Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  “No,” she replied, holding on to his arm. “Come here. Please.”

  He obliged and she put her head against his chest. “You’re so kind,” she said.

  “You’re worthy of kindness, Pomella-my.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She reached for him again, and kissed him slowly, meaning every bit of it.

  “Pomella?” came a surprised voice from the window.

  She and Quentin whipped their heads toward the voice at the same time. Before she could cry out, Quentin pulled a knife.

  Her heart thundered. She barely managed to speak.

  “Sim?”

  THIRTEEN

  THE ROAD TO MAGDOON

  “Blessed Saints, what are you doing here?” Pomella exclaimed. She stared, dumbfounded, as a soaking-wet Sim stood outside the half-shuttered window of her cabin.

  She sidestepped away from Quentin. The room refused to stop spinning no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes. For a brief moment she wondered if Sim was really there, staring at her with that hurt look on his face.

  Quentin pointed at him with his dagger. “You know this man?”

  Somewhere in her muddled mind, Pomella wondered where Quentin had kept that dagger. She recalled groping him thoroughly just a moment before. She shook off the thought. Now wasn’t the time to be mooning over Quentin. But bugger Sim for having the worst timing!

  “Yah,” she said.

  Sim raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “Can I come in?” Pomella wondered where his sword was.

  He slipped around the corner of the cabin and pushed the door open. Water rolled off him as though he’d brought the storm inside. He set a small travel sack onto the floor.

  Shaking water off his hands, Sim bent his back in just the barest hint of a bow to Quentin. Pomella could practically feel every muscle in Quentin’s body tense.

  “She and I are longtime friends,” Sim said. “I escorted her through the forest five days ago.”

  “So you’ve left your barony without permission. Why are you here?” Quentin jabbed his blade in the air. “Answer me!”

  Pomella touched his shoulder. “Quentin…”

  The hard look didn’t leave Quentin’s face, but he lowered the dagger.

  “I need to talk to you in private,” Sim said to Pomella. “Please.”

  “Sim,” she began, “I don’t…” She wilted as she saw the look on his face. By all the buggered Saints in the underworld, what was he doing here?

  “Oh, shite and blather. Quentin, I think he and I should talk alone.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Pomella,” said Quentin.

  Pomella softened her tone. “I know him. I’ll be fine. Let’s complete tomorrow’s Trial, and then we can … continue.”

  His jaw clenched, but he nodded. He squeezed her hand before lowering the dagger. He walked to the door and bumped Sim’s shoulder as he passed.

  Strangely, Pomella didn’t have to fight the urge to roll her eyes at them. She couldn’t help the small part of herself that found it a little flattering.

  Sim waited until the door closed behind Quentin. “Pomella, I—”

  “What in the Dying Hells are you doing here, Sim?” she snapped. “I’m sorry if you saw me doing something that makes you uncomfortable, but I thought we’d decided that it would be best if we just—”

  Sim stepped up to her and grabbed her shoulders. “You’re in danger,” he said. “There’s a plot to kill you.”

  Pomella shoved Sim away. The room seemed very small. She looked out the window, suddenly concerned about being watched. Sim followed her gaze and shuttered the window.

  “W-what do you mean? How do you know?” she asked.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “I snuck away from the camp to find you. I need to get back quickly before they notice I’m gone. There’s—”

  “What camp? What do you mean? You didn’t go home?”

  “I started to go home, but I stumbled upon mercenaries from the Baronies of Rardaria. They call themselves the Black Claws. They plan to kill you.”

  She blinked. Saijar was from Rardaria. “Why would they want to harm me?”

  Sim sighed, exasperated. “Think about it, Pomella! You’re a commoner doing something you’re not supposed to. You shat in their business and now they’re fixing to eliminate you. There’s a Mystic leading them! He’s … he’s terrifying, Pomella.”

  Pomella touched her temple. The only thing buzzing was her head. “What … what are they planning to do?” she asked.

  Sim ran his hand though his wet hair. “I don’t know. But I think they plan to strike soon. Tomorrow, even. We need to make you safe and warn the High Mystic.”

  “No!” Pomella said immediately. By the Saints, if her head didn’t stop spinning, she’d retch on his boots. “I’m perfectly safe here. Nobody gets into Kelt Apar without the High Mystic’s consent. And there’s some sort of guardian force protecting us here. I can’t remember what it’s—”

  “The ceon’hur,” Sim said. “I met a ranger who mentioned it. Do you know what it is?”

  She shook her head. “No. But it won’t let anybody in.”

  “I got in.”

  She glared at him. “That’s because…”

  Sim raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Oh, buggerish, I don’t know how you got in, but that’s not the point. The point is that I need to do this alone, Sim. I’m in the middle of these Trials! I can’t jump at shadows I can’t even see.”

  Sim threw his hands up in exasperation.

  Pomella’s temper flared through her drunken fog. A thousand thoughts crashed around in her skull. “Don’t do that again.”

  “What?”

  “That! Rolling your blazing eyes at me.”

  “You’re being foolish, Pomella. You know this. I don’t know what you were doing tonight, but you’ve obviously got a badger running your mind and mouth right now. Don’t be stupid!”

  She reeled as if slapped. His face blanched when he realized what he’d said. He sighed and lifted a hand toward her. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him with cold iron eyes. “You told me that you understood me,” she said with controlled fury.

  “Pomella,” he said, easing toward her, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want to protect you. I—”

  “I don’t need you to save me, Sim!” she yelled. “I’m here, doing what you and Bethy and Grandmhathir and all the others in Oakspring wanted me to do! I’m rising above my station. I’m following my heart and all that other blather and shite! Yet you won’t let me succeed or fail on my own!”

  “Your life is in danger!” he pleaded.

  “And if I beg for help, if I go crying to Mistress Yarina to protect me, it will only prove those mercenaries right! That I’m just a commoner who needs special protection from a Mystic.”

  Sim scratched the back of his head and dropped his hand. “I don’t understand why you’d endanger your life like this.”

  Pomella forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Fine. I’ll handle this on my own. I need to think.”

  Sim gave her a flat stare. “I really hope you do. What would that other man say?” He pointed in the direction Quentin had gone.

  Pomella scoffed and plunked down onto a chair. Why did he have to bring Quentin into this? She felt sick to her stomach. “Maybe we had a chance once, Sim. But it can’t happen anymore.”

  He swallowed and nodded. “Yah. I suppose it can’t,” he whispered. “But no matter what you think, you’re being foolish.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. Hesitating on the threshold, he turned back and said, “The Black Claws captured a ranger named Rochella. She’s a virga. While you fret over whether to tell the High Mystic, at least know she’s in danger, too. They’re camped east of here, just north of the road.”

  He retrieved his sack from beside the door and removed a square bundle from it. She gasped.

  The Book of Songs.

&n
bsp; He set it on the nearby table, then stepped out into the rain. She heard him slosh through the mud and away from the cabin. The rain grew heavier, thick drops storming on the roof. Pomella stared at the book as confusion and guilt mixed with the chi-uy in her stomach. She scrambled for her night pot and vomited.

  * * *

  Sim stormed away from Pomella’s cabin, not caring that the rain poured down onto him. Foolish girl! Why did she have to be so stubborn? She was just going to get herself hurt. She put her trust in the High Mystic when it was a Mystic who wanted to harm her.

  He stopped and considered whether he should go back and talk sense into her. Whether she knew it or not, she needed him. He could help her. If she got hurt, or worse, he’d never forgive himself.

  Sim frowned. Maybe she didn’t need him. Maybe he just needed her. Perhaps they needed each other?

  Dim light shone from Pomella’s cabin, pushing back the night. Sim slumped his shoulders and sighed. No. He couldn’t go back. He’d told her what she needed to know, the essentials anyway, and she’d dismissed him.

  Again.

  A lump rose in his throat. He had to accept that she didn’t want him in her life. Their childhood together, their shared grief after the plague, their tenuous trust that night in the pit … he thought it special, but she didn’t.

  If only he’d stayed with her after the laghart ranger found them. If only he’d let her kiss him.

  Faced with the reality that she was gone for good, that he’d truly pushed her away forever, Sim felt a hollow echo in his heart where before only she had existed.

  And, of course, there was the other man. Sim had no idea who the tall, dark-skinned nobleman was but could only assume he was another candidate for the apprenticeship. He’d been wearing fine clothes, things that Sim would never in his life be able to afford. Why wouldn’t Pomella choose a man like that over him?

  He had to let her walk her own path now.

  His fist clenched. Just because she wouldn’t accept his help didn’t mean he couldn’t try to protect her. He couldn’t stop the plague from taking Dane. But he could put himself between Pomella and the people who meant her harm. He could still make a difference, even if Pomella didn’t know it. Even if she couldn’t see him, or feel his presence, he’d be ready.

  Ducking through the rain, Sim hurried to the nearest edge of the forest and slipped into the trees. He headed north, always keeping Kelt Apar in sight. Better to edge the long way around the compound than walk directly across the open lawn in plain sight.

  Also, the Green Man had insisted on it.

  The Green Man. Sim still found it hard to believe that he’d seen the legendary figure twice in his lifetime, let alone spoken to him. Earlier in the evening, Sim had followed Rochella’s directions to locate Kelt Apar and had taken no more than a few steps onto the open grass, his eyes fixed on the strange stone tower in the center, when the ground ripped open, knocking him backward.

  He’d scrambled away, watching the huge figure form out of grass and dirt and stone. He had looked down at Sim, his pebbled eyes looking straight into his heart.

  “I am surprised to see you here, child of Oakspring,” the Green Man had rumbled. “State your business.”

  Pushing himself up from the grass, Sim had faced the strange creature directly. “I’m here to warn my friend Pomella about a threat to her life.”

  “You are not permitted to enter Kelt Apar at this time. You may give me the message.”

  Lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily illuminating the forest, bringing Sim back to the present. He found a massive boulder sitting in the swollen river, the same one that flowed into Kelt Apar. He climbed it and used it to leap the water, landing on the far side. Flinging mud off his pants, he continued his way around the large clearing, lost in thought.

  He’d explained everything about the Black Claws to the Green Man. He told him of Zicon’s letter and Ohzem’s threats. When the Green Man heard of Rochella’s capture, his face contorted in anger.

  “You did well to tell me this,” the Green Man said. “I will inform the High Mystic. Go warn your friend, but leave immediately after. Find shelter and return to your home in Oakspring.”

  Sim shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve left the barony. Baron AnBroke will declare me Unclaimed.”

  “Then find shelter and a ranger will come to you in a few days. The High Mystic will assist you when this storm has passed.”

  Sim knew he wasn’t referring to the weather. He’d agreed to the Green Man’s terms, but had no intention of finding shelter and hiding. He still didn’t fully trust the High Mystic, or any Mystic for that matter.

  Trudging through mud, he tried not to think about what he’d seen in Pomella’s cabin. What he’d found still churned his stomach. For years he’d dreamed of someday holding Pomella, of kissing her, and having her love him in return. Seeing her with another man tore his heart.

  Pushing those memories away, he reached the northeastern edge of Kelt Apar and found the mark he’d made on an oak tree. There would be another one farther into the forest, and another every twenty steps after that, to ensure he could find his way back in the dark.

  With one last look at the tower silhouetted in the clearing, Sim pushed into the forest, hurrying back to the Black Claw camp. The rain continued to pour. The thick trees around him did little to ease his discomfort. He yawned repeatedly as he walked, realizing just how little sleep he’d had. His stomach rumbled, and each step became harder than the last.

  Finally, after the rain stopped and just as morning light began to blossom in the forest, Sim tiptoed back into the camp. He glimpsed Dox’s hulking form sleeping under the wagon, as expected. Nothing but silence came from Zicon’s tent. Stepping uneasily, Sim made his way to the place he normally slept.

  “Where you been, scrit?” came a ratlike voice.

  The blood drained from Sim’s face. He turned to see Jank stepping out from behind a tree. The short man scratched his scraggly chin. As always, Sim’s sword hung at his belt.

  “Huh? Where ya been?” Jank said.

  “I was doing my morning necessary,” Sim said, continuing to where he was headed. He hoped he appeared casual.

  Jank followed. “That’s strange, because I don’t smell any piss. At least, no more than usual round you.”

  “Get spiked, Jank.”

  “Oh, you want to spike me now! Look who the tough pup is! So tell me, if you were squatting in the woods just now, where’ve you been all night?”

  Sim’s heart pounded and his mind raced. What were the chances Jank had stayed awake all night waiting for him? “I was here, where else?”

  “I looked for you last night, culk!” Jank snapped, spittle flying as he jabbed his finger in the air. “You left the camp!”

  Dox stirred, and sat up. “What’s happening?”

  “Jank’s blathering on about—”

  Jank’s shoulder rammed into Sim’s chest, knocking him down and crushing the air from his lungs.

  “Liar!” Jank screamed, his hands scrabbling for Sim’s throat.

  Dox ran over and wrapped his meaty arms around Jank, trying to pull him off. Jank landed a punch against Sim’s head, rattling him.

  Sim surged to his feet and sprang back at Jank. He crashed into the smaller man before Dox could let go.

  “Leave off!” Dox roared, but Sim raised a fist, planning to break Jank’s remaining teeth.

  Another hand gripped Sim’s wrist from behind and hurled him backward. Sim staggered, trying not to lose his balance. Zicon stood between them, fuming with rage.

  “You jagged scrits,” Zicon said, breathing heavily. “Do you have any idea what you could have done? Stand up, Jank.”

  Jank snatched himself off of Dox and stood. “He’s a jagged liar, Zicon! He went to warn his girlfriend!”

  Zicon loomed over Jank. “By all the dead Graces, if you draw that boy’s blood during our mission, I will—!”

  “Hold,” came a cracking vo
ice, and all eyes turned to the familiar hunched figure of Ohzem. The Mystic walked past them, slowly eyeing each in turn. Zicon clenched his jaw and gathered himself, bowing slightly. Jank gritted his teeth and bobbed his head forward.

  Ohzem stopped in front of Sim. He reached a bony hand toward Sim’s face and clutched his jaw, sending a spike of pain shivering through him. The Mystic examined Sim’s face, turning it back and forth slowly.

  Ohzem turned to Jank and Dox. “Is either of you bleeding?”

  Each looked at his arms and torsos. Dox rubbed his bald head with a hand and checked it for blood.

  Jank spit to the side. “Why does it matter? You’re obsessed with blood.”

  “Shut your mouth, Jank!” Zicon hissed. “This is a Mystic you’re talking to.”

  “He’s right,” said Ohzem. “I am obsessed with blood. And you should be, too, if you want to survive more than a heartbeat longer on this island.”

  “What do you mean?” snapped Jank.

  “I mean we are on Moth with ill intent,” Ohzem said. “We are in the heart of the Mystwood, in the shadow of MagDoon, where the Myst is naturally strong, where the High Mystic’s power holds the greatest sway. Have you not wondered, Jank—” Ohzem sneered as he spoke the name, “—why we have not been destroyed by the ceon’hur?”

  “Because it’s a myth,” Jank said.

  “No! The ceon’hur watches the Mystwood every moment. He knows what happens and destroys all threats. But we are safe, because of me. Because of my power, you live another day. Through my sacrifice, through my power, you are hidden from the all-seeing eyes of the ceon’hur.”

  Jank shuffled his feet. “I don’t see what this has to do with blood.”

  “Blood is everything,” Ohzem said in his quiet, raspy voice. “Through it, we are immortal. It carries the history of our ancestors. The promise of our divinity. Because of this, even iron, the embodiment of the ancient world, must yield before it. If you shed the innocent blood of a person under the High Mystic’s protection onto the ground, you destroy the iron cloak I have woven around us.”

  Silence swallowed them all. After a moment, Zicon stepped forward. “Mags, tie this one up,” he said, gesturing at Sim. “Jank, you’re helping Dox. Get the ranger ready. I want us moving in the next ten minutes.”