Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  “Light.” Sanych let her eyes flick as she recalled the treatises on optics she’d read at the Temple. “Well, according to Principles of All Light by Vernes Varahei, light comes from the sun, and in smaller quantities from fire and the odd natural phenomenon. It produces both heat and illumination, and travels in straight lines, unless bent or reflected with the air, prisms or mirrors. Learned Hrolgan states in his Examinations of Natural Properties that a properly shaped lens can focus the light, creating a heat point or bringing distant things into easy view. Too much sunlight will burn your skin, or blind you—”

  “All right, that’s plenty to work with,” he stopped her, hands raised against her onslaught of information. “You, dear girl, can control light.”

  “But I can’t!”

  “You have the ability,” he insisted. “You just need to practice. Did you not already exhibit several of light’s capabilities?”

  “Yes.” Sanych rested her chin against her knuckles and leaned her elbows onto her knees, intent.

  “Then why, knowing what you know of the way light works, do you believe you cannot exhibit the rest, in perfect control?”

  “I…” Sanych closed her mouth. It sounded logical. Light worked in known ways. Surely light-magic would do the same. “All right,” she admitted, “I can’t argue with that. But what if I’m the flaw in the system? What if the magic won’t work because I just can’t handle it?”

  “I won’t tell you that it’s easy to learn at first; it’s not. That first overwhelming crush of power can be frightening. I’ve had Scion students up here in tears, terrified they were going to kill their families before the cult ever laid eyes on them.”

  “Really?” The Scions had such a masterful grasp of their magics. Surely she didn’t have to be Meena’s descendant to learn how to use it well.

  “It’s true. You’ve seen how they turned out. You tell me you’re the youngest Archivist in the history of your Temple of Knowledge. Do you feel you are unequal to the task they’ve completed?”

  Sanych shifted uncomfortably. She’d rarely been unequal to any task, save avoiding seasickness. “It’s just so far outside my scope,” she said, but it sounded weak even to her ears.

  Curzon glared at her. “Your scope includes everything you touch, see, hear and experience. You’ve told me what you do for your Temple. Don’t try to weasel out of this just because it frightens you.”

  Sanych grabbed a handful of her long hair and squeezed it, frustrated. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone else!” she cried.

  “Ah,” Curzon relented, sympathy in his voice. “You don’t want to learn magic, out of concern for the sake of others. A noble, yet foolish, act.”

  “Foolish?” Sanych said defensively. “I’m not a fool!”

  “I should hope not,” he harrumphed, “considering how much the Shanallar is relying on you.”

  And there he had her. Although she was used to watching Meena do the heavy lifting, Sanych knew she would move the sea and the earth for the Shanallar. Her expression firmed. “Magic’s just a skill. A skill like any other. I have the tools; I just need to learn how to use them.”

  “Precisely so. Now answer me this, if you can: Narjin is gifted with the ability to manipulate fire. You’ve seen her toss Dzur i’Oth about with it?” When Sanych nodded, he continued. “What else do you think she can do with her fire?”

  Sanych frowned, itching her ear. “I don’t know. Things that fire does?”

  The braided hermit giggled and held up a finger to credit her. “Yes; you’d be surprised how many Scions don’t grasp that basic fact. Most of their magic is channeled into offense, leaving vast expanses of their potential unexplored. Now, granted, I’m not saying the Scions are at fault for this; they are at war, after all. My point, however, is this: their magic is still limited by what they believe is necessary and possible.”

  “Belief? Does that have anything at all to do with reality?” Sanych asked, leaning back on her stool.

  “Indeed. They cross paths at the limit of the spellcaster’s strength. You can cast magic all day long if you keep it small enough. Bigger effects will tire you out quickly. Some tasks just require too much magical energy, and cannot be done at all.

  “The difference between belief and reality, my dear,” Curzon said, squinting at her from beneath his bushy white brows, “is in knowing these limits. Only in testing yourself will these limits be revealed. However,” he raised an instructive finger, “once you know where they are, everything—everything—between you and them is a possibility. Now, Archivist: do you know the limitations of light?”

  Sanych blinked at the old, white-braided hermit. Can it really be that easy to harness the power of light? To command it at will and know it will obey me? She took several breaths’ time to review absolutely everything she’d read on the capabilities and limits of light, and then she met her wizened teacher’s eyes.

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  ~~~

  At an empty crossroads in the middle of the rolling plains north of Cish, a small jade-colored inn with a bright red chimney sat across from a chain of small, steaming hot springs. The road signs read Immi’s Wayside Inn ~ Rooms, Meals, Drinks. The logo carved into the signs, and into the front door of the building, was a stylized stalk of barley.

  “We’re here,” Salvor murmured, pointing ahead in the dimness of early dusk.

  Rhona didn’t answer. He looked over and saw that she’d fallen asleep in her saddle. He didn’t blame her; they’d been traveling nonstop for a night and a day. Riding close, he kept a hand on her shoulder until they rode into the small stable beside the inn. There he woke her gently and helped her off her horse.

  “Gods’ folly, I hate horses,” she muttered, leaning into her tired mount for support. Salvor left her there for a moment while he fetched a stable boy to unsaddle and rub down their horses.

  Their horses settled, the pair headed into the inn. By the small number of other mounts in the stable, Salvor knew to expect few other guests, and indeed there were only a handful sitting around the common room. The proprietress stepped forward from behind the bar counter to greet them.

  “Welcome to Immi’s, my good travelers,” the dusky woman said, bobbing her fat brown bun-braids at them. “I am Immi. Would you like supper before you retire? I can see you look exhausted.”

  “My wife,” Salvor said, using their cover story, “could use a bath brought up, if you’ve got one. We’ll see about supper in a few minutes. Your barley image, is that the highland variety?”

  A slight twitch beside Immi’s right eye was the only sign she understood the code phrase Daym had given Salvor, identifying him as someone in need of safe shelter with the Scions.

  “You’ve a keen eye, sir,” she replied, indicating that no one had come seeking them yet. She turned to call for one of her maids. “Kimmsin, please show these fine guests up to room seven, and get Albrel to help you carry up the tub.”

  The maid curtseyed and led the way upstairs to a small, clean room with a wide bed and a small window.

  “I’ll be back with your bath in a trice, madam,” Kimmsin said, curtseying again. “If you need anything else, just ask.”

  When she left, Rhona collapsed on the bed and curled up in a fetal position. “Kill me now,” she begged. “I swear, if we have to ride all day tomorrow as well, my legs are going to rot off!”

  Salvor chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll strap them on behind your saddle.”

  “You’re a cruel taskmaster.”

  “Nonsense. I just know the value of letting a horse do the dirtwalking for me.”

  A knock came at the door, and Kimmsin and Albrel lugged in the circular copper tub. Salvor sat on the bed, out of their way, and took off one of Rhona’s boots. He began to massage her foot, working his way up to her calf muscle as the servants began toting hot water from the kitchen and pouring it into the tub.

  “I take it back,” Rhona murmured, her voice rich with enjoyment. “You’re a g
od.”

  “Careful, now,” he admonished, tugging off her other boot. “Vintens don’t believe in gods. Although, now that I think of it, most of the ones our neighbors subscribe to do have admirable qualities. So keep talking, wench.”

  Rhona laughed into the pillow.

  After Kimmsin dumped the last bucketful into the tub and left, Immi paused at their doorway. “Let me know when you’re ready to stay in for the night. I’ll ward the door,” she murmured.

  “My thanks,” Salvor replied.

  Immi shut the door behind her, and Rhona breathed deeply of the scented water. “Is that lavender?” she asked, approaching the tub and leaning over it. “Marvelous. I’m going to fall asleep in there and drown.”

  Salvor smiled. “I’ll go down and eat while you bathe, and I’ll bring you up some supper, if you haven’t fallen asleep by then. And drowned. Then I’d have to eat it myself and dispose of your body.”

  “If you do, I’ll haunt you.”

  “No you won’t. Vintens don’t believe in haunts either.”

  He left, closing the door on her chuckles, and let Immi dish him up a platter of food that weighed more than his sword. He took his time eating in the dining area, savoring every bite, and complimented Immi on her exquisite cooking before asking her to make up a platter for Rhona. She came back from the kitchen and handed it over, blushing under his praise.

  He saw that she’d slipped a pair of chocolate tarts on the platter as well. When he met her eyes with a frown of confusion, she winked at him. “That’s a fine-spirited wife you’ve got with you, sir. Keeping her happy is the best way to keep yourself happy, if you follow me.”

  Salvor tried his best not to smile as he replied, “You’re a wise woman, Immi.” He told her they’d be turning in for the night as soon as he got upstairs. She said she’d have the servants pick up the tub in the morning.

  Bracing the platter of savory food against his chest, Salvor used his free hand to open the door, expecting Rhona to be sound asleep in bed.

  She wasn’t.

  Curly hair wetted into mere waves of dark red and bright copper, Rhona sat up in the tub and looked over her shoulder at him in surprise, a sea sponge in one hand. The lamp in the room tinted her skin a creamy hue.

  Salvor had never seen the cordage braids at her temples undone; the bright masses of copper hair surrounding her face gave her an innocent look he’d more readily associate with Sanych than with the woman who had tried for an entire season to manipulate Geret into bedding her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed you’d be done by now.”

  “It took longer than I thought,” Rhona replied, looking down into her tub, “to get all the blood off. The dairy didn’t have soap; I’ve been sticky all day. It was even in my braids,” she said, sliding her finger and thumb along her coppery hair.

  “I hope you washed your appetite,” he said, stepping inside and shutting the door with a foot. When it was latched, he said in a low voice, “Husbands don’t wait in the hall.”

  “They do if I tell them to,” she replied archly, then added, “But only at sea. Here, we don’t want to stand out.”

  Moments later, Immi’s voice carried faintly through the door, wishing them a good night. They saw a faint blue glow shoot around the door’s frame, along the floorboards, and around the window frame on the opposite wall, warding them safely for the night.

  Salvor set the platter of food on a narrow table.

  “Gods’ folly, is that all for me?” Rhona blurted, seeing the amount of food that Immi had piled on the platter.

  “It is,” Salvor said with a smile, picking up a chocolate tart. He walked to the tub, letting his eyes trail across her, though her knees were drawn nearly to her chest in the round copper tub. He sat on the floor beside her and held out the tart for her to bite. “Compliments of the house,” he murmured, as she sank her teeth into the rich dessert.

  “Oh my,” she said, running her tongue over her lips to catch every crumb. “That’s divine.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, thumbing the pattern of leaves beaten into the curled rim of the metal tub. “About Nohm. Yesterday. If there were anything I could’ve done…”

  “He was my guide when we escaped from the farmhouse. He told me funny stories to distract me; it reminded me of Ruel.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll catch up with your cousin and everyone else. Meena has a plan, and if anyone knows what they’re doing, it’s her. Tomorrow, everything will be better.”

  Rhona bit her lip, her eyes never leaving his. “I don’t want to wait for tomorrow. You know pirates: so impatient.”

  Salvor heard the break in her voice, though she tried to hide it. He leaned closer to her, feeling the heat rising from the water brush his throat. “Tonight it is, then. How can I help?”

  She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then handed him her sea sponge and turned her back to him, the water sloshing as she tucked her feet under her bottom.

  In a quiet voice, she asked, “Can you wash my back?”

  Salvor set the rest of the tart back on the platter, then dipped the sponge in the warm water and squeezed it out slowly along the back of her shoulders. His gaze tracked the water trails as they ribboned from the tips of her dark red curls and ran over the smooth musculature of her back.

  “Rhona, it would be my pleasure.”

  By the time Rhona ate, her food had long since gone cold.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Geret stood at the edge of the river canyon and looked down at the distant green waters of the Emerald. The wind at this height was vicious, and he braced his boot against a rock for support against its gusts. Curzon’s side of the cliff fell away to his right; at its foot sat the small village, Shadewater, surrounded by dozens of Scions from various cells. Behind him, among the trees across the clearing, sat the upper Scion camp; neither camp had its full range of protective spells in place yet. To his left, the canyon twisted westward through the ancient caldera rim, its edges lined with stunning basalt hoodoos and thick fir forests that ended abruptly at the canyon walls. Ahm said that the Emerald had several spectacular waterfalls in this area, and Geret hoped he got a chance to see one. He could hear the faint roar of the closest one, and was tempted to go look for it, but he decided he had bent the rules enough for one day.

  He wasn’t supposed to leave the protected area of the camp. But Geret felt the need for the pure, wild emptiness of nature. Not a complete fool, he took his sword and kept his hand on its hilt at all times.

  What a relief to have solid ground under my boots, Geret thought, grinding his foot on the rock. Not least because Meena’s in control again, and not Rhona. He shivered, though not from the cold wind, and his thoughts shied away from the pirate. He’d remembered no more from his last night aboard her ship; not being sure whether to hate himself or Rhona was getting tiresome.

  Sanych can do magic now, he mused, his eyes playing over the wide, shadowed canyon below. Maybe she’ll want to stay here in Shanal. I bet Meena would stay with her. He frowned, uncomfortable with that line of thinking too. He was here to save Addan from the cult’s spell, and hoped to return to Vint to find his cousin perfectly well. Until he’d seen Sanych wielding the power of light with her bare hands, he’d simply assumed she’d return home with him and the others. But now, he thought, chewing the inside of his lip, now she’s different. Special. She belongs here, with others that have gifts like hers.

  “Geret,” Ruel called, coming up behind him.

  “Morning, Ruel. Have Salvor and Rhona arrived yet?”

  “No. I’m worried. The destruct spell might have caught them.” His stormy blue eyes looked out toward the sea, a distant blue line on the horizon.

  “Salvor’s been my bodyguard since the first day out of Highnave,” Geret said. “He’s managed to keep me alive, despite my best efforts. I’m sure he got Rhona out safely.”

  Ruel nodded. “Meena sent me with a message. She wants you to tell Curzon to step it
up. We’ve caught a Dzur i’Oth spy, and the cult may know where we are.”

  Geret’s eyes widened. “Here in the camp?”

  The pirate shot him a flat look. “And try not to bed her while you’re there. It might interrupt her studies.”

  “What?” Geret blurted in shock. “I’m not going—”

  Ruel crossed his arms. “I see the cut of your jib, princeling. You and Sanych and your secret book messages. Why else would you put Rhona off until she got desperate enough to drug you?”

  Geret’s brows lowered. “The green drink.”

  “The sacred spirit loosens the mind’s hold on reality, so that one may commune with the divine. She was after something a little less elevated with you. But too much makes you forget, and Rhona wasn’t spouting details in the morning. I’ll wager you can’t remember much either from that night, can you?”

  Geret numbly shook his head.

  Ruel quirked his lips to the side. “You hold off bedding Rhona, yet you pretend to love her all the way across the Empty Ocean. Meanwhile, you’ve got yourself a pretty blonde wench on the side, just waiting for you to look her way. That’s how Salvor described her to me, back in Fernwall. It doesn’t look like much has changed, except the fool who’s trimming her sails.” Ruel turned to leave. “And you dirtwalkers call us barbaric.”

  Gritting his teeth, Geret stalked toward Curzon’s ladder, Ruel’s words echoing in his mind. Now I’m even more glad I dumped her swag in the river!

  At the ladder’s bottom rung, he stepped onto the tiny ledge and pounded on Curzon’s thick door. This place really needs a porch.

  The door opened. Sanych looked out at him with a cool expression.

  “I—” he began, and then caught sight of the ball of white light that she held in her other hand.

  “You what?”

  He swallowed, unable to look away from her blazing magic. “I have a message for Curzon.”