“It was my fault,” said Turock, who appeared to have regained some of his equanimity. He still spoke as if in a dream, but at least he was looking at Roland now, however mournfully. “One of my men complained of sickness, and instead of replacing him, I let one less man watch the river. If only I had been there.…”
“What could you have done?” asked Roland. He was completely besieged now, playing a role he didn’t know how to play.
“I could have stopped them!” Turock screamed suddenly. He swept his arm out wide, gesturing to the pile of bodies. “There were only thirty of them, and they ended the lives of sixty of my people.” His expression kept shifting, first a terrible grin, then a scrunched-up look of anguish. “When I arrived with my spellcasters, we crushed them, all but one. Our magic was greater. If I had just assigned another watcher, if I had taken up the duty myself, then—”
Roland grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Despite all the horror, sorrow, and pain he had just experienced, frustration was the emotion he felt most keenly.
“Who lived?” he asked, staring into Turock’s wide, shocked eyes. “You said you ended all but one. Who was it?”
Turock tilted his head as if Roland shaking him had broken him out of his stupor, and pointed in the direction where Jacob had run off. Roland whirled around and put one foot in front of the other, hit by a sudden surge of panic that momentarily cured his tired and worn-out body. He sprinted around the crowd, around the tent and into the open space behind it, chasing after his master. Two pairs of heavy feet followed hard behind him.
He spotted the First Man the minute he rounded the collapsed end of the tent. Jacob stood over a man who had been strapped to a pole in front of a small fire. Roland skidded to a stop a few feet away, recognizing the man’s shaved head, black robe, and piercing, ocean-blue eyes.
It was the one Jacob had called Uther Crestwell, the mad priest.
Azariah and Turock almost collided with him from behind, and they all stood and watched as Jacob leaned forward and whispered something into the mad priest’s ear. Uther’s eyes widened, and he began screaming, struggling against his restraints, trying desperately to free himself. Jacob reached for his belt, the spot where he normally kept his skinning knife, but he ended up patting his side, looking confused. The knife wasn’t there. Roland’s breath caught in his throat, and he began moving slowly forward, as if caught in a dream. Helpless, he looked on as his master bent down and lifted a burning log from the fire. Uther’s cries cut through the night as the First Man brought the log down on his head, the sound of snapping bone echoing between them with a resounding crack.
“No! Stop!” Turock yelled.
Roland forced his feet to move, but it was too late. Jacob brought the log down again and again, blackening Uther’s face, sending streamers of blood flying. Even when the monster had fallen still, Jacob continued to beat his motionless body, caving in his face, snapping his neck so that his head hung at an unnatural angle. By the time Roland reached him, and Azariah grabbed Jacob’s arm, halting him mid-swing, all life had left Uther Crestwell’s body.
Jacob whirled around, yanking his arm free of Azariah’s grasp, swinging the log as if he were ready to attack. Both Azariah and Roland backtracked and stumbled, but Turock stepped forward, holding his hands out wide.
“It’s all right, Jacob, we’re not going to hurt you.”
Jacob stared at them each in turn, his eyes looking crazed as his wild gaze passed over their faces. Then he threw down the log and ran past them.
Roland turned, watching helplessly as Jacob bellowed at the small crowd that had gathered to watch what was happening. Then he disappeared into the Eschetons’ tent and, after a few moments of cursing and loud rustling, he emerged with Brienna’s lifeless body slung over his shoulder. The First Man made a beeline for the edge of the camp, where their horses were tethered.
“Azariah! Roland!” he shouted. “Come now or stay—I do not care!”
Roland glanced up at the Warden, and then they both followed. They reached the horses just as the sky turned completely dark and the nearly full moon began its ascent. Jacob tied Brienna’s corpse to his horse and then hurried back to the unmoving body of the mad priest. After lugging it behind him like a sack of flour, he flung it over the steed Brienna had ridden north, unceremoniously binding the corpse’s hands around the beast’s neck. The horse bucked and snorted, as if uncomfortable with its forced proximity to a vile predator. Jacob untied both horses from the posts. His gait was one of a man on the verge of insanity.
The First Man then glared at Turock, who had followed them and was watching Jacob’s preparations in silent confusion.
“Escheton!” Jacob shouted. “You call yourself a caster, so make me a portal!”
Turock stepped closer to him, his lips askew. “A what?” the spellcaster asked.
“A gate! A portal! A dimensional passage to elsewhere—do these words mean anything to you?”
“Um…to where?” Turock replied, sounding completely bewildered.
Jacob took a few menacing steps forward, looking as if he was ready to strike his friend, but his head swiveled and his gaze settled on Brienna’s body. Roland watched his master’s demeanor shift once more. When he turned back around, his jaw was slack, defeated, and when he spoke his words were deliberate but tinged with melancholy.
“I must return to Safeway—and quickly,” he said, gesturing behind him. “All of us.”
Turock grimaced, seeming uncertain.
“I can’t get you that far,” he said softly. “In theory, the farthest I can send you is to the outskirts of the Gorgoroses’s land, but I have never sent anyone that great of a distance.”
“How far have you sent someone?”
“Safely, only a few hundred feet,” said Turock, coughing and refusing to meet Jacob’s eye. “I know the spell, and I can gather the power, but I fear you might not be in one piece when you arrive.”
Jacob bowed his head. “I will take the risk,” he replied, and he sounded more than appreciative when he said it.
“But—”
“Just do it!”
With that, the First Man grabbed his horse’s mane and swung up into the saddle. He pulled Brienna’s lifeless body into his lap, before taking the reins of the steed that carried the corpse of Uther Crestwell. Azariah stayed by his side there in the middle of the field, seemingly willing to let Jacob try whatever he had planned.
Roland heard whispered words of magic, and he looked on as Turock closed his eyes and rubbed his wrists together. The air seemed to shimmer around the red-haired spellcaster, and his features shifted in and out of focus beneath the moon’s ghostly glow. A glowing blue orb formed in front of the four horses, hovering above the ground. Its swirling beauty stole Roland’s breath away. It grew rapidly outward, becoming the size of a fist, a man, a horse, then so large Ashhur himself could have walked through it. Roland stood in awe, watching shapes alter within the vaporous, resplendent mist. Jacob nodded and thanked Turock.
“Don’t thank me yet,” said the spellcaster. “Save your thanks for when you all get there safely, with all the proper limbs and digits.”
Jacob nodded.
“Very well, then,” he said.
“What will you do if you survive?” Turock asked, shouting over the steadily growing roar of wind that was pulsing from the portal. Jacob urged his frightened horse forward, and when he answered the question, there was a chilling flatness in the First Man’s voice.
“I will demand a miracle from a deity.”
Jacob kicked his horse, imploring it and the steed carrying Uther into a gallop. They disappeared into the swirling blue portal as if they’d never been there at all. Azariah shrugged and followed after, vanishing in the same way. Roland stood paralyzed, watching the colors swirl, afraid of getting lost in whatever had been opened before him.
“Better make it quick, son,” Turock told him, the strain of what he was doing clearly evident on his grimacing face.
“I can’t hold this thing open forever.”
Roland took a deep breath, then jostled the reins. His horse leapt forward, heading for the potentially deadly gateway. It was only because of his faith in the man he called master that he didn’t soil himself as he passed through it.
CHAPTER
32
Her name was Aubrienna Meln of Stonewood, Brienna to those closest to her, and she was a ball of raging fire in the deep blackness of the approaching dawn. Brutes in armor and vile men in heavy black robes chased after her. They leapt across the river, seeming to float through the air, after she and her tall companion left their raft. The attackers’ arrival had been unexpected, and in no time she and her friend were separated. She faced a cadre of foes armed with swords and spears, with nothing but the cloak on her back and her bare hands to combat them.
It would be enough.
Power leapt from her fingers as she drew from a well of energy that she had not fully accessed in decades. She lifted one arm, and a wall of ice formed in front of her enemies. Another arm lifted, and the earth beneath their feet folded upward, crushing them in a tomb of dirt and stone. Brienna stepped back, gritting her teeth. She was frightened, but a part of her savored the force she was controlling. The ice wall shattered, and more men rushed forward with swords, their expressions showing no fear, only anger. Her hands worked their magic, twisting into the necessary formations, mimicking the secret runes born into the earth itself when the goddess formed Dezrel. Lances of ice and fire flew at her enemies, cutting them down one by one, the ice smashing their armor and the fire ravaging the flesh locked within.
Brienna desperately searched for her companion as the space around her grew more cluttered and chaotic in the aftermath of her attacks. Off in the distance, she could see the tents surrounding the half-completed tower. There would be people within, frightened and huddled together. The elf screamed with all her might as she saw more attackers hurrying toward the meager haven. Electricity danced off her fingertips, cutting them down as they glided over the violently rushing river.
That was when a sharp pain slammed into her, tensing muscles that had reached their peak ability after a century of training. She dropped to the ground. Her ears rang, and she found it hard to concentrate on anything. She sensed men rushing past her as if from afar, and the terrified, distant screams of the villagers became a terrible song.
With blurred eyes she looked up to see a man standing before her. He was bald, with crystal blue eyes that glimmered each time light flashed in her field of vision. He wore a dark cloak, and his grin showed the glee he took in torment. The man raised his hands above his head, bringing a rumble of thunder to the sky and a brightness so intense that it washed out all else that followed. Lightning pierced her flesh, sending agony throughout her body, making her quake uncontrollably. She was horribly aware of her muscles seizing, of her organs ceasing to function. With her last remaining breath she called out to her sister, a young elf she adored more than the world itself, to say good-bye before the darkness took her, before that blinding white faded into.…
Aully awoke shivering, her cheeks covered in tears, in the grimy hay on the floor of the cell that was now her home. Her eyes flew open, and she stared at the drab, gray wall, too horrified to move, too horrified to utter a word. What she’d seen, what she’d felt, had been far too vivid for a nightmare. Far too real. She didn’t know who the bald man and his lackeys were, but she knew in the deepest fibers of her being that they were somehow connected to the enemies who had turned her life into a never-ending string of horrors. She curled her knees to her chest and cried silent tears, wishing she could join her sister in whatever lay beyond death.
First her father, now Bree. All she had left was her mother and a brother whom she had never met and probably never would. Would the anguish never end?
Comforting hands caressed her back. Aully rolled over and saw Noni hovering above her, face lit solemnly by the torch that burned in the corridor outside their cell. The old elf gently wiped her tears away before leaning over and placing a kiss on her forehead.
“Don’t fear your nightmares,” she whispered. “They mean nothing.”
“This one did.”
Aully pushed away the old elf’s hand and sat up. She brushed her dirty hair from her face and glanced to her right, where her mother lay sleeping. From the looks of it, the Lady of Stonewood hadn’t received the same vision she had, and for that Aully was glad. Her mother had retreated within herself during the endless days of their imprisonment. She feared more bad news might be the end of her.
“Brienna’s gone,” she whispered. Aully looked up at her nursemaid, needing something without being sure what it was. Sympathy? Understanding? Someone to believe her?
“In what way, child?” Noni asked.
“Gone,” Aully insisted. “Forever. She’s dead.”
“How do you know this?”
“She said good-bye to me while I slept.”
Aully thought her nursemaid might doubt her, but she nodded instead.
“The connection between sisters is strong,” the old elf said. “Even those separated by so many years.”
Her words made the corners of Aully’s eyes twitch, tears readying themselves to be spilled anew. She sighed and closed them, only to be struck with the sensation of the lightning coursing through Brienna’s body and the image of her father’s head falling from his neck. The twin horrors should have broken her, but this time she felt a potent rage building inside her. She held her hands in front of her face and rubbed her fingers together, feeling the magic flow through her. She wished she were as strong as Brienna, wished she had studied the arts with the deceased Errdroth Plentos for fifty years, as her sister had. Brienna’s connection to the weave had been natural, as it had been for their father. Aully knew she should be stronger than she was. As her rage twisted inside her, she wished she were the strongest caster in all of Stonewood. She wished she had the power to turn the stone walls to rubble, to protect her people as they fled the horror that was now their lives.
A soft, whining creak split the pre-dawn darkness, and Aully shifted her gaze to her nursemaid. Noni stared back at her, shoulders slumped, resigned to what was to come. Each morning in the seemingly endless days since she and her thirty-one fellow elves from Stonewood had been thrown into this dungeon, a single jailer—always a member of the Quellan Ekreissar, not one of the regular Thyne sentries—would descend the stairs into the dungeon, placing food in front of the six cells that held them. When he left, he always brought a prisoner with him. First it had been Aully’s cousin Meretta, then Fressen, her father’s personal tailor. The worst had been when they’d taken Zoe, a young girl half Aully’s age who had been tapped to act as Presenter of Celestia when Aully and Kindren were married in four years’ time. She would have stood on the dais beside the Master of Ceremonies, flowers in her hair, and sung a song to the goddess above.
That day she sang no songs to Celestia—only screamed.
No one who had been taken was ever returned.
After Zoe, Aully had started closing her eyes whenever the jailer came, not wanting to know who would be ripped from her next. This time, though, she stood defiant, glaring through the iron bars and into the passage beyond, even as Noni gasped and tried to retreat deeper into the cell. She would not be frightened. She would not accept this as her fate, not even if it meant she would be the next to greet the executioner’s ax.
Bree would have fought back, Aully decided as the flickering light descended into the dungeon. And so would she.
Aully leaned against the bars of her cell, watching the light grow brighter as the footfalls became louder. She breathed in deep, concentrated pulls of air, trying to gather as much energy as she could into her body. She might not be able to command lightning and fire like Brienna or her father could, but she promised herself she would bring as much pain as she could to whoever came to torture them.
A sleek form emerged from the dungeon entra
nce and turned, and the power flowing through Aully’s veins dissipated in shock. She knew that lovely face, that delicately sloped nose, those intense, widely set eyes, that dark hair infused with strands of gold that flowed elegantly over the interloper’s shoulders. A sense of betrayal broke her fighting spirit as she watched Ceredon step forward, his free hand hovering over his khandar’s grip. It was the first time she had laid eyes on him since her world had come unhinged. The Quellan prince shoved the torch he carried into a brass loop embedded in the wall, removed a ring of keys from his belt, and approached the gate to Aully’s cell. She moved back, her hands dropping to her sides, tears already pricking behind her eyelids again.
“Not you,” she said softly. “It can’t be you.”
Ceredon jammed a key into the iron lock and twisted until the catch disengaged. Then he swung the gate open and stepped inside. Aully squeezed her hands into fists and closed her eyes, ready for him to grab her and rip her from the cell. Only no hands touched her. Instead Ceredon knelt before her and held a finger to his lips.
“Wake Lady Audrianna,” he whispered. “Come—we must hurry!”
Aully stood, shocked, as Noni slid next to her mother and shook her awake. The Lady of Stonewood, despite her grogginess and misery, seemed to understand what was happening the moment she laid eyes on Ceredon.
Everything grew more surreal with each passing moment. Aully’s mother rose from her resting place, trying to appear strong despite her dishevelment, and helped Ceredon as he opened each of the remaining cells. Door after door was unlocked, and the prisoners within awakened. Soon all that was left of the delegation from Stonewood stood shoulder to shoulder in the dungeon’s narrow passageway, expressions of confusion, fear, and relief stretched across their faces. Aully stood in front of them, next to her mother, and gazed at the Quellan prince with trepidation. For a moment she wondered if it were all a terrible trick, if Ceredon had been sent to instill her people with false hope before sending them all to their deaths.
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