Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  She pushed on the door, letting it swing wide. “Come deliver it, then,” she said, turning away in dismissal.

  Folly. She hates me.

  Geret entered the small, warm cave and stopped short at the odd sight that met his eyes. Numerous small objects hovered in midair. Some were moving, others were stationary, and a few tumbled in place. Curzon sat on the floor, waggling his finger at this one or that one, making them spin or shift. At the sight of Geret, he grinned happily.

  “Ah, an audience!” said the hermit. “What brings you down to us this time, my boy?”

  Geret explained that Dzur i’Oth had likely located the Scion camps, and that Meena asked Curzon to hurry. Sanych sat down behind him.

  When the prince had finished speaking, Curzon merely gave him a barmy grin. “Hurry? Hurry? This wondrous girl has learned more in two days than many Scions learn in a month! By the green dragon’s horns, she’s a natural!” He winked at Sanych.

  “But, doesn’t it take a long time to master magic?” Geret asked. It always did in the stories. Surely they couldn’t have practiced everything already! The things he’d seen the Scions do looked terribly difficult.

  Curzon burst out laughing, and Sanych snorted.

  “My dear,” the old spellcaster said to his protégé, “perhaps you might demonstrate your grasp of the concepts we’ve covered thus far?”

  Geret turned to Sanych, puzzled, expectant. She glanced away, then looked him full in the face.

  “Fine,” she said, and Geret saw defiance in her eyes. He picked up an unused stool and sat down at the edge of the room, unsure what to expect.

  Sanych stepped to the center of the oblong room, closing her eyes. She took a steady breath in and out, then she opened them and said, “I’m ready.”

  Geret didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but having the hovering objects begin to attack Sanych wasn’t it. He ducked instinctively, watching in alarm.

  Sanych’s hands came to bear on a flying knife aimed at her chest. She let loose a blaze of rippling white heat, and it fell to the stone floor in a steaming puddle, the handle afire. A ball of thick yarn whirled around her, and she encapsulated it in a globe of heat; when it dissipated, mere ashes drifted to the floor. A wicker basket flashed past her head, and she ducked, then shot a burst of pure light at it, causing it to burst into flame.

  Wooden spoons, platters, even a stool, took their turn attacking the small spellcaster, but she flared her fingers and grasped a pair of light-formed handles, wielding bright axe blades that proved to be sharper than anything Geret had seen. She whirled and ducked and twisted, using the techniques Geret had seen her practicing aboard the Princeling, laying ruin on the household objects that assaulted her.

  The last projectile, Curzon’s iron cooking pot, fell to the floor with an echoing clang, its two halves rocking. Sanych held the light-blades a moment longer, meeting Geret’s eyes in triumph, before letting them fade away.

  The message in her eyes was clear: I don’t need you anymore, Geret. I have my magic now.

  Geret looked down at the destruction at her feet and swallowed, feeling more alone than he had at any point during the entire expedition. Sanych had always been there for him: when he tried to push her away; when she was in love with Salvor; when he’d been in Rhona’s tyrannical grip. Now, she’d taken a step in a new direction, and he couldn’t hope to follow. The gap between them was sudden and uncrossable. Worse, she seemed to want it that way.

  He took a steadying breath and turned to Curzon. “I’d surrender to her after that,” he joked. The old hermit cackled, but Sanych looked away. “I’ll tell Meena that the training is progressing well.”

  “Thank you, lad. And if you could tell Ahm that he still owes me a flat of stamp berries?”

  “Right,” Geret said, standing. He made his way through the skin curtains, then heard rustling behind him. Sanych stood there, looking upset.

  He gave her an encouraging smile. “You’re scary good, Sanych. I can’t believe you learned all that so quickly.”

  Her troubled blue eyes gazed up at him for a long moment. A dozen unvoiced thoughts seemed to swirl in their depths. “Did you really—” she began, then pressed her lips shut, looking away.

  “What is it? You can tell me anything,” he said in a light tone, grazing the underside of her chin with a knuckle.

  Her eyes slid closed at his touch; her face tensed as if in pain.

  “Sanych?” he whispered, wanting to make things better, but afraid he would only make them worse.

  When she opened her eyes, the sight of her unshed tears wrenched at him. He slid his hand to cup her cheek and felt her lean into his palm. Encouraged, he pulled her against his chest and held her close.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Her body tensed, and she pulled away. “So you did.”

  “I—what?” he asked.

  Sanych’s face crumpled, but before Geret could react, she slapped his hands away from her with glowing palms.

  “Sanych!” he blurted, shocked. He jerked away, afraid for a moment that she’d burned him. But her touch had merely been light, not heat.

  “Don’t touch me with those hands,” she grated, tears spilling onto her cheeks. The lines of sadness in her face hardened to anger. “This hoping is murder on my focus.”

  “What—” But I don’t have any other hands! his mind protested, utterly confused.

  “I’m not her, Geret.” Sanych’s eyes had hardened to pale sapphire; she thrust a finger toward the distant sea. A lurid orange glow exuded from her hair; Geret feared she didn’t know she was doing it. “And I never will be. Try not to get us confused. I can see how that might be hard for you, though, since we’re so clearly alike!”

  Her. She means Rhona.

  “I never meant for you—” he began.

  “Yes, I can see that you didn’t.” She stepped back. The orange glow around her hair dissipated.

  Geret’s mind had been struggling to keep up with Sanych’s mental leaps for a while now, but this time he fell completely behind. He wanted to explain, felt a powerful urge to confess his shared deception with Rhona and all the ramifications it had manifested. But in the face of her incandescent anger, he reluctantly decided that now wasn’t the time.

  “I-I should go,” he said, deciding not to further upset a young woman who had just slashed half of Curzon’s belongings to ashy bits. “I can see you’re not interested in waiting for me to sort myself out anymore.”

  Sanych winced and turned her face away. “Yes. Just go.” Her voice sounded broken.

  Geret nodded a silent farewell and reached out for the ladder. He’d barely gotten both feet onto it when Sanych closed the door with a firm shove.

  He leaned his forehead against the chill metal bar in his hands, closing his eyes and letting the wintry wind whip around him. The cold felt good after the many varieties of heat he’d just experienced in the cave.

  Even when she’s mad, she still makes me feel stupid next to her, he thought, trying to make sense of Sanych’s reactions and words. Guilt over his complicity in keeping Rhona’s secret from her, along with worry about his uncle’s legitimate anger in regards to several aspects of Geret’s behavior, made it hard to focus at first.

  Something she’d said finally penetrated his mind: “This hoping is murder on my focus.” She’s still hoping for something! Admitted it right to my face! She must want me to do something to show her I’m not a complete idiot. He blinked. I’m turning into a calculating nobleman after all. Salvor would be proud.

  A strong gust threatened to tear him from his precarious perch; he climbed to the top of the ladder to pursue his thoughts in a safer location. At the lip of the cliff, he rolled onto the broad, mossy edge and stared up at the sky as if looking for answers written in the clouds.

  Said clouds were heavy and yellowish, scudding overhead with sullen reluctance; he’d not seen their like in several winters. He felt the first fat flakes of snow melt with cold ki
sses onto his skin, lost in the swirling thoughts that captured him entirely.

  If Sanych still has feelings for me, Geret worried, I crossed her in a huge way with Rhona, no matter what happened that last night aboard ship. She may never forgive me. And if that happens, I’ll never forgive myself.

  Then he grinned, letting a laugh escape into the snowflakes. But with Sanych as both opponent and prize, there’s no way I can walk away from her. If she’s still hoping, then so am I!

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Geret was keeping out of the snow in a small wooden shelter grown from several saplings when he saw Salvor approach. He greeted Salvor with a firm forearm grip. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said.

  “You know that’s my line, and I’ve never been happier to say it,” Salvor replied, relief on his face. “What’s been happening?”

  Geret grinned. “Very nearly everything.” Rhona joined them while he filled Salvor in, though he left out the part about Sanych’s outburst.

  “You seem awfully jovial,” she greeted him, standing on tiptoe for a kiss.

  Geret saw Salvor rest his forehead lightly on his fingertips, shaking his head in what appeared to be disbelief. The prince pulled his grey cloak closer around him and turned his head so that her kiss landed on his cheek. “It’s the snow,” he said, bouncing on his toes and looking out at the thick fall of white flakes.

  “Snow makes you happy?” she asked, frowning at his rejection.

  “Not all snow; just this snow,” he said, casting an inquiring eye at Salvor, who gave a shrug and looked away.

  “Beats the dragonfire out of me,” Ahm said, joining them in the shelter. “I’ve not seen anything like it in my life. It’s nearly summer by the almanac.”

  “Do you think it’s a cover for an attack by the cult?”

  “Our weather casters say no; it’s been in the wind for days, before any of you arrived.”

  “Bad luck, then,” Salvor muttered, turning and leaving the tent.

  Geret looked to Rhona for a hint about Salvor’s mood, but she would not meet his eye.

  “I’ll just go look for Ruel,” she murmured, slipping out into the drifting flakes.

  Geret sighed. “Has Meena returned from scouting yet?” he asked Ahm.

  “Not yet—”

  A thunderous boom interrupted Ahm. Geret frowned at the sky. “Do snowstorms usually come with thunder in Shanal?” he asked.

  “No!” Ahm ran out into the snow, not bothering to put his hood up. He darted through the scattered fir trees, silver hair flopping. Geret and others ran as well, while faint sounds of explosions carried through the snow-laden air. By the time they reached the cliff lip, the battle in the village below was in full swing.

  “They’re here,” Ahm muttered, gazing down at flashes of blue and red, yellow and black. Golden lightning streaked down from the snow-laden clouds, striking targets on the ground.

  The Scion leader headed back to the picket lines for a horse, with Geret on his heels. But while Ahm wheeled his mount toward the steep cut that led down to the village, Geret had a different objective.

  “Go on ahead,” he shouted to Ahm. “I’ll get Sanych!” That door’s so thick, I bet she can’t hear a thing in there over her slicing and dicing.

  At the edge of the cliff, he dismounted in a single rushed leap. His feet slipped out from under him in the snow and he staggered, giving himself an adrenaline rush. Slowing down, he approached the ladder and found the first rungs with his feet.

  Glancing across the broad clearing, he saw Meena ride out of the trees. Raising himself a rung, he called her name, and she looked across at him.

  At that moment, a blast of wind and an enormous half-orb of flickering black light encompassed most of the clear area between them. Where before there had been a hand’s depth of clean snow, there were now dozens of Dzur i’Oth cultists. In their center, astride a black steed of pure shadow which snorted golden fire from its nostrils, rode a man dressed in black. Within his dark hood, he wore a skeletal half-mask, and his right hand was scaled by living silvery metal that tipped his fingers with wicked claws.

  Geret saw his hood turn toward Meena. The Shanallar’s face went slack.

  “Thief,” the man intoned, raising his silver hand and pointing at her with a single claw.

  Geret couldn’t help crouching against the cliff’s lip, trying to appear as small as possible.

  Meena glanced toward the camp, as did Geret. The Scions were just now noticing the sudden invasion. Without warning, Meena wheeled her horse and bolted back into the forest.

  “Kill them!” Oolat shouted—for it could be none other than him—and the cultists rushed to attack. As his forces raced ahead of him, the cult leader turned his shadow mount after Meena. Geret watched the thing flow after her, moving like no living horse could.

  “Folly, Folly, Folly!” he cursed, shaking off his paralysis. He climbed down the ladder as quickly as he could, slipping twice and nearly falling off. He reached Curzon’s door and pounded on it. The door’s hollow thudding seemed quieter than his pounding heart.

  Sanych opened it a long minute later, pressing her lips together and flaring her nostrils at the sight of him.

  “Sanych! Dzur i’Oth is here and Oolat’s chasing Meena! I need your help!” He held out an arm to her, clinging to the ladder as the snow blurred past him, whipping his cloak.

  Her eyes widened, and she reached behind the door, whirling a dark green cloak around her own shoulders. Then she slapped her arm into Geret’s hand, grasping his sleeve, and he hauled her over to the ladder. She scampered upwards.

  “Curzon!” Geret bellowed.

  “What, what?” the old man griped, coming to the door and rubbing his arms in the cold air. “Where are you taking my student?”

  Geret repeated the situation to Curzon. “Will you help us?” he asked, holding out a steadying arm.

  “Sorry, lad. My magic doesn’t work in battle.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because I’m a coward. Good luck to you, and keep that girl safe! Her training isn’t anywhere near complete. “ He slammed the door shut in Geret’s face.

  Geret blinked in incomprehension, then shook his head and raced up the ladder after Sanych. He reached the top just behind Sanych. He gained the flat ground and stood upwind of her, letting the snow plaster itself against him. In the few minutes he’d been gone, the camp had been overwhelmed, and it was now full of cries and shouts, and the occasional explosion or magical blast.

  “Let’s get a horse; two if we can find them.” They ran toward the camp, and he drew his sword, intent on protecting Sanych.

  Until he saw her palms light up, holding her magic in readiness. Ruefully, Geret realized it was much more likely that she’d end up protecting him.

  Closer to camp, they could hear the clash of swords. Geret stepped in front of Sanych, searching through the trees and magicked shelters, alert for approaching threats.

  She shoved him aside and held her hands up to frame a large circle, shaping the light between them and turning from side to side. The world at a distance suddenly leaped into close focus between her hands, and Geret stared at the magnified image.

  “There,” Sanych said, nodding.

  The image showed Geret several loose horses among the trees on the far side of the camp. He and Sanych made their way through the camp, managing to avoid notice, and reached the area where the horses stood.

  Geret sheathed his sword and eased up to one of the spooked creatures, wooing it into complacency with his soothing voice. “There we go, sweets. There we go.” He slid his hand onto her dangling reins. “Here, Sanych, you take this girl.”

  Sanych had a foot in the stirrup when they both heard a whistling sound approaching them from the side. Geret looked up in time to see Sanych gasp and fling a hand out. He winced as a fiery whoosh sucked the air away from them, and when he opened his eyes, several trees to his immediate left had burst into flame. The free horses wh
innied and kicked in fear, then galloped away, and only Geret’s weight on their mare’s reins prevented her from running off with Sanych as well.

  “What was that?” Geret called, digging his heels into the needle-strewn ground as the horse tried to drag him away.

  “I don’t know, but she threw it,” Sanych said, hopping down from the stirrup and pointing.

  Geret looked past her to see a woman with wild black hair stalking through the trees toward them. Between her hands she was forming a pulsing yellow ball with red flickers. She didn’t seem pleased.

  “Maybe you’ve stolen her horse,” Geret said, watching in trepidation as the woman’s fireball got larger.

  “Me?” Sanych demanded.

  “Tell me you’re not going to wait for her to throw that one at us,” Geret said in desperation.

  With a grimace, the black-haired woman drew back her arm, ready to hurl her magic firebomb. Sanych gritted her teeth and shot a wide, horizontal pulse of solid light at the woman.

  Geret, not knowing what Sanych’s magic would do, had a lovely view of the cultist’s severed head tumbling to the ground. The woman hadn’t even had time to flinch.

  “Folly,” he muttered. The headless body crumpled, and its magic dissipated. The mare jerked her head, tugging on the rein in Geret’s hand, and he snapped back to the moment. “Get on,” he said roughly, turning the horse for Sanych to mount, “we have to go.”

  Sanych settled into the saddle. Geret mounted behind her, taking the reins from her hands, his arms passing her waist.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped.

  “You need your hands free; I don’t.” He urged the horse into a trot. Sanych grasped the pommel to steady herself. As they rode deeper into the forest, the snowfall lessened considerably, improving visibility.

  “I don’t really need my hands,” Sanych confessed. “Master Curzon says I just think I do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I still need practice.”

  Whether she needed to or not, Sanych kept her hands full of white power as they rode. Clouds of steam marked a small clearing to their left, and Geret angled the horse in that direction. Water vapor curled up from a wide blue pool, edged in bare rock rimmed with snow. Geret didn’t see tracks anywhere, either Meena’s or the shadow horse’s, although he had to admit he wasn’t sure if a shadow horse left tracks. They pressed onward into the forest again, angling toward the river, searching for Meena’s trail.