by Claire Frank
Isley looked down at her hands, her fingers warm and swollen despite the cold air.
“There is a crudeness to them, I will admit,” he said.
Isley looked up through her lashes and took a deep breath, hoping to attract his attention to her chest. Her abdomen was swollen beyond recognition, but she was still curvaceous, and her breasts had grown larger. She might not have her Wielding abilities to enhance his desire, but surely he couldn’t ignore her body forever.
“Perhaps I will fashion you something less restrictive,” he said. “It will be an interesting test.”
Isley tried to keep her irritation hidden as she smiled and bowed her head in acquiescence. It irked her that he seemed impervious to her attempts at seduction. Although he often showed great interest in her, asking questions about her Wielding abilities and her captivity under Nihil, he never displayed even an inkling of attraction to her. She couldn’t recall the last man she’d met that couldn’t be manipulated by dangling the possibility of bedding her. Horadrus, however, was unmoved.
“You believe this to be a boy child,” he said.
“I do.”
He stepped forward and reached a hand toward her, his large palm facing out. Fear gripped her and she wanted to shrink away, but somehow she found herself unable to retreat. Drawing near, he placed his hand on her belly. Standing this close made it more apparent how tall he was; Isley scarcely came up to his chest.
“This child,” he said, his voice nothing but a whisper. The baby grew still and a shudder of warmth ran through her. Horadrus’s eyes widened and he stepped closer, placing his other hand on her. “I did not anticipate such a thing. So open. So strong.”
“What are you doing?” she said, her voice a whisper. She desperately wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t move.
His mouth turned up in a smile as he pressed his hands against her belly. “Circumstances align in ways I could not have predicted. He will be perfect. He will be mine.”
17. YOUR SOUL SINGS TO MINE
The air in the Halls of Memory was still, as quiet as if it were the dead of night. Pathius wandered alongside Ara, gazing at the flowing script carved into the rock and marveling at the craftsmanship. Each letter was perfectly formed, a work of art in and of itself, combining to form words that filled the soaring walls.
Pathius paused and ran his fingers along the lettering. “What does this panel say?”
Ara moved to stand next to him. “This tells of a man who was discovered far to the south. He had used dark means to increase his power and it had driven him mad. Little of himself had been left near the end, and he went deep in the wilds. It was Imara’s task to bring his end.”
“You sound sad when you say that,” Pathius said.
“Those who wrote this account were saddened by what was done,” Ara said. “It is not without regret that we take life.”
“How can you tell what they felt when they wrote this?” Pathius asked. “Do the words tell you?”
She stared at the wall for a long moment. “There is more than words here. It is difficult to explain to one who cannot see it. Energy is given, and with it, a sensation. The stories of our history mean little without the understanding of what those who lived it were feeling.”
Pathius had studied history. His tutor had wanted him to memorize long lists of ancestors, the names that solidified his father’s claim to the throne, but he’d been far more interested in the stories of war. He wondered what it would have been like to feel the emotions of the participants in the tales he’d read, what sort of context it would have given.
“Are all the panels the stories of Wielders gone mad?” Pathius asked.
Ara began walking and he followed. “No,” she said. “There is much to our history that is not the fulfilment of our purpose. It has not happened often that we are faced with Wielders of such power that we must be roused to action.”
“Do you know what will become of Dashal?” Pathius asked. It had been several days since the altered Wielder had lost control on the plateau and Pathius had not heard anything of his condition.
“He woke yesterday,” Ara said. “He is confused, with little memory of what occurred. I spoke with him briefly, and I believe Leotan delved too deep inside of him. This was something I warned him against, but he did not listen. Dashal will recover, but Leotan has not been roused. I do not know if he will awaken.”
Pathius hoped the Imaran would heal, although he didn’t know what it must do to a man to have his energy ripped out of one mind and shoved into another. “I don’t know if what I did was enough.”
“What you did was remarkable,” Ara said, turning to look at him. “Dashal lives because of you and, if Leotan recovers, he will have you to thank as well.”
She led him through a doorway, into another circular hallway. The walls were similarly filled with writing, detailing a history that was longer than Pathius could truly comprehend. The history of Halthas had a definite beginning, the exodus from Attalon, several hundred years prior. The chronicles of Imara seemed to go back millennia.
“This,” she said, pointing to another panel, “tells of a time when Imarans from across the sea made a visit here.”
Pathius furrowed his brow as he looked at her. “Imarans from across the sea? I thought all Imarans lived here.”
Ara gave him a knowing smile. “All Imarans do not live here. We cannot perceive what occurs across the sea, nor on the far side of the Deep Forest, any more than you can. There are Imarans in many places in the world.”
Pathius’s mouth hung open. “I had no idea.”
“It is said that in the beginning, when Imar became two, the first generations of Imarans lived here. But the need for some to settle other lands was made known by the Maersere, and so there were some who left.”
“Do you still have contact with them?” Pathius asked.
Ara walked farther down the hall and Pathius followed. “We do, from time to time, but it is not unusual to go long years without hearing news from our brethren. Because this is the place where our people began, it is customary for the other lines of Imarans to send visitors, to report the happenings in their part of the world and confer with our Raeswa. They record their deeds here,” she said, sweeping her hand across the wall. “As I say, this does not occur often. When I was a child, we had visitors from the Imarans to the east. I do not know the last time we heard from the Imarans who live west, across the sea. I have the thought that we may be overdue for a visit from them.”
“When you say across the sea, do you mean the lands of the Attalonian Empire?” Pathius asked.
“My understanding is that they live in a region of mountains. But yes, one would travel through what you know as Attalon to reach them.”
Pathius followed Ara in silence as she strolled into the next circular hall. Her mention of Imarans in Attalon piqued his curiosity, but he knew it wasn’t the Imarans that intrigued him. Any reference to Attalon sent his mind spinning, burning with frustration at not knowing what was happening in Halthas. He tried to convince himself that he was content to let Rogan handle the coming threat, if indeed a threat was coming. His existence in Imara had grown more peaceful since he’d stopped trying to leave, and there was a certain appeal to the work he was doing. Since long before Nihil had taken him, he’d felt broken. Now, for the first time that he could recall, he was beginning to feel whole.
As Ara paused again, Pathius drew up beside her. She tilted her head, regarding the writing in front of her.
“What is this one?” Pathius asked.
She remained silent, and Pathius glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her eyebrows were drawn down and her lips pursed together.
“This begins the account of the kingdom of Facia. You have been told this story. It is a time when Imara nearly failed.”
“This bothers you,” Pathius said.
“It does.” She reached out and brushed her fingers across the words. “This was a daunting time for Imara. Ther
e is much fear and apprehension in these words.”
Pathius stared at the wall, wondering what Ara could feel. There was something there, like a wisp of smoke dissipating in the wind. He could almost grasp it, but each time he tried, it drifted away, just out of reach.
“I wish I could sense what you do,” he said.
“Perhaps you could, if you tried. You are more open than you realize.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” he said.
“Most Halthians feel closed to us,” she said. “The life energy in us cannot speak to theirs, and they cannot answer. They feel … unreachable. Some few Halthians are open. It is difficult to explain. They feel more like Imarans, and you are this way. The life energy that makes you who you are, we call the feorh-aelan, and this is something we can perceive in each other. Yours feels … accessible.”
“You mean I could learn to perceive what you sense here?” he asked, gesturing at the wall.
“Yes. Although I do not know for certain how to show you.”
Pathius turned back to the wall. The sense of connectedness the Imarans shared fascinated him. He’d never felt truly close to anyone, save for Cecily, and he knew deep down his affinity for her hadn’t been natural. He paused as he realized the thought of her, for the first time, hadn’t sent a sharp pang of jealousy and regret through him.
“What would you tell me if I was Imaran?” he asked.
She took a deep breath. “I would tell you to find your center, the space within that glows with life. Perhaps to focus on your bond with your family, as this bond is a piece of your life energy. An Imaran would have the gift of Sight, and be able to perceive his own energy in a way you cannot. But your lack of Sight does not have to mean you are unable to sense what is here. Reach out from your core, and let it come to you.”
Pathius let his eyes drift closed, and resisted the urge to Absorb. He knew that wasn’t the answer, that Ara would rebuke him for pulling energy in this place. What Ara spoke of didn’t sound like Wielding. As much as he didn’t want to recall his actions in Caerven, he knew what he had perceived in Cecily had been an Imaran bond to her husband. Could the openness Ara perceived in him be the result of being touched by that link? Or was it because he’d been altered? He didn’t know the answer, and perhaps it no longer mattered.
Letting his concentration drift inward, he was surprised to realize he could feel something, a sense of life inside himself. He shied away, almost afraid of what he would discover, but there was a certain warmth to the sensation, like the smoldering coals left after a fire.
An impression of sound drifted into his consciousness, although he knew the hall was still silent. The note did not travel through his ears, but seemed to center itself directly in his chest, and he felt a flutter of emotion pulse through him. Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to catch the feeling so he could analyze what it meant. Was he perceiving something from the writing? Whatever it was, it didn’t strike him as being related to the story written on the wall. He expected that a tale of such gravity would contain concern, anxiety, or even fear. This was none of those things. It was soft, but intractable; gentle, but steady. It was pleasantly warm and as the strange melody in his mind grew, he found himself captivated.
Ara gasped, pulling him from his contemplation. He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, her mouth slightly open. Her eyes widened and she took slow steps, backing away from him as if suddenly afraid. For a brief moment, Pathius thought she would speak, but she simply turned and walked away.
Her long stride took her quickly out of sight and Pathius stood alone, gaping after her. Had that been fear in her face, or disbelief? He didn’t know. But as he began to walk through the circular maze, he realized what he’d felt hadn’t been from the script on the wall. It had been Ara. The explanations of the Imaran bond came back to him. Her life energy, her feorh-aelan had sung to his, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his had answered.
18. THE PARAGON
Cecily wandered down the path near the Lyceum library. Lavender blooms filled the air with fragrance, and a soft breeze whispered through the trees lining the walk. Although spring in Halthas usually meant rain, the clouds had parted and the sun sparkled in the clear blue sky.
She and Daro had traveled downriver with Stoker, Shale, Griff, and Serv. They had made good time, finding a large riverwheel vessel to take them to the capital. Cecily had sent word ahead, but they’d arrived even before the messenger. Her urgent pleas to see King Rogan had been granted and they’d managed a private audience with him. As expected, he was deeply troubled by the news of the attack on Shale, although Cecily got the impression that he wasn’t surprised. He’d been called away by an urgent message before they’d had much of an opportunity to ask him questions about the state of things, but he’d left them with assurances that he was doing everything in his power to mitigate the impending threat.
Groups of students walked past, engaged in animated conversation. Cecily smiled. It felt good to be back at the Lyceum. She knew a piece of her heart would always be there, regardless of whether she made it a permanent home. She’d sent word to the Paragon as soon as they’d arrived in Halthas, offering to work with any of his students while she was in the city. It wasn’t the same as a permanent post, but she wanted to offer, and he had responded to her message quickly, asking to meet her on the grounds.
“I don’t spend enough time out here,” a voice said behind her.
Cecily turned to find Paragon Windsor, dressed in deep blue robes. He was tall and lean with a wisp of white hair and a face that still appeared hale despite his age.
“It isn’t often so lovely this time of year,” Cecily said. “It’s usually raining.”
“True enough, I suppose,” he said as he fell in step with her. They made their way up the path at a leisurely stroll. “How long will you be in the city?”
“Not long,” she said. “We had business with the king, but we’ll need to travel home soon.”
“Of course,” he said. “I had thought perhaps, in light of these troubling times, you might be planning to stay on.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” she said. The truth was, she did think she and Daro should stay. With the threat of Attalon looming and soldiers already infiltrating their lands, she knew they couldn’t simply wait things out at home. Daro didn’t agree.
“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I have a bit of a problem and I thought you might be the one to offer assistance.”
“Perhaps I can still help,” she said. “What sort of problem?”
Windsor took a deep breath and tucked his hands in the sleeves of his robes. “Something of great value and importance has been stolen from the Lyceum.”
“I’m not certain how I could be of help with that,” she said. “Have you reported it to the City Guard?”
“To be completely honest, I would strongly prefer not to make this public.” He glanced aside as they walked and held up a hand as if to ward off her protests. “I assure you, it is nothing illicit. But it is an object of considerable power, and the longer it is out of my care, the more concerned I become.”
“And why would you think I would be a person who could help you with this?”
“I think we have moved beyond the need for dancing around the truth. I have been Paragon of the Lyceum for many years. I know what they trained you to do, when Hadran was king, and I know you have friends and contacts in….” He paused. “Certain places.”
“I’m not sure what you are implying,” she said.
Windsor sighed. “Cecily, you are one of the few Wielders left with the precise skills to find something of this nature. I realize you have bitter feelings over how Hadran took advantage of you when you were young. I don’t blame you for that, and I’m not asking you to hurt anyone. I’m simply asking you to help me recover something critical that was stolen from me.”
“What is it, then?” she asked.
“It is an artifact,” he said. “I obtain
ed it some months ago from a contact of mine and I will say, I am immensely grateful to have acquired it. In the wrong hands, it could be very dangerous.”
“Who stole it?”
“That, I do not know,” he said. “I need you to uncover that for me, and find the object.”
“Come now, Paragon, you must have some inkling of who stole it. If this object is as important as you say, I assume it was kept secret, and quite secure.”
“Naturally,” he said.
“Who else knew of its existence?”
“Here at the Lyceum, only a select few, and they are magisters I trust. Even with that trust, I’ve already questioned them to the point I am convinced they were not involved. Before I acquired it, however, I can’t say who was made aware of it. It could have been any number of people. I don’t know how many hands it passed through before I was able to obtain it.”
“Have you contacted the person you bought it from?” she asked.
“I have attempted to contact him but, due to concerns of secrecy, I don’t wish to put anything to paper that might rouse suspicion if it fell into the wrong hands.”
Cecily stopped and crossed her arms. “And by that you mean you obtained it from someone in the Halthian Underground and you want to ensure your connection to a criminal remains secret.”
Windsor sighed. “This isn’t a matter I can trust with just anyone. I’m trusting you.”
“Since we no longer have the need to dance around the truth, why haven’t you told me what this artifact is? If I agree to help you, I can’t find something if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Will you help?” he asked as he raised his eyebrows.
With the feeling she might later regret the decision, she nodded.
The Paragon’s shoulders relaxed and his face softened. “Thank you, Cecily. I appreciate this more than you realize.”
“Tell me what it is,” she said.
“Well,” he said and he resumed walking. Cecily kept pace, strolling at his side. “The nature of this artifact is rather sensitive, and will be of particular concern to you. In fact, the origin of this object has a great deal to do with why I have asked for your assistance.”