Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  “What happened?” she asked, trying to shove him out of her line of sight.

  “Rhona, don’t,” he began, but she had already peered around his arm.

  “Gods below in all their fury. I can even taste him.” She turned and dropped into a crouch by the wall, vomiting. Salvor squatted next to her.

  “Nothing you could do, Rhona,” he said in a quiet voice, dropping his tunic and putting a hand on her shoulder. “He got hit just as we moved.”

  Rhona vomited again, a dry heave that wrenched her guts and stopped her breath until she coughed away the spasm. Tears streaked her blood-smeared cheeks. “Cheating, that was. How was he supposed to fight that? Gods’ folly, that could have been me.”

  “Let’s find Meena,” Salvor said. He helped her up, and they stepped over the remains of the Scion who had died saving their lives.

  But he stepped into a silent stone room, with a single yellow light on a metal stand in its center.

  The other chambers, on either side of the one they had exited, were empty.

  He looked around for an exit, and saw none. Worry clenched his stomach. Had something gone wrong? Where was everyone?

  Where was Geret?

  “Folly’s bastards,” he swore, his voice rough with frustration.

  Movement caught his eye, and he looked up at the low ceiling. Lower than the other room; looks like we’re somewhere else, at least.

  A series of stone wedges descended from the right side of the ceiling, hovering in sequence, forming a levitating staircase that reached to the floor. Three people descended in a hurry, then stopped abruptly at the sight of him and his shaky, blood-soaked companion.

  “Who are you?” a middle-aged man asked, bringing a fiery spear into being and preparing to launch it at them. He eyed the corpse in the chamber. “And who is that?”

  “I’m Salvor Thelios, of Vint. This is Rhona. That’s Nohm, or what’s left of him. Ahm’s lodge has been discovered. The cult sent people to try and take the Shanallar and retrieve the key. We escaped, but we’ve been split up somehow.”

  The man frowned, noting Salvor’s thick accent. “That’s how it works, lad. The pods send everyone to a different location, ensuring some of us will survive in case the cult is trying to attack multiple locations at once. You’ve come here to the chamber beneath our dairy. Did Ahm survive? And,” he added after a pause, “did you say…the Shanallar?”

  “That I did.”

  With stunned expressions, the man, Daym, and his wife and sister took Salvor and Rhona upstairs into the main level of their concealed building, and quieted in amazement when Salvor confirmed that Meena had returned to destroy the Dire Tome once and for all.

  “By the dragon’s crest,” Daym said, “we’ve lived to see The Day. Let’s not be caught unready.” He told the newcomers that they’d been transported to one of the most isolated cells.

  His sister brought Rhona a clean cream tunic, a warm basin of water, and some towels. The pirate stepped into the next room to clean up. The woman returned a moment later with a fresh green tunic for Salvor, who thanked her.

  “Where will the Shanallar be?” Daym asked.

  “Nohm mentioned ‘the Emerald’, but I’m not sure where he meant,” Salvor said as he pulled the clean-smelling cloth over his head.

  “That’s a long river. Why did she want to go there?”

  “Something about Sanych,” Rhona murmured from around the wall, wringing out a cloth above the basin. “Magic training.”

  Daym’s expression cleared. “Ah, then I know the place. She’s going to see the Hermit.”

  “I’ll let everyone know,” his wife said, hurrying out of the room.

  “Our cell will be ready to go in a couple hours,” Daym said, his voice both confident and eager. “And my wife will alert the other cells as well. This time, we can’t lose.”

  “I don’t want to wait two hours,” Salvor said, thinking of both Meena and Geret. “Can you give us directions and a couple of horses?”

  “Yes. But you should let us come with you; protection in numbers.”

  “The cult’s not after me, or Rhona,” Salvor said. “If we wait for you, we’ll draw unwanted attention.”

  Daym relented. “All right. But it’s two days’ hard ride from this side of the valley. I know a safe place you can stay tomorrow night. It’s run by another cell.”

  Rhona met Daym and Salvor at the front door of the dairy, sporting a clean cream tunic, damp hair, and a sober expression. Through the tail end of twilight, a boy led two horses from the stables.

  “You be careful out there on the roads,” Daym said, as a chill breeze swept by. “It’s near to summer, but we’ve had naught of spring yet, and the wild predators are getting desperate.”

  “Always,” Salvor replied, watching Rhona settle a dark blue hooded cloak around her shoulders. “Thank you for all your help. I look forward to seeing you in two days.”

  ~~~

  Anjoya pushed the mounted warrior’s wheels along the wooden tracks until its lance collided with Addan’s warrior. The little wooden man fell from his carved saddle, and Addan, sprawled on the floor, smiled and picked him back up.

  “Geret.” He marched the man along the rug, making his little sword wave back and forth.

  “You miss your cousin, don’t you?”

  Addan nodded.

  “Shall I tell you one of his adventure stories again?”

  The prince nodded again, rolling over onto his back and clutching the little wooden man in his big hands. Anjoya began telling him the tale of Geret and the Giant, Glowing Deep One of Peril, making grand gestures and doing all the voices for him. Inside, though, her heart wrenched at the poor man’s situation: a bespelled eight-year-old, trapped in a body that outgrew him long ago. I pray Geret can free him. No one should be forced to suffer for the greed of another!

  The door to Addan’s room opened. Anjoya looked over to see Beret entering with a tray laden with two glasses of pink liquid. “Oh, beg pardon. I didn’t realize I was interrupting an epic tale of heroics.”

  “We’re just at the dramatic finish; please, come in.”

  She stood, and Addan rolled over and sat up. “Cherry.”

  “Yes, straight from the cherry cows,” Beret replied, handing one glass to him. “I’d have brought a third if I’d realized you were here,” he told Anjoya. “Sweet cherry milk was his favorite as a small boy. It’s our traditional afternoon snack together.”

  “I won’t keep you, then.” She stepped toward the door.

  “Oh, don’t leave on our account. Addan will no doubt want another story in a moment.” Beret took a deep gulp of his milk, then gave an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction, smacking his lips. Addan smiled and took a sip.

  Anjoya took a seat nearby. “Do you really think your two conspirators will just walk into our trap tonight?”

  “Possibly, but that isn’t my goal. I’m just prodding them to see which way they—” He paused to cough. “Which way they jump. Once we know whether they’re more likely to lie, flee or—” He coughed again, more violently.

  Anjoya rose, stepping to his side. “My lord?”

  “‘S fine,” he said, waving her off. “Bit of a—” Another gagging cough hacked its way out of his throat, and his face reddened.

  Anjoya urged him back into a chair, but he seemed to resist her. “My lord Beret, you really should sit down—” She saw that his jaw muscles were taut. His hand clenched the glass.

  He’s having a seizure!

  The Magister’s arm flailed wildly, spilling his pink milk everywhere. “Z’n.”

  “My lord? What is it?”

  “P’. Z’n.” His eyelids fluttered closed, and his body began to slump into unconsciousness.

  “P…z’n? Poison!” He spilled it on purpose!

  Anjoya whirled and slapped Addan’s glass from his hand a moment before he could take a second sip. The prince cried out, skittering back from her violence.

  She turn
ed back to the Magister and checked his breathing and pulse. He still had both. She ran to the doorway and screamed for help.

  ~~~

  “Give me your belt. My sleeve isn’t working,” Geret heard Narjin order. He blinked away the black afterimage filling his eyes and saw her holding out her hand to Ruel.

  The pirate stripped off his belt and slapped it into her hand, and she pulled it tight around the stump of Kemsil’s arm. The Jualan had stopped screaming as the magical white light had faded, his sounds reduced to mere moans.

  “Hold on, Kemsil,” Geret urged the man. “You may be willing to give your life for me, but I’m not interested in taking it yet! You hold on!”

  Kemsil’s eyes rolled back. “Death…yes…”

  “No! You can’t go until I let you,” Geret ordered. “You have to stay here, Kemsil.”

  Others began to crowd around the pod. Geret waited for Meena to shove everyone out of the way and heal Kemsil, but she didn’t come. Scions he didn’t recognize carried Kemsil away, and he followed after them, finding himself climbing several sets of stairs in an ancient stone castle of sorts. Dragon motifs were everywhere: the walls, the handrails, even the floor mosaics.

  They took Kemsil to a room with a bed. There, Narjin explained to Ruel and Geret that the escape spell had split them all up, and that she knew where they were meeting up with everyone else who survived. Behind her, several of the new Scions were crouching around Kemsil as he thrashed on the bed.

  “What are they doing to him?” Geret asked, unable to concentrate on Narjin’s words.

  She turned to look. “Sometimes combining magic strengths can lead to a higher affinity in a weak area. One of them has some minimal healing abilities, but he doesn’t feel he can take on such a huge task alone; the others are lending him support through magic potential, rather than their specific ability. I hope it works, for your friend’s sake.”

  “So,” Geret said, tearing his eyes away from the scene behind Narjin, “we’ve come to a different Scion cell?”

  She smiled, reminding Geret of Meena’s grin. “Yes. Sosta runs this one. She’s the black-haired woman in the huddle over Kemsil. Very good with manipulating air. This little castle is their home most of the time, unlike our hideout. It has plenty of space, and it’s got a pocket of magic down in the dungeons that they can draw from to power their protective spells. That’s about all I know, though; keeping separate saves lives. One cell may be located by the cult, but even if we were captured and tortured, none of us would have any pertinent information on the other cells.”

  Geret’s eyes widened. “Do you think they took anyone this time?”

  A grim smile came over Narjin’s face. “No; the destruct spell cleared everything out. No one got out of there alive. Not us, and not them.”

  Geret swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. The cult functions as a single unit because they can’t trust each other to work independently as we do, so any time we take out a lot of them at once, it’s a victory for our side. Even if it costs us our own lives.” Narjin’s expression showed only a few threads of grief in a tapestry of pride.

  “Did you have any of your immediate family in there?” Ruel asked. Geret knew he must be thinking of Rhona.

  “Yes. We’ll have to wait until we meet up at the Hermit’s cave to be certain who made it out.” She looked down at her hands for a moment.

  Behind her, Kemsil collapsed back onto his pillow, panting, and groaned. Relieved murmurs spread around him.

  “Looks like your friend will make it after all,” Narjin said with a small smile.

  Unfortunately, that just meant he wanted to come with them. Sosta’s people moved him to a large bed in a room on the second floor, where he protested feebly to Geret.

  “Kemsil, you’re in no condition to travel!” the prince replied.

  “You said this castle was the closest cell to the Hermit’s cave,” Kemsil shot back. “Don’t try to tell me I can’t make it a few hours’ ride!” He struggled to sit up, trying to balance on one hand.

  Alarmed, Geret caught him gingerly by the shoulders and eased him back down; he was dismayed at how easy it was to overpower the weakened man. “You’re not healed, Kemsil; they’ve just got the bleeding stopped. You’re safer here. Even if you did come, we’d have to guard you all the time.”

  Kemsil looked down at the pale blue blanket, then turned his gaze to the far wall. “I see the way of it. I’m just a burden now that I have nothing to offer.”

  Geret paused, aghast. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. Just go.” Kemsil pulled his blanket up with one hand and shuffled gingerly onto his side, turning his back to Geret. “You should have let me die.”

  Geret felt a wall rise between them, shutting him out. He rose to leave, afraid to say anything else to upset Kemsil. At the doorway, he paused and looked back. “We’ll be back for you.”

  ~~~

  Minutes later, Kemsil heard four dozen horses clatter their way across the castle yard and out through the main gate.

  He lay in his room, listening until the hoof beats faded. His weariness soon overcame him, and out of habit, he reached for the Circuit, intending to tap the seven-pointed-star symbol to hold its settings steady while he slept. When his fingers met only air, he froze for a moment. Then the bitter tears started.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Convince me it wasn’t you who poisoned the milk,” said Imorlar. He stood against the front edge of his desk with crossed arms.

  Anjoya sat in his office, trying not to stare at all the paintings that looked down on her. Maybe I should have toughed it out in Salience after all, she thought. At least no one there ever accused me of trying to murder the caliph.

  “If I came here to poison the Magister of Vint, do you really think I’d stay and cry for help afterward?”

  Imorlar merely regarded her in silence. Anjoya bit back the urge to question why he suspected her now, after Imorlar had already heard her story from Count Runcan’s own lips.

  Runcan soon stepped into the office, to Anjoya’s deep relief. He conferred with Imorlar in the far corner of the room for a few minutes, then the men both approached her. Runcan nodded to her in encouragement.

  “I will release you on the word of Count Runcan, Miss Meseer,” Imorlar said. “Given your lack of strong political connections there, it does seem unlikely that you have any motive for murder. Which leaves me back where I started.”

  Imorlar’s office door burst open behind Anjoya’s chair. Gerzan, Rentos, Aponden, n’Hara and Thelios strode in, and the last man closed the door behind them.

  “We’ve just heard, Runcan.”

  “Is she the one?”

  “We need to take control before word of the Magister’s death gets out. We can’t have chaos in the court.”

  Anjoya opened her mouth to protest, but Imorlar grasped her arm and hauled her from her chair. “First things first. Let’s get you down to a holding room.” He shuffled her out the door, talking over her startled protests. The voices of the Counts faded behind her.

  Down a broad staircase, then another, narrower one, Imorlar finally loosened his grasp. “My apologies. It seemed best if they don’t learn that you’re innocent just yet.”

  “Or that the Magister still lives?” Anjoya asked, rubbing her arms as she stood in the chill sub-level.

  “Especially that.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “We shouldn’t show our hand too soon. Standard procedure in the event of the Magister’s death is for the Dictat to take control of the palace’s affairs until the heir can be prepared to reign in his place.”

  “You mean Geret. The one the conspirators wanted to lead their empire.” Her eyes were wide in the dim hallway.

  “You see why I needed you out of there before you said anything. I’m not liking where this line of thought is taking me, but I can’t deny that the conspirators among the Dictat stand to gain the most by the death of the Magis
ter and his son. Just the thought of them stooping to murder…it’s madness.”

  “You don’t have murder here?”

  “Oh, we do, but it’s rare, even among the common folk. The last time a death was arranged by one of the Dictat, well. It’s been centuries.”

  Anjoya shook her head, confused. “It’s certainly very different here than in Hynd. Am I going to have to remain in a cell until you can prove who did it?”

  He gave her a small smile. “I think I know a place you can stay, without fear of discovery.”

  ~~~

  Sanych blinked in the blackness, smelling the closeness of rock and suffering an uncomfortable reminder of her time in the lightless farmhouse pit with Rhona. “Did we make it?” she whispered.

  Meena sniffed. “This air is terrible. How long has it been since you opened this up?”

  Ahm coughed. “That’s not the air. That’s his cooking.” He thudded on the ceiling several times.

  “He is here, isn’t he?” Sanych asked, her pupils straining ever wider in the blackness.

  Meena spoke. “Quit panicking. He’s a hermit, Sanych. He’s always home.”

  “What, he couldn’t be out at the garden patch? Or taking a pee?” she shot back.

  Meena’s voice was smug. “No, he can’t be out doing those things.”

  “Why not?”

  Meena only hushed her.

  “Wake a body up…” came a faint voice from above. “Can’t you see I’ve…” It trailed off into disgruntled muttering. The sound of metal scraping across stone echoed through the ceiling.

  “What is he doing?” Ahm muttered. “I’ve half a mind to break a hole in this ceiling—”

  A clunk overhead dropped fine particles of sand down on their heads, and then a crescent of light appeared, widening in short bursts. Sanych blinked sand from her eyes and squinted upward.

  More stone grated together, and several hand- and foot-holds pushed out from narrow recesses in the wall of the chamber, bumping Ahm in the shoulder. He took the lead, swinging onto the stone ladder and climbing up. Sanych and Meena followed him.