by Kim Wedlock
But she had little choice but to endure it. Despite the need to shed the association, she'd decided it wiser to stay - among other reasons, she'd lost her money and her belongings, as few as they were, and that had left her with no means of obtaining food or lodging. Honestly, at least. And while she could seek out challengers, there were little more than villages for days around, and brazen aspirants with a need to prove themselves heroic didn't tend to reside in such places.
But at least she wasn't bored, and she had to admit that she rather enjoyed their company, as unusual as it was. They weren't boring, either.
She sat back with another peaceful sigh, leaning on her elbows, and stared out at the stars as her mind began to wander. But the thoughts that were quickest to reach her made her jaw tighten, and a sense of determination hardened her fists. She smiled slightly. The reaction was just as familiar as the thoughts themselves, those that lingered always just beneath the surface of anything that happened to be more relevant. They were comforting. Almost safe. Her strongest connection to home.
They drove her every breath, kept her anger and despair at bay, gave her a reason to rest well every night and rise with purpose every morning - but she cautiously kept them at arm's length, within reach but not close enough to smother her. That distance allowed details to grow mercifully hazy and easy to ignore. She was well aware of what they wished to show her, she didn't need to turn her mind's eye upon them to remind herself of her purpose, nor her resolve. She had mastered the memories, the thoughts, the feelings, and she used them always to her advantage.
But she would answer their needs, when she was able. When she had the information she required.
She closed her eyes and sighed in comfort once more, hanging her head back, content in her patience. Her long, red hair, damp and scented with rosehips and spice, tickled the back of her bare arm as it brushed across her skin, but a gentle breeze pushed it aside and she stretched her legs out further into the water.
But her relaxation was short-lived.
She sat bolt upright at a gentle splash, and strained her ears through the suspicious silence that followed. It had been far too weak to have been caused by an animal, nor to have been intentional or the result of casual clumsiness. No, it was certainly an accident. Something was out there, and it didn't want to be noticed.
She reached for her sword, but as her hand searched through the grass, a curse snapped past her lips. She'd left it back at camp. She flexed her fists. She'd be fine. With precise movements, Petra slipped her feet from the water and rose from the bank, her ears pricking when the splash came again. It was weaker than the first, but this time she isolated it. It had come from the edge of the lake.
She started towards it, moving with practised swiftness while making barely a sound. She peered around trees before stepping out from behind them, searching for who, or what, was out there before it could spot her first. But she saw nothing. If it was harpies, perhaps one of them had dragged their talons over the water to lure them out before taking to the forest canopy to attack from above. Or maybe, for now, they just wished to know whether or not they were there. And she was playing into their curiosity.
But her careful steps faltered when she discovered the familiar figure kneeling at the lake's edge, and she sighed in relief. Garon spun at the sound, moving even more suddenly and silently than she had with his blade already in his hand, and she bounced in fright.
"Dammit, Garon," she grumbled, forcing her heart to slow, "it's just me."
With a long, irritated sigh, he lowered the weapon and glared at her before crouching back down to the water. "You startled me."
"Well, you startled me. I thought you were a harpy."
He didn't bother to respond, and splashed his face instead. The disruption of the lake surface was soft in his caution, and it eased the tension out of her shoulders. He glanced up in annoyance as she stepped out from the trees with an easier sigh and looked across the lake, but he said nothing, choosing to ignore her unwanted presence rather than try to do away with it.
The still water passed in ombre from indigo to black. Like a second sky stretching at her feet, the stars that dazzled above also twinkled below, and the nightlarks danced in the void between them. All that kept the twins from merging and being lost to comprehension was the thin but stoic strip of forest, a silhouette, silent and unwavering, preventing the water from trickling away from the earth.
A soft breeze brushed past her, coaxing gentle ripples across the water, breaking the illusion along with the half-moon's perfect reflection. Petra released an easy breath as the sight corrected itself. "It's beautiful."
"You're unarmed."
She looked down at Garon.
"You thought I was a harpy. What did you plan to do?"
"I would have managed," she replied blandly, folding her arms, but as she turned her eyes back out over the water, her attention was caught by a discolouration on Garon's arm. She frowned, wondering why she'd not spotted it before, then realised that this was the first time she'd seen his bare arms - any part of him, actually, that wasn't his face. He maintained his official status so very rigidly that even removing his gloves and rolling up his sleeves seemed uncharacteristically improper.
She found herself tracing her own scars through her blouse, and her brow furrowed sadly. "How did that happen?" She asked before she could stop the words, but realised that, even had she been able to, she wouldn't have - and she'd spotted an opportunity. "Was it while on a case?"
"Why do you do that?"
She blinked at his abruptness as he whirled around to face her, tugging his sleeves back down and his gloves back on, but she couldn't see his expression for the moon that shone behind him.
"Do what?"
"Ask all the questions," he snapped. "Why do you pry? There are more important things to deal with right now than my identity."
Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. "Actually," she began, taking a thoughtful step forwards, "I'm not so sure about that..."
"What does that mean?"
"You don't socialise. You're completely consumed by your task - believe me, I know what it is to be so focused on something that you forget to live."
"...What does that mean?"
"That it's easy to absorb yourself in something you consider important." She stepped casually around to his other side so she might read his reaction. "Personally or truly. And just as easy to forget the world around you in the process. You don't sit and talk with the others - even Rathen is more sociable than you are."
"Why is any of this important?"
She smiled despite his clear frustration. "Now who's asking all the questions?"
His brow dropped and eyes flicked away from her, out towards the water, but she noticed that he made no move to leave.
She pressed on. "I get the feeling you've forgotten how to breathe."
"I know how to breathe."
"All right, fine, but you've certainly forgotten how to exhale involuntarily with an embarrassing wheeze or snort." Her eyebrows rose in surprise as she watched the shadow of a smile tug at his lips, and she knew she hadn't imagined it because he turned his head away to hide it. "Vastal save me - was that a smile?"
"Look," he said sternly, turning back towards her as it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, "you are aware of the situation. You've seen some of it for yourself and you're not blind to the severity of this magic's existence since your sister is a mage. But it's my responsibility to see this through, whatever it entails, however long it might take, and it's such a...an unusual situation that it requires a great deal of consideration. And since we can't just waltz into towns and cities for the moment, I can't gather up-to-date information on this to make our movements a little more straight-forward, so I really can't afford the distraction of 'socialising'."
Petra frowned. "It's been two days since Mokhan. What would you expect to uncover in that time?"
"I never had the chance to gather anything in Mokhan, but tha
t point aside, rumours travel fast."
"Working with rumours? You're starting to sound like Anthis."
"Well they seem to serve him very well."
She looked at him carefully as she considered his words. She noted the relative softness of his eyes compared to their usual ice and authority, and the ever so slight upward, almost pleading pull of his brow. But that wasn't all. Despite his ever-secretive and closed off choice of words, he'd delivered them more personally than usual, and they numbered more than he'd normally deem necessary. It was like a break in the clouds, if one that would surely soon close up again, and she felt the need to take full advantage of it for his sake.
She sighed. "Fine, I understand all of that, I suppose. I may not grasp the true weight of the situation, no matter how may times Anthis might try to explain it to me, but I already knew it wasn't as simple as 'mages dunnit' and that has had me concerned, for my sister's sake above all else. But I also know that if you blanket yourself in the matter and don't let yourself take off your blinders - or remove your gloves and roll up your sleeves - your life and its opportunities are going to pass you by without you even noticing they were there. And missing them so entirely is worse than realising too late. You'll live as a tool rather than a person - a tool for the country, in your case."
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And in your case?"
She straightened. "Justice."
Garon stared at her for some time, and she matched his gaze perfectly. He found her unwavering resolve personally familiar; he knew with certainty that she wasn't going to say any more, just as she knew that he disapproved of her motivation. But still they stared, reading each other's minds rather than asking the questions.
He nodded slowly after a while. "Thank you, Petra," he began with a smile whose sincerity she couldn't decide upon, "but I'm afraid you're wasting your words, if you're even old enough to understand them yourself. Even if you knew who I was outside of this task, this situation is still too severe and our position against it still too precarious to let my guard down. And though I'm not here to make friends, I doubt the others are particularly keen to socialise with me tonight, either. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm quite tired and really quite frustrated, and I came out here for some peace. So, if you'll excuse me..."
And with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees without leaving her time to object.
She stared after him, dropping her arms defeatedly to her sides while her jaw knotted in concern. She recognised his behaviour all too well. She may have been young, not even thirty winters, but she had once been just as closed-hearted. The difference was that she'd been lucky enough to meet someone who set her straight early on, who had given her the opportunity to become aware of what she was doing to herself and where it would invariably lead her. And though she'd decided to continue on as she was, at least she'd been informed, and had since learned to understand what her heart and mind really felt.
Garon may think he meant his words, but no normal person truly sought solitude. Their work may demand it, but their hearts certainly didn't want it. She travelled alone because anyone else would slow her down or try to hold her back, but there was a definite loneliness that only her dedication managed to hold at bay. There were times when she wanted nothing more than to share a story with someone who would appreciate its irony because of another she'd told them two weeks before, or times when she could leave the gathering of water to someone else while she tended to the occasional wound she'd sustained in a duel.
She was certain after his strange shift, as brief as it was, that the same applied to Garon. And he may well have been just as good at hiding it, but he wasn't allowing himself to indulge in his present opportunity as she was. Inquisitors always worked alone, after all, and perhaps after doing so involuntarily for so long, it had grown to feel more like a rule than a circumstance. He probably wouldn't relax at all until he retired - assuming that rule of 'one' hadn't become so deeply embedded in his heart that he died old and alone.
Slowly, she grew aware of the tension in her brow. With a heavy sigh, she trudged back to her spot along the river, collected her boots and returned to the camp, forcing the matter from her mind. For now.
Chapter 19
The Rigger's Knot was bustling with activity, which would have been strange for a tavern at mid-morning had it not been for the troupe of travelling musicians that had arrived in Roeden only the evening before. As it was, the building was packed from wall to wall, and all attention was rooted upon the impromptu performance. The buoyant music of pipes and strings pleased the ears while the young women who danced among the performers held the eye, and their cheerful melodies flowed out through the windows to wash exuberantly over the town square, where those outside could enjoy it from their market stalls.
And so no one paid any mind to the blonde man with focused, needle-sharp eyes as he stepped in from the sun-bathed streets, nor when he slipped silently into the crowd and wove a haphazard route through them. A waitress was the only one to pay him more than a cursory glance, but his eyes didn't even graze her as she stepped forwards and asked what she could get him. Instead he continued to scour the vast room, straight over her head, and she frowned in insult as he moved on without a word.
He wended his way through the throng, his mind sharp and frantic. His veins tingled. His eyes darted everywhere but he found nothing worth his attention. In fact he saw nothing at all.
His heart thumped, thumped, pounding so hard he would think it could erupt from beneath his ribs if his mind was capable of producing such a thought. As it was, that very thing could happen and he wouldn't notice.
His mind was utterly consumed.
Where is it?
Where is it?!
He turned left, then switched right.
His eyes flicked around chaotically, searching everywhere within reach of every sense he could muster. He could feel it, he was sure he could feel it. Beauty, peace...power... He'd searched for so long and now, finally, he was almost upon it...
No...no, he wasn't. It wasn't there.
But it must be! It has to be!
He spun around.
Where is it?!
His veins burned.
Where is it?!
A white hot pain shot through his head, as if his very brain had caught fire, and his feet fell still in shock. But he was aware of it all for barely a moment. Even as he clutched at his skull and his clothes were fanned by bursts of air that puffed around him from nowhere, like the popping of hundreds of flies, he reached out even further with his every frantic sense. Because it had to be there.
Fire sparked into life, weaving and arcing over him in ribbons.
A sudden shriek of panic silenced the music and all eyes crashed upon his hunching form, but still he didn't notice. His own were squeezed tightly shut as a hurricane of confusion ripped his mind apart, and he began, unknowingly, to weep in unsuppressable frustration.
The revellers' cheers had crumbled into shouts and screams, and all around people attempted to escape him - but the tavern was too cramped. A few nearest the door managed to flee, but the whipping flames quickly caught on floorboards and tables, erupting across the wood, its enthusiasm encouraged by the age-old infusion of ale, and the door was quickly blocked by a towering inferno.
Lightning began to crackle about him and bursts of sheer energy joined the chaos, while the flames raged and grew in swells like the breath of a demon.
The man's weeping suddenly lurched into a maddened cackle; hysteria swallowed him. He stood straight, his eyes wild, spread his arms and allowed a sheer light to engulf him.
The sun was warm and comfortable, but while a few merchants had set aside their work to absorb its offering and enjoy the music while the market was quiet, this one of several fishmongers was ever-vigilant. And so the blonde man that hurried towards the tavern in an unnatural haste caught his eye, and his interest spiked when he recognised him as one of Kulokhar's preservers even without the O
rder cloak that should have been draped over his back.
He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he kept a close peripheral watch, even as he looked up to the sun, appearing to note the time. Then, as a few others had, he left his stall with a weary sigh and made his way across the square towards The Rigger's Knot to sit at a table outside and rub his sore feet.
Sounds of merriment spilled from the window, riding the cheerful tunes, and though he appeared to enjoy the music just as everyone else did, he paid close attention to everything but. And soon, to even his surprise, came panic.
He leapt to his feet as a handful of people burst out from the door, shouting and screaming in fear or for help, and he hurried over through the fleeing bodies. He reached the doorway a moment later, greeted by manic cackling before a sudden explosion blew him backwards. Sharp splinters and flaming panels of wood were sent hurtling with him through the air, and he raised his arms to shield himself from them as he landed hard on the road. One small but sharp piece would have found his head if not for his forearm barring the way.
He paid no attention to the injury. He had to inform the keliceran.
He pushed himself to his feet as the tavern was engulfed by flames and raced away through the gathering crowd of terrified onlookers, his sights set on the nearest moth cellar a few streets away.
The pen flicked sharply back and forth between his fingers, firing spots of ink across parchment, wood and porcelain, blotting notes, staining the desk and discolouring the long-cooled tea. One or two freckled his chin, but he didn't notice them land.
Salus snorted in irritation. Reports couldn't come in fast enough; things were happening and he wasn't hearing about them.
'That only means there's nothing worth reporting,' the irritating voice in his head reminded him for the thousandth time, but, as always, it didn't offer much comfort. Who was to say what wasn't worth reporting? Every detail counted, every detail mattered. Sitting in his chair, trapped in his damned office, he wished he didn't have to rely on reports, that he didn't have to wait to hear from the messages he'd sent to the other head authorities just to find out why their people were popping up in those recounts. If only he could have his own eyes everywhere. Then he'd know everything he needed to know in real time, as and when it happened, and he could act on everything so quickly it wouldn't have a chance to take hold. He could prevent invasions, weed out every spy, even prevent crime...Turunda's safety would be absolute.