the winds began to lift her hair and tug at her sleeve, but he didn't seem to notice it. Even as it began to drag at his jacket, his attention remained in the grasp of something else. Her breath was snatched away before she could discover what.

  In an instant, they were under assault. The unseen force beat them both with such power it was as if the trees themselves had lashed out, buffeting them forwards as it twisted furiously towards the village. In seconds it ensnared Rathen and Aria, who braced themselves against the sudden force, then Anthis further up who was almost pushed over. It ripped across them all from one direction to another, changing its course on a whim, and the bellowing trees behind them cracked and snapped as they gave in to its ire.

  Finally Garon dug his heels into a reluctant stop, but even as he looked around with harsh, calculating eyes, he still seemed distracted. But Petra had little care any longer as to why. "We're not safe here," he bellowed needlessly over the gale, bracing himself as his eyes began hunting for a solution.

  "Oh, now you agree!"

  He ignored her remark "Rathen! Have you had enough time?"

  "Plenty!"

  "Wait, we're leaving?" Anthis called incredulously from above.

  "Of course we're leaving!"

  "You've been here before!" Rathen snapped as he tightly grasped Aria's hand and attempted to keep her from the full brunt of the shifting wind. "Get down here! Now!"

  He growled in objection despite the force that howled around him, but obeyed all the same, gathering his books and sorting them quickly but precisely into their higgledy piggledy order, seizing the loose, escaping pages as he went.

  Petra cursed as a heavy branch hurtled past her, catching the sound of the crack with barely a second to turn and stumble out of its way. Another quickly followed from further down the treeline. "Anthis!" She yelled with increasing panic. "Hurry up!"

  Another branch tore free behind them, larger than the last, and it flew on the gale in whichever direction the force twisted as if the limb was little more than a twig, fracturing as it struck the edge of the carven village.

  "Anthis!"

  "I'm coming!" He roared in irritation, slinging his bag over his shoulder, but his words were lost to the sound of more trees being torn apart. He found his feet as boughs and branches spun through the air, flying wide of the rock, and hurried down the twisting path as quickly as he could while the others rushed back towards the forest, seeking the comparative safety of the forest's clutter. Their eyes were everywhere, tracking each piece of debris and trying to predict where they might go, hoping all the while that the wind didn't shift again.

  A warning was called, disembodied by the gale, and a limb a foot thick and surely too heavy to be lifted by wind alone ripped free and swept low over head, its bulk barely missing Rathen as he ducked beneath it at the last moment.

  He breathed a brief sigh of relief and watched it spin away, but it didn't strike the ground and roll to a stop as he'd expected. Another change in the wind gave it a renewed lift, raising it higher and propelling it straight towards the rock.

  Just as Anthis appeared from around the other side.

  Panic surged. He dropped Aria's hand and began contorting his fingers while Petra shouted his name in warning over the roaring wind. But there was no hope of him hearing it, nor time to complete Rathen's spell. But still he tried, weaving the signs as quickly as he physically could even as they watched the bough strike.

  "Anthis!"

  Despite the strength of the blow, Anthis barely noticed himself slam into the rock face. Even as he dropped heavily to his knees, he was aware of the pain between his shoulders, the trickle of blood running down the side of his face and the far deeper stinging in his stomach, but it was all disconnected. He felt almost nothing, and his mind had emptied but for one single thought.

  Wind whipped, thundering past his ears. He could hear the others calling his name between its roars, but he didn't respond. He reached quickly down to the hem of his shirt, ignoring the blood that soaked into it and the wound that it oozed from.

  The knife. He needed to hide the knife.

  He felt a distant tug of relief as he pulled the ornate dagger free from his waistband. Its blade was clean and its jewels were clear, and he murmured gratitude beneath his breath at the stroke of luck that this blade, one forbidden from sheathing, hadn't been the one to puncture his skin.

  Shaking, in confusion or urgency, he reached immediately for the bag that had dropped from his shoulder and dragged it towards himself, acutely aware of the approaching footsteps, and stuffed the dagger as deep amongst his books and papers as he could. Only once the flap dropped back into place and the blade was safely hidden away did he spare a sigh of relief, and in place of his panic came the belated and stinging rush of pain.

  He doubled over, his attention now fiercely upon the gore in his stomach and the far plainer dagger that had been loosened from its sheath by the impact. He pulled it free from himself as shock began to set in, his hands shaking so much he risked making the injury worse, and dropped it carelessly to his right as a shadow drew up on his left.

  Rathen knelt quickly beside him, and as Anthis looked up he noticed with increasing dizziness that his usually grim expression was twisted in concern. The mage grasped him roughly by the chin and turned his head to see the wound beside his temple, then back again to look closely into his eyes as if searching for something. Petra shortly arrived beside them, her beautiful face marred in the same way.

  "Is he all right?" She asked, her voice, coloured with worry, only just rising above the wind.

  Rathen stared at him intently for a moment longer before nodding in reply. "The branch only clipped him," he called back. "He's dazed, but he's okay. Help me get him up, we can't stay out in this."

  The two lifted his arms over their shoulders as Garon arrived with Aria in hand. Anthis groaned at the pain of the movement, and he heard Petra curse in shock beside his ear. Panic warmed his blood, but then remembered that his blade was hidden. Whatever she'd gasped at was no longer of any consequence.

  Garon rushed ahead to push open the nearest door, the wood rotten but tightly sealed by a matt of vines and moss, and they stumbled inside and out of the reach of the elements, all but dragging Anthis along before wrestling the door closed behind them.

  "I thought he was clipped?" Said Petra as they set him on the ground in the small, dark room, a conjured blanket appearing beneath him to ward off the cold of the stone.

  "He was," Rathen replied, but as a light flickered into existence at the flexing of his fingers, his eyes locked immediately upon the dark blood that spread over light cotton. "What--"

  Petra shoved a knife beneath his nose, one she'd snatched from the weeds as the wind tried to tug it free. He frowned at it in confusion, then she whirled onto Anthis. "Where did you get this?" She demanded as the mage pulled aside his shirt and studied the wound.

  "It's mine," he slurred, looking back at her with empty eyes.

  "Why do you have it? What could a historian need a blade for?"

  "Protection," he said just as innocently.

  "And a wonderful job it's done." Rathen shoo
k his head and pressed against the bleeding. "The wound is superficial. He'll be fine." His dark eyes rose to meet Anthis's, disapproval stark within them. "Although his intelligence is another matter."

  When Aria hurried over with her father's bag, he began dressing the wound with supplies he'd brought in anticipation of whittling injuries, shaking his head throughout with an expression of condemnation one might turn on a child.

  If Garon had concern for him, however, he didn't show it. He stood quite still beside the door instead, and Petra noticed the distant look in his eyes.

  "What is it?"

  His troubled gaze flicked towards them. "We can't stay."

  "And for the moment," replied Rathen, "we can't leave."

  "We're safe in here," Petra assured him, but the inquisitor shook his head, and though he opened his mouth to correct them, his attention was snatched by a sound outside, hidden within the persistent howl of the elements. Whatever words he wished to speak were replaced by a warning - though what that warning was, precisely, none but he knew. His voice was smothered by the shattering of the door and the whipping of the wind as it surged inside, tearing around the billowing figure that stood beyond the threshold, shadowed by the light behind him.

  Chapter 17

  In an instant Rathen exploded to his feet and stormed towards the door, the wind trying and failing to beat back his every step while the others braced themselves against the gust. But the cloaked figure didn't flinch under his wrath, neither shrinking back nor advancing to meet him, and as Rathen raised his hands to begin shaping a swift spell, so, too, did the shadow.

  Garon was close on his heels, either bravely or foolishly heedless to whatever spells the two mages were preparing to cast as he lunged forwards to reach for the figure from around the fractured door, his sword already in hand and more than prepared to use it. But before he could make his intentions known, the inquisitor was suddenly thrust aside, thrown by an phantom force hard enough to remove him from either's line of sight. He crashed into a rotten table, a billow of dust rising around him as the breath was knocked from his lungs, but he pushed himself right back up and began to advance once more.

  Petra gritted her teeth as she watched over her shoulder, tightly fastening Anthis's bandage while her fingers itched to take up her sword and join them.

  The sunlight began to dim outside, concealed by another wave of cloud, and Rathen no longer had to bar his eyes against the brightness. But as his sight adjusted, hesitation gripped his movements. His signs faltered and a frown pulled at his features as he stared at the figure before him, and he saw a similar reaction quickly befall him in turn.

  "Rathen?!"

  Quick movements from the shadows to his right snatched Rathen's attention as Garon barrelled back towards door, and a new wave of urgency took hold. "Wait!" He yelled, fighting to be heard over the wind as it tried to shove his voice back into his throat, but Garon continued his advance, either not hearing or not heeding.

  He grunted and stepped forwards, catching him at the very last moment, just before he could leap upon the man who now stared into the ancient elven home in disbelief. The inquisitor's wide, grey eyes shot towards him and searched his in confusion.

  Everyone tensed as the atmosphere froze, even if the wind continued to assault them, and they looked between Rathen and the attacker as they stared at one another in growing confusion.

  "Owan," Rathen began carefully as his opponent's hands began to lower in shock, but at the tentative sound of his voice, a new rage fell over him, twisting his increasingly familiar features. The mage's fingers twisted before Rathen could react beyond shoving Garon aside, and released a spell to knock him backwards.

  Rathen grunted as he struck the cold, stone ground, and he heard Aria scream nearby. "Stay there," he warned her as he began pushing himself back up, but before he could rise even to his elbows, another unseen force slammed him right back down, pummelling the breath from his chest. Suddenly the mage was upon him, pinning him in place and grasping his collar.

  "Owan!" Rathen shouted, pulling at his hands as the mage shook him furiously, but his voice didn't reach him. He sharply warned the others away as Petra and Garon started towards them, their blades drawn.

  "How dare you?!" The mage bellowed over the top of him, his blue eyes burning as Rathen continued to struggle. "How dare you?!"

  "Owan, it's me!"

  "It can't be you! You're dead!"

  "All due respect, I'm not!" His frenzied attacker was relentless. Rathen gave up trying to restrain him and threw him off with strength alone, and the moment the mage landed hard on the floor beside him, he pinned him down instead.

  "Who are you?" He demanded, leering up at him, but Rathen could see by the conjured light a haunting realisation enter his eyes even as he spoke, one he was reluctant to accept. "...And how...?"

  Rathen sighed as the struggle against him weakened. He rose to his feet and stepped over him. "It's a long story." He offered his hand, ignoring the others' warnings, and after a moment of intense deliberation, the mage took it. Back on his feet, he stared closely at Rathen, and Rathen let him.

  The tension over the others tightened as they held their collective breath. The wind still tried to continue the fight, but Owan's shoulders were the first to ease and he shook his head in disbelief. "By Vastal," he breathed as he analysed his face, but though his lips continued to move, nothing passed them. He shortly gave up, and a wide smile spread across his middle-aged features instead. He clasped him on the shoulder as one similarly brightened Rathen's grim visage.

  Petra and Garon looked between the two in equal confusion, their blades slowly lowering, while Anthis frowned sluggishly and even Aria looked upon them in surprise, though a grin began creeping across her face.

  "Truly, you are the very last person I ever expected to see!" Owan managed at last, still smiling incredulously, his aggression forgotten. He briefly flexed his fingers, and the door repaired itself and shut the wind away. "What are you doing here? How are you alive?! What happened to you?!"

  Rathen's lips parted to answer, but he hesitated and his smile weakened as he glanced behind him to the others, each of whom stared back expectantly. Owan followed his gaze and his brow, far less weathered than Rathen's, softened in thought. He turned his eyes back to him, sharper now as they calculated. "Later, then."

  Rathen inclined his head gratefully, but as he looked up again, his dark eyes narrowed and grew weighted. "You're here about this magic, aren't you?"

  Owan blanched. His eyes flicked past him to the others, none of whom had moved, and breathed a laugh in defeat, dropping his voice against them. "You always were too perceptive."

  "I thought the Order wasn't looking into this."

  "We're not, officially. That's why I'm here alone."

  "I'm sorry," Garon started, finally stepping forwards, "who is this?"

  "Owan Mal," he replied with a friendly smile and well-practised bow. "Scholar." His smile weakened into shame as he straightened again. "I'm...sorry for attacking you, Inquisitor. These are uncertain times and I didn't expect anyone else to be here..." he looked to Rathen, "least of all, you. But tell me: why are you here?"

  "The same reason you are." He spared only the briefest glance towards Garon, but the officer showed no sign of disapproval. While Rathen hadn't lied, he hadn't revealed anything, either. He looked back to Owan and severity returned to his eyes.

  Owan's dropped to match. "You felt it, too?"

  "So I didn't imagine it."

  "Imagine what?"

  Rathen looked across them reluctantly as Petra stepped up to join them, his discomfort mounting under the weight of their gazes. "The magic here is acting as though it was part of a spell."

  "I thought you said that wasn't possible," Anthis managed slowly from the floor.

  "I also said I wasn't a scholar."

  "Well, he was right," Owan assured them in his defence, "it shouldn't be possible. Spells disintegrate too slowly and in too few
particles for fragments of the spell to move around, but that seems to be what has happened. There's a small, single spell chain here that--"

  "'Spell chain'?"

  Owan blinked at Anthis, and Rathen knew immediately that he'd worked out that there was more to their activity than he'd first assumed. How could one so uninformed about the basic principles of magic provide anything useful against the matter? His eyes flicked towards the presence of the inquisitor, then back to Rathen, but he didn't return the stare. He turned towards answering the question instead. "Spells are made up of small chains of information," Rathen explained, "details needed to create the full incantation. A spell to create a piece of fabric, for example, would consist of several chains, one for weight, one for colour, one for weave, softness, flexibility and so on."

  "But what we have here is a single chain," Owan continued, turning his suspicion away from him, "a small fragment of a spell which is still trying to do its job without direction or purpose."

  "What's the chain?" Anthis asked, but they both shook their heads. "Could it have anything to do with wind, by chance?"

  "I can't rightly say," Owan confessed, and it was clear to them all that that fact made him uneasy, "but I don't believe so. All I know for certain is that it's here, and it shouldn't be. There is no evidence of any spells having been cast here, let alone anything substantial enough for...all this."

  "Magnetism?"

  The mage frowned slightly at the young man's suggestion, but what suspicion remained seemed to subside, at least fractionally satisfied that they weren't as uninformed as they'd seemed. "Yes, the chain and the raw magic were both drawn here from somewhere else."

  The knot that had returned to Rathen's pale brow deepened. "What about other places?" He asked, turning towards him with a flicker of urgency. "Have you looked anywhere else?"

  "I've been to a ruin with stronger magnetism and another with weaker, but I didn't notice any chains in either. They both had an unnatural beauty, but that was all, and no chains seemed to be responsible for it. That I could detect, at least."

 

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