“I did,” said Ram, “But when I heard the gunshots…I had to know what was going on.”
She cupped his face with her hand, this time examining him with her medical efficiency. “You could have a concussion. It’s not good for you to be up and around.”
“I’m okay. Really. No spots, no dizziness.”
Satisfied that he was telling the truth, Myra withdrew from him.
“What happened after I hit the step?”
Koldin scowled. “Chaos, that’s what. The Preceptor escaped—as is obvious by now—and in the commotion that followed, Kora managed to slip out from under Nikolai’s watch as well.”
Ram’s spirits fell even further. “She’s gone?”
Koldin nodded. “We’ve been combing the forest, searching for either one. We nearly had the Preceptor, but she evaded us, and of Kora there’s been no sign.” He gave a sour laugh. “She’s an Akorite. She won’t be found so long as she stays in the mountains, and perhaps it’s better that way.”
“At least she’s alive,” muttered Ram.
“What will you do now?” Myra’s sincere tone calmed him.
He took a moment to think, though he already knew the answer. “I’m going to Galaratheas. That’s where they’ll take Daniel, and if there were ever a time when he truly needed me, it’s now.”
Myra shared a look with Koldin before turning back to him. “Koldin will go with you to help you however he can.” She took Ram’s hand in hers. “I would as well, but I’m needed in Bryn Mawr. Dasha has a badly turned ankle that needs skilled hands.”
Ram nodded. He could think of nothing to say, nor did he have the energy to refuse their offer. “We’ll need food if we’re to go on foot.”
Koldin jostled a satchel at his waist. “Taken care of.”
“I don’t actually know the way.”
“I’ll lead you. Do you have a plan for when we get there?”
“Not a smidge,” said Ram.
Koldin grinned. “Then let’s be on our way.”
Myra pulled Ram aside while Koldin filtered through the contents of his satchel, removing several items he deemed unnecessary. “Thank you,” she said again, “For proving there are good people left. I don’t know if we’ll meet again, but—it’s hard to—” For the first time ever, Myra fumbled over her words. Then, giving up on speaking, she leaned in close, kissed him on the cheek, and vanished into the trees before he could so much as say goodbye.
As one smitten by a spell, Ram stared off into the forest, a strange longing budding somewhere inside him, though he couldn’t quite find the words to describe the feeling. In a short while, Koldin was ready, and he took the lead in the opposite direction.
With a heart both weighed down and lifted up, Ram followed.
Chapter Fourteen
Daniel wasn’t sure what woke him up first, the aggravating sound of pounding on metal, which seemed to come from mere inches away, or the intense pain throbbing throughout his entire torso. He rolled over onto his side and groaned like one undead. He felt as though a mountain goat had butted him in the ribs—a dozen times.
Groggily, and with a fair share of additional groans and ugly words, he sat up. The motion caused his stomach to heave, and he leaned over the floor. Nothing came out. He straightened. Whirlpools of red, purple, and yellow hues swam in his eyes. He reached out his hands as though he could swipe the blurry maelstrom away.
“Where am I?” His voice sounded like a rusty saw on wood. He licked his dry lips and swallowed saliva to get his throat in gear.
No one answered his question. He was alone. Ram wasn’t there, and Litty…Litty! He bolted to his feet. That did the trick. His stomach heaved again, and this time he found a wall to brace his hands on while he retched on the floor.
The acid in his mouth was rancid. He spat to the side.
Once his now empty stomach settled down, he took his first good look at his location. He’d been lying on a flat cot covered in sheets that must have been white once upon a time. Now they looked like weather-worn parchment. Though he himself was about as dirty as he’d ever been, he decided not to sit back down on the cot. Something crawly and nasty was bound to creep out from under it the moment he did.
Daniel’s heart dropped when he raised his eyes to the walls. Three of them, only. Dark, wooden planks that looked like they’d been in place for decades at least. Across from him, instead of a fourth wall, thick bars ran from the floor to the ceiling with no more than half a foot between them and broken by nothing but a narrow door built into the same pattern. This wasn’t some dingy bedroom—this was a prison cell.
He balled his fists and gave the cot a solid kick. Sure enough, something brown and four-legged zipped out from under it, high-tailed it through the bars, and dashed around a corner out of sight. Daniel had no interest in guessing what it was.
Other than the decaying cot, the cell was empty. The floor and ceiling were the same material as the walls. A window the size of an air vent was set in the back wall, high up under the ceiling—too high for him to reach, even if he jumped. Besides, he doubted he’d be able to see much. The only benefits were the airflow and the shaft of gray light that shot through the cell and out into the hallway beyond the bars. It didn’t light up the room that much, but it was something. It was from that small window that the clanging came. Some sort of manual labor, judging by the irregular intervals of silence that broke up the hammering.
Daniel crossed the cell in three steps, the floorboards sturdy and unyielding underfoot. He grasped two of the bars of the door and gave the whole structure a solid shake. The door rattled on its hinges, but other than making a grand racket, the shaking accomplished nothing.
He leaned against the cool bars, his arms extended over his head, staring at the floor. For the first time since escaping from the Preceptor camp with Ram—it seemed so long ago—there was nothing he could do. He was trapped here, and he didn’t even know where here was.
His fingers clenched around the bars. They had taken Litty from him. All the dangers he had faced to get her back, and in one nightmarish moment, they ripped her right out of his hands. To him, the Preceptors just marked themselves as the enemy. As soon as he could get out of here, he would…He stumbled back and dropped to the cot, in spite of his prior convictions. He was powerless.
A sudden rage overtook him, and he strode back to the grating and shook the bars until they rattled like teeth. “Litty!” His voice echoed down an empty hall. “Where is she? What have you done with her?” Once again, he was met with silence, and after kicking the door so hard his foot went numb, he roared like a wounded beast and crumpled in a heap, his arms outstretched above him, his fingers curling around the cold metal that held him trapped here. “What did I do?” The roar dwindled to a whisper. “What did I do?” He knew the answer. He had killed the Preceptor. He banged his fist against the bar. “I’m not a murderer!” He wasn’t a murderer…was he? He had only meant to save Preceptor Kerrigan. It was an accident. He had done the right thing. Hadn’t he?
Receding tremors of anger wracked his shoulders, and his face became stone. For a long time, he stayed on the floorboards, propped against the locked door, waiting for someone to answer his cries, waiting for anything to happen. Nothing did, and he retreated to the cot, where he sat and stared at the dark wood under his feet. As time wore on, the beam of light from the window shifted along the wall across the hall like the shadow of a sundial. Then that too was gone, and shadows claimed the cell. The sun must have been well past its zenith. And still he sat on the edge of the cot, not moving, not thinking, and trying his best not to feel.
* * *
The outer reaches of the city of Galaratheas, which extended south to the foothills of the Untamable Mountains, were the graveyard of ancient civilization. Monumental blocks of white stone stood in disarray like megalith tombstones, a tribute to the hands that built them and the hands that tore them down centuries ago. Archways marked roads that had faded into nature, tree
s grew where markets once teemed with vendors, and an eerie silence swept through the crumbling alleyways like a ghost revisiting its cradle. These portions of the ancient city-state had been left untouched since its downfall, and the Preceptors had passed through as quickly as possible. The inner circle, however, where the aristocracy once exchanged money bags, set up quasi-legitimate businesses, and built towering mansions of granite and marble, had been revived and restored during the War of the Mountains, serving as the final watchtower for the Preceptors on the eastern front.
It was here that the villagers of Obenon were brought and given provisional homes, food, and supplies for a few months of humble living. The evacuation was done. Those that decided to stay would have enough to settle, and given enough time, make Galaratheas a viable home. But as Fourth Preceptor Moriah wandered through the knots of ragged miners and miner-wives, she doubted many of them would choose to stay. They paused their work amid crates and boxes from the train just long enough to eye her with taught and haggard faces. She pitied them, but at the same time, their hostility made her more than a little nervous. She couldn’t help but wonder how much the years spent in the Untamables had hardened their countenance, and if they would ever be able to build normal lives for themselves.
But Moriah wasn’t here for the villagers, and she quickened her pace to escape their harrowing gazes. It had been over a year since she last set foot in Galaratheas, and even then it had just been a few weeks before her deployment to Obenon, but she remembered the general layout of the inner city, and she made her way from the provisional residential avenue to the heart of the city where the Preceptors stationed in Galaratheas had set up their headquarters. There weren’t many men left—after the war had ended, evacuating Obenon was the only reason the Preceptors remained active this far west, and Maravek had left a mere handful behind to operate the outpost.
Moriah entered the main building of operations, which had been a tavern in its days of glory, and there she found a Second Preceptor listening with waning patience to a married couple from Obenon griping about a missing crate of possessions. The Second Preceptor looked more than a little relieved when Moriah interrupted them—completely ignoring their protests and indignation—and inquired as to whom she was searching for.
The Second Preceptor wasn’t able to help her beyond pointing her towards the old forum square. “That’s where the tykes seem to find the most sport,” he said.
She left him to fend off the upset couple and followed a cobbled street with a myriad of alleyways branching from it like a nervous system that wound its way through low buildings out into the city. It wasn’t long before a hum of activity from the forum reached her ears. Once she had passed the crumbling remains of a church, the cobble street opened up into the forum square.
Where the streets were kept cool in the shade of the buildings, the square sweltered in the summer sun, and Moriah began to envy the civilians, who, in their soiled, simple clothes, were at least able to keep cool more than she was.
A quick observation of the forum confirmed what the Second Preceptor had told her. A throng of barefooted children pranced around the bone-dry fountain in the center of the square, chanting a tune in shrill voices. The lyrics were lost to her, but the simple sound of happy voices teased a grin from her. If only the parents could appreciate their improved situation as much as the children. She couldn’t recall ever seeing children playing together in Obenon.
The children ignored Moriah as she ambled into the square, keeping to the perimeter, where abandoned banks and storefronts provided a narrow strip of shade. She sat on one of the fallen pillars from the bank’s once-grand entrance and surveyed the members of the chanting train. They had changed their song, and now they tossed a small object back and forth amongst themselves to the rhythm of the ditty. She couldn’t tell what it was, but she quickly lost interest in it when she finally saw the object of her search that had taken up the last hour.
Across the square, standing alone by a pile of dusty rubble, was a child—a little girl in a faded pink dress, watching the activity by the fountain with big blue eyes. Moriah felt as though someone had pinched her heart, and without taking her eyes off the girl, she crossed the forum square, ignoring the other children. As she drew closer, the girl smeared tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She still stared at the fountain, either oblivious to Moriah’s approach or just not interested in her.
Moriah crouched by the girl. Those robin egg eyes still didn’t find her, and there were tear streaks on her cheeks. Moriah felt her throat tighten unexpectedly. She took the child’s hand in hers, and it was then that the girl finally looked at her. “Is your name Litty?” She kept her voice soft, as though handling a delicate flower, and any strong word would break it.
The girl stared at her for a moment before nodding. Her honey-blond hair bounced.
Moriah smiled. “My name is Moriah. Why aren’t you playing with the other children?”
Litty didn’t answer. One of the boys by the fountain laughed, and she returned her attention to the game of catch. Her lips puckered, and she reached out her other hand. “Ducky.”
Moriah looked over her shoulder, and it was then that she realized the object being tossed around was a stuffed duck. “Is that your duck?”
Litty nodded again.
Moriah wiped a tear away with her thumb. “I’ll be right back.” She marched over to the children, and as one boy threw the duck to his friend, she caught it mid-air and returned to Litty, ignoring the children’s disappointed groans. She sat across from the little girl and handed her the stuffed animal. Litty hugged the duck close to her shoulder. Her face brightened a little, and her lips moved silently.
Moriah watched the reunion take place, and her own eyes dampened. “Do you have anyone to take care of you?”
Litty shook her head without looking up. She rocked her stuffed duck back and forth, as though she were coaxing a baby to sleep. She hummed a few indistinguishable words to it, and then glanced back at Moriah. “Danny.”
Moriah opened her mouth, but had to quickly turn her face away and choke down lump in her throat. “I can’t take you to Danny now. I’m sorry.”
The blue eyes lingered on hers. Litty turned away, her arms at her sides, her duck dangling from her hand.
Moriah gently put her hands on Litty’s shoulders and turned her back around. “Come with me. I’m going to take care of you.”
Litty let Moriah lift her up, and the Preceptor held the child against her chest in a tight embrace. Harsh winds had battered this little flower long enough.
* * *
Tess peeled off her heavy Preceptor jacket and dropped it at her feet. She’d had enough of it. She shook her bare arms, welcoming the soft breeze like a long lost friend. She collapsed to the seat of her pants in the shade of a lone tree that jutted out of the rocky mountainside and stared glumly out over the valley towards the western mountains where, even concealed by nature, Bryn Mawr seemed to taunt her.
Ram had been right about one thing, at least. The train was gone. It had probably departed even before she escaped from Bryn Mawr. She was stranded and alone, but what stung the most was the fact that Maravek and his underlings had utterly deserted her. She couldn’t expect him to care about her—the man cared about no one but himself—but a true Preceptor never left a soldier behind.
As soon as this ordeal was over and she was back in the capitol, she would file as many complaints as it took to the Order to ensure Maravek was demoted. But first, she had to decide what to do now. Galaratheas was the intended destination before the Akorites interfered with the evacuation, and it was the only settlement within a hundred mile radius. The train would go there. And so would she.
* * *
Ram and Koldin reached Galaratheas sometime in the early evening. They had traveled at a consistent pace, with a few quick stops for food, water, and rest. Though Koldin tried to explain their bearings on multiple occasions—pointing out the valley and the railw
ay that cut north to their right, and claiming the Weeping River ran not too far off to their left—Ram hadn’t been able to keep any sort of map in is head. Thus, it was with great relief that he beheld the white walls, weather-worn turrets, and crumbling gates of the old city.
The line between the forested foothills of the Untamables and the ancient walls was virtually nonexistent—such had been the ferociousness with which nature ate away at the city’s abandoned perimeter—and beyond the walls with entire sections missing, nature had already staked its claim on the towering granite buildings, reducing many of them to skeletal testimonials.
They slowed their jog to a somber walk and approached the outer wall. Despite the destruction nature and time had wrecked, the wall was an architectural wonder. The few sections that remained intact loomed over them up to fifty feet high. Vines as thick as trees snaked up the white megaliths like the tendrils of a perseverant enemy.
Ram whistled through his teeth. “I’d read about Galaratheas, you know—all the stories. Never thought I’d actually see it in person.”
Koldin was more cautious. He stayed near the base of the wall and kept his voice low. “We’re still hours from the inner city, but the Preceptors could have scouts positioned.”
They passed through a gap in the wall and picked their way across the far reaches of the city. The remains of the cobbled streets teemed with both animal and plant life. Ferns sprung from the cracks, insects swarmed from mazes of nests, and even the deer had taken to the streets, though they kept a safe distance from the travelers invading their sanctuary. Underground springs had surfaced, turning entire streets and plazas into ponds anywhere from three inches to three feet deep. The deeper ones they skirted, and this routine of avoiding submerged sections, circumventing toppled pillars, and backtracking out of dead ends slowed their progress even more than Koldin had predicted. By the time they reached portions of the city that nature had not yet laid under siege, the sun was well on its way towards the western horizon. They had a scarce few hours before nightfall, and judging by what Ram had seen, these portions of the old Galaratheas were no safer than the forests of the Untamables.
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