The snow fell softly. The natural peace of the forest surrounded them, lulling the edges of Geret’s awareness. He became aware of his arms resting against Sanych’s waist, of her back against his chest.
“There.” Sanych pointed, her finger shooting out a beam of light. In the thin layer of snow beneath a towering fir lay a trail of hoof prints, made more visible by the long shadows of Sanych’s light. Geret wheeled the mare around and they galloped up a long, slow rise.
At the crest of the rise, the tracks jinked away from the direction of the river. Geret reined in, hearing a continuous, thundering roar. The mare flicked her ears. Through the sparse trees, Geret spotted a vast waterfall, over a quarter-mile wide, tumbling down into a great stone cauldron. Giant stone teeth poked up from the lip of the falls, separating the water into several narrower curtains. Swirling clouds of mist fumed up along the walls, disturbing the fall of snow, whirling it in spirals.
A subtle motion against the white mist at the very lip of the canyon caught his eyes. Meena skulked behind a tree, peering around the rough brown bark. Her horse was nowhere to be seen.
Sanych opened her mouth to call out, but Geret slapped a hand over it, holding her head against his chest, and hissed, “You want to give us all away?”
Sanych shook her head. Geret removed his hand, then they quietly dismounted. For lack of a better plan, Geret drew his sword, though he felt like he’d brought a pie to a backstreet dagger duel.
Sanych ghosted closer to Meena, still several dozen feet away. Geret kept his eyes on the lookout for what she was hiding from.
A hand grasped his shoulder, and Geret caught a glimpse of silver claws. A breathy voice perfumed the air. “Ah, more playthings.”
Geret spun, slashing with his sword, but its blade merely squealed along the man’s metal palm.
“Geret, duck!” Sanych cried.
Geret threw himself to the side. A white shock wave blasted through his eyelids. He felt himself strike the ground, and the white faded to black.
~~~
Sanych cried out in horror. Her flare of light had simply bounced off of Oolat and rebounded onto Geret, knocking him out, or worse. All that training, and I’m still hurting the wrong people!
Oolat chuckled, and it echoed through his half-mask. “You have a strong gift, child,” he said. “But the key to the Great Tome’s prison will be mine. Not even one with your talents can stop me.”
“Sanych, you foolish girl,” Meena called, running closer. “Did you switch sides when I wasn’t looking? Get out of here!”
“But I’m helping you destroy this pain in the arse,” Sanych replied over her shoulder, letting her power flare her palms into incandescent whiteness.
“Fine help you were to Geret,” Meena spat. “Oolat will take—”
“Oolat is here to die!” Sanych interrupted, anger heating her blood. She loosed a rod of solid light at his torso, intent on evaporating it. Just before it would have struck him, he vanished. Her magic beam sliced through several trees before dissipating. “Where did—” Sanych began.
Meena gripped her shoulders and spun her around. “Sanych, please,” she whispered. “You must flee! If he learns how important you are to me—”
Suddenly Meena screamed, staggering from a rush of black fire that struck her from behind. The fire curled around her and dragged her away, scrabbling and writhing, across the snow.
“Sanych! Run!” Meena cried.
“Folly, no!” Sanych gasped, leaping over roots and fallen logs, trying to get line of sight on him. Where is he?
She finally spotted the black-robed man at the cliff’s edge, half-obscured in swirls of snow-laden mist. His outstretched arm directed Meena’s body to stop at his feet. He held her to the ground with the black fire, which licked thickly over her torso, and rested a boot on her chest. She struggled, crying out and cursing him, but could not best the grasp of the man’s supernatural power.
Sanych flung rod after rod of killing white light at him, yet they all bounced off, shattering trees and sublimating snow into gouts of steam. “Stop!” she cried, feet stumbling over roots and stones hidden by the snow. “Please, stop!”
The man ignored her. He stared down at Meena, torso pinned, legs thrashing, and removed his mask. “Know me, thief. I am Onix Oolat, Dzur i’Oth Hand of Power, and I am your destruction.” He knelt in the snow at the edge of the cliff, resting his silvery claw against her chest.
As she began an enraged denial, he plunged his claws down into her torso. She screamed in agony. Sanych skidded to a horrified stop, unable to look away. She thought she could hear his claws clicking against the glassy key.
A moment later, Oolat grasped his prize and yanked it into the light. Long, trailing drizzles of Meena’s blood spattered the snow, marring its pristine whiteness, and she cried out weakly, a last protest, before her head lolled to the side.
Oolat turned toward Sanych and held aloft his gory, dripping prize.
Sickened, stunned, she could only stare for a moment. Then her rage returned. She screamed, throwing every ounce of energy she had at him. A continuous beam of deadly light shot forth, and she willed it to erase her enemy from the surface of the earth.
She was spectacularly unsuccessful. His magic deflected it into twirling motes that spun back at her, a thousand shards of light. She cried out in defeat and rage, throwing herself behind a rotting log.
As she raised her head again, Oolat lifted Meena’s limp body with his black fire and hurled her off the cliff. Her body spun lazily through the mist until it was lost from view.
“Meena!” Sanych’s horror left scorched finger-marks in the dead tree that sheltered her.
Oolat took a step toward her.
Sanych suddenly realized she was alone on a canyon rim with a madman she couldn’t harm in the slightest. Geret lay unconscious, possibly dead, up the hill, and Meena was down in the river. She decided it was time she followed Meena’s instructions.
She fled, hoping to lead him away from Geret.
He popped into existence a few feet ahead of her, and she cried out, skidding to a halt. With a swipe of his claws, he drew a long, shallow slice along her jaw. She stumbled back, falling to the forest floor.
She scrambled to her feet and fled again, her cloak streaming behind her. He’s mirroring! Curzon mentioned it, but I haven’t learned it yet. I’m going to die unless I can think of a way around his shield!
She leaped over a fallen log and ran up a slope. He met her again at the top, grasping her by the torso and lifting her into the air. His wicked claws penetrated her flesh with a fiery agony, and Sanych arched her back and shrieked, slashing at his arms with her twin axes of light. He raised a black barrier between the two of them, and the blades vanished into it as if ceasing to exist.
In agony, she kicked out with her feet and connected with his chest. He dropped her to the snow, stepping away with a mocking chuckle.
She staggered to her feet, aching, gasping. Pressing a hand to her bleeding side, she stumbled away, trying to keep him in sight. Then her foot stepped into thin air, and she caught one glorious, panoramic glimpse of waterfall, canyon, river and falling snow, before she toppled over the edge of the cliff.
Her trailing scream echoed around the waterfall’s cauldron, despite the muffling mist and snow.
“Pity. Her gift was worthy,” Oolat murmured, before he and his bloody prize winked out of existence.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Salvor reined in his nervous mount near Rhona and Ruel. “Have you seen Geret?” he called over the shouting Scions.
Ruel shook his head.
A blast of wind rushed past their feet, and they all turned toward the open area near Curzon’s ladder.
“Gods above!” Ruel swore, seeing the sudden appearance of dozens of cultists and their mounted leader.
Salvor saw the black-clad man turn his head and point, then glimpsed Meena at the treeline. She fled. Then the cultists rushed toward the Scion camp
, shrieking and brandishing their serrated swords. Salvor glanced over his shoulder; many of the Scions had ridden down the hill; those that remained would likely be overcome. He clenched his jaw, looking down at Rhona.
He dismounted and slapped the reins into Ruel’s palm. “Mount up, both of you, and ride that way.” He pointed perpendicular to the Enforcers’ approaching onslaught. “Maybe they won’t catch you.”
“But what about you?” Rhona asked, as Ruel shoved her up onto the saddle and clambered on behind her. “We should fight them!”
“Just go!” he shouted, slapping the horse on the rump. They galloped off into the trees. Salvor drew his sword, darting behind a shelter in a fighting crouch. He could feel the odds tapping him on the shoulder, saying he wasn’t going to come out of this one alive, and he smiled bitterly. Wisdom hates me. Just like Sanych. At least Rhona only pretends last night didn’t happen.
“What are you doing here?” a voice hissed in his ear. He turned to see Narjin crouching beside him, trailed by a hovering orb of blue fire.
“Same as you, it looks like,” he replied, “though with less expectation of success.” He waggled his sword.
She smiled. “That’s sweet of you. You any good?”
The cultists crashed into the camp, magics and serrated blades whirling.
“Let’s find out.”
Together they ambushed several Enforcers, blade and blue fire flicking out at them, and a running battle ensued. Other Scions also tried to halt the cult’s advance, but they were too few. The camp defenders were slowly pushed through the tents and shelters and toward the path that led down the hill to the village.
“It’s no good,” panted Narjin, blood trickling onto her temple from a glancing blow to the head. She and Salvor had taken momentary shelter behind a cluster of small firs growing from an enormous stump. “There’s too many of them.”
Salvor peered through the trees. Snow still fell, but it seemed to be lessening. “The camp’s a wash. We should try to catch up with Meena.”
Narjin’s head snapped around. “What do you mean?”
“The cult leader, Oolat, went after her a while back,” Salvor said, tipping his head in the direction they’d gone.
“Dragonfire,” Narjin swore. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Salvor glared at her. “I was busy trying to stay alive!”
She hissed through her teeth. “I need to warn Ahm. The battle below is a distraction. He’s come for the key!”
Folly. “I’ll go after her, then,” Salvor said, slipping out into the chaos. “Wisdom guard you!”
~~~
Anjoya jumped at the soft click of the secret door. Sitting in a padded chair beside the Magister’s bed, she looked up from her book.
“How is he?” Imorlar asked.
“Unchanged. How is Addan?”
“His nurses are being allowed to care for him as usual.”
“And the Dictat?”
Imorlar sighed, taking a seat in a chair across from her. “They’re taking steps to announce the Magister’s death later today. Once that’s been accomplished, they’ll effectively have control of Vint. Even the Counts who aren’t in on the empire conspiracy have to go along with the plan; it’s the law, and they have no recourse. Not with the Magister’s son incompetent and Geret out of the country.”
“There is no other heir, no other family member?”
“None. Geret’s father is not of the lineage, and the Magister has no siblings, no other children. He never remarried after the Magistra passed.”
Anjoya looked to the comatose occupant of the wide bed next to her. “That seems terribly short-sighted for a man of Beret’s quality. Perhaps we should remedy that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A Magistra could counter the Dictat’s coup, could she not? At least until Beret wakes. That should give you time to complete your investigation. I even happen to be distantly descended from Hyndi nobility.”
“I, I,” Imorlar stammered.
When Count Runcan stepped in to check on Beret’s condition, Anjoya and Imorlar consulted with him, and later with the Vinten code of laws. Anjoya was pleasantly surprised to learn that a Magistra possessed the full ruling power of a Magister, unlike in Hynd, where the caliph’s wives had to occupy themselves with the social politics of the Citizenry. The Vintens found no rules excluding Anjoya from marrying the Magister.
“Then I’ll do it. Temporarily, of course,” she said. “I’m sure Beret isn’t looking for a full-time Magistra.”
Runcan looked at her with a mixture of awe and amusement. “You’re serious.”
“I believe I am. Now I know how Kemsil felt after meeting Geret. He looks so charming and innocent, but the next thing you know, you’re sailing off to save the world, or marrying the ruler of a small country.”
~~~
Sanych awoke to pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to determine which parts of her were hurting, but she soon gave up. Everything hurt.
Afraid of where she would find herself, she cracked open one eyelid. Dim light filtered through the snow clouds above. Thick, dark grey columns of rock loomed before her, striped with ice on their outer faces. The waterfall’s thunder rolled up from below. Gravelly dirt ground against her cheek, invading the wound Oolat had inflicted with his claw.
She opened both eyes and looked around, finding herself in a tiny valley among the basalt hoodoos that lined the rim of the canyon like so many rotting teeth in a giant’s lower jaw. Unsure how she had managed to survive such a drop, she began to sit up. Sudden agony shot through her right shoulder; her arm lay uselessly against the rock beneath her. Biting back a cry, Sanych cradled her arm against her chest and gingerly rolled onto her back. Beneath her head, the rough stone sloped upward. Looking up at the angled cliff behind her, she concluded that she must have slid down rather than crashed.
Her body throbbed. “Meena,” she whispered, “I could really use you dropping in with a witty comment right about now.”
But Oolat had tossed Meena into the river. Sanych knew the Shanallar would be in a deathlike state until she warmed up, and only then would her wound heal. There would be no help from that quarter. She had only herself to rely on. Herself, and her newfound magic. Though she’d been doing amazingly well, according to Curzon, Sanych held herself to a standard of perfection, and her failure to cause even the slightest harm to Oolat grated on her.
She focused on problem-solving to distract her from her injuries as she struggled to find the least painful way to stand up.
First: a way out of here. Geret’s hurt…or worse…and I have to find Meena. Again.
She looked up, seeing only a slender gap of sky between the nearest stone pillar and the main cliff. Mere inches separated them in spots. Sparking her magic to life in her palm, she limped her way up the gravelly ground to the tiny ridge between the hoodoo and the cliff.
Molten rock soon melted down the cliff face as Sanych curved her glowing hand into the basalt, using a simple heat barrier to keep herself cool. Withdrawing it a moment later, she examined her handiwork: a wide rung of cool stone remained, while the rock that had recently occupied space behind it cooled in crackling streams down the face of the cliff. She nodded, satisfied.
Sanych began climbing, bracing one leg against the hoodoo as she created her next rung. The work was tedious, the climbing exhausting, but her mind kept up a constant stream of questions about how she could improve against Oolat next time. She’d figured out his mirroring and absorbing—the cult lord was manipulating shadow, using it to diffuse and deflect her light—but his instantaneous transport still puzzled her.
Then she had it. In all light but the brightest, there is some shadow. He’s riding the shadows between the light!
One rung higher, another epiphany halted her. If nearly all light contains some shadow, then in nearly all shadow, there must be some light!
“Yes!” The Archivist’s grin was incandescent.
~~
~
Salvor’s horse pounded through the snow. His and his mount’s breaths formed clouds of steam among the falling snow He rode to the top of a long ridge, then paused as the sound of a massive waterfall assaulted his ears, overwhelming any prospect of hearing friend or foe. He scanned the dim, snowy forest for movement or tracks.
Instead, he saw Geret, face-down in the snow. Throwing his leg across his mount’s neck, Salvor leaped from the saddle and bolted to his prince’s side. He knelt in the thickening snow and felt for Geret’s pulse, relieved beyond words to find it steady. He closed his eyes, sighing in relief. “Thank you, Wisdom. I’m sorry I thought you hated me.”
The snow on Geret’s cloak indicated he’d been lying there for a short while. Salvor saw no one else in the area, and foreboding twisted his belly.
“Geret,” he whispered, shaking his shoulder.
No response.
“Folly curse your name, you myopic fool,” he hissed. “Get up!”
“Arrogant bastard,” Geret mumbled into the snow. “Can’t you see I’m napping?” He propped himself up on one forearm with a grunt.
“You going to live?” Salvor asked.
“It’s unclear,” Geret replied, squinting at Salvor. “You’re pretty blurry, too. Is it night already?”
“No,” Salvor replied, frowning. “It’s still afternoon. What happened out here? Do you know where Meena is?”
Geret bolted up onto his hands and knees and looked behind him, down the hill. Salvor followed his gaze, seeing the darkness of blood against the snow near the cliff rim.
“What do you see?” Geret asked, squinting down the hill.
Salvor looked closely at Geret’s eyes; the prince’s pupils were pinpricks. “Stay here.”
“What? No!”
Oathen Page 27