The general moved suddenly into attack, sliding through the motions of a catah Jakob didn’t know. He defended as best he could, struggling with the practice sword and feeling the sharp blow of the general’s wooden sword hit his arm and back several times. The general stepped back before starting in again suddenly, and Jakob realized what the man did; he demonstrated a catah in full, showing all the movements before stepping back to signal its end.
After the second time through, Jakob thought he had the movements and leaped in a quick attack, his sword moving fast, but Endric’s moved even more quickly in defense. He struggled to note the defense, knowing it another lesson the man taught, and struggled to keep his attack.
His legs left him, and he felt the wind knocked out of him as he landed on his back. His head ached as it hadn’t for a while, but still, he stood shakily and dusted himself off, reaching to pick up the wooden practice sword. The general took him through several other catahs and their defense, and Jakob found himself on the ground many times before he knew he had to stop. He ached all over as he stood for the final time, dusting himself and leaving the wooden stave on the ground.
“You do well, boy. You must see your opponent’s move before it happens. When you do, it will be as if the fight has slowed and your movement easy.”
Jakob was unsure how to answer. He didn’t think he could ever reach the point where it seemed the fight slowed. He struggled to keep his mind on his own motions let alone think he could know his opponent’s before he—or she—moved.
“Tomorrow, you will come again.”
Endric moved on to another student, and Jakob limped away so he didn’t find himself in the middle. His legs and back hurt differently than they had after a day in the saddle, and he worried how tomorrow would go. He would be a mass of bruises before the week was over.
“You’re too tense.”
Jakob looked up. The Mage Roelle stood facing him. He hadn’t noticed before, but the Mage could not be much older than he was. With her raven black hair, she was lovely.
“You’re not bad for a scholar,” she said.
Jakob arched an eyebrow. He had never thought of himself as a scholar. Apprenticed to a historian, what else but a scholar? “My brother was the soldier.”
Roelle laughed. It was an easy sound and unexpected from the Mage. Jakob found himself liking her. “Relax through the catahs. Let them flow. Don’t fight the river, move with it.”
“You sound like a priest,” Jakob offered, wishing immediately to take it back. Did he just insult a Mage?
Roelle smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She paused. “I come because I would know how men fight.”
“But you’re a Mage.”
“You’re lucky Endric is willing to teach you. It took me weeks to convince him to teach me. It’s taken the others longer to accept it.”
Jakob shrugged. “I didn’t realize he was the general when I first started working with him.”
“Who did you think he was?”
Shaking his head, Jakob answered, “An old man willing to work with me on the sword.”
Roelle laughed deeply then. “In my city, there’s no mistaking Endric. I should go, but I’ll speak with you again, Jakob.”
Jakob watched Roelle walk away, a smile stuck to his face. Sparring with the Denraen general and talking with a Mage. What would happen next? Maybe some good could come of this.
The feeling was short lived.
As he started away, he had the unsettling sensation of something watching him again. He resisted the urge to look around, but a fear began to creep through him. Had he left the city only to suffer from the madness?
Chapter Nine
Morning found him sore in ways he had never considered.
The ache of the previous day’s ride was mixed with the bruises blossoming on his arms and back from sparring the night before with Endric. The headache from the night before still throbbed faintly, a quiet pulsing behind his eyes. Finally, there was the stiffness from his first night spent sleeping on the hard ground. His blankets had provided little padding, and it was good he had been exhausted, else he may not have slept at all.
As it was, it was a restless sleep. Dreams had come to him again, as they had so often of late. Visions of a strange woman calling for help and trapped in a fog. There was something regal about her, and he sensed a helplessness to her. He felt golden eyes watching him and found a strange comfort in that. Lastly, a man with flaming eyes had startled him awake, but not before it seemed the man saw him and laughed.
Jakob had finally settled into the deepest portion of sleep when the call went through camp waking him up. He sat up slowly, his body unused to the abuse he’d inflicted upon it lately, sending sharp pains of revolt from head to toe. He looked over to Novan, but the historian was already up and out of the tent. Jakob wasn’t sure the man had even slept.
Finally awake, he quickly gathered his few belongings and stuffed them in his sack before strapping the sword onto his belt and standing. It still felt awkward and strange, as if he was posing as something he was not. The feeling was one he had known most of his life.
Novan found him as he exited the tent and led him to breakfast where he kneeled and ate. A shadow crossed over him, and he looked up expectantly, a surge of anxiety pulsing through him before passing as he recognized the person. It was the Mage from last night, Roelle.
“Are you bruised?” the Mage asked.
When Jakob stood hurriedly, his sword smacked his shin, and he tried not to wince. “I am, Mage Roelle.” Jakob suddenly felt stupid. He didn’t even know the proper way to address a Mage.
“Roelle is fine.” The serious tone she used was belied by a slight smile to her face.
When she smiled, Jakob noted again how lovely she was, much more than any Mancley sister. A flush washed through him, and he hoped Roelle couldn’t sense his thoughts.
“I am bruised.” She paused, looking over to where Mage Haerlin stood whispering to Thomasen Comity. “Haerlin has turned a blind eye to my lessons, but it’s been many days since I last worked with Endric. I couldn’t hide the body aches well this morning.”
Mage Roelle chuckled to herself as she said it, finding mirth to it that Jakob didn’t understand. How could he understand the humor in upsetting a Mage? “I bruised, and I’ve been working with the general for a few weeks,” he answered without thinking, wondering if he should be so blunt with a Mage.
“Your bruises will be less if you relax more. How long have you been apprenticed to the historian?”
“Novan came to Chrysia over a year ago. It was around that time my father was trying to find something for me.” He remembered it well, having argued a long time for his father to let him follow Scottan into the guard. Strangely, it had been Scottan himself who had kept him out.
“What is it that you wish to become?” Roelle asked.
He had often asked himself the same question. There was never a satisfactory answer. Would that he could be Jarren Gildeun. It was what he had wanted as a child. There was something about the idea of wandering the land, exploring places no one had been in centuries... or ever. But he’d been stuck in Chrysia until now. “I couldn’t be the priest son my father wished.”
Roelle looked at him curiously. “Do you not follow the Urmahne way?”
Careful, he reminded himself. He was speaking to a Mage, someone who was the voice of the gods themselves, endowed with abilities by them. “I follow Urmahne.”
It was a cautious answer and not completely true. His faith had grown distant with the loss of his mother and had faltered more when Scottan fell to the madness. He was not yet sure what remained now that his father was gone.
There was a moment when Jakob feared what Roelle would say, feared what the Mage might think. He didn’t know how honest he should be with her but worried she would know if he was not truthful. Yet the truth was painful. His father worshipped the nameless gods, preached the peace he believed, but how could these p
eaceful gods let the madness touch the world? How could his brother be taken from him by it? How could his mother suffer the way she had?
And now they had taken his father from him.
He wondered if the Deshmahne had the right view. Were power and force what the gods understood? Jakob worried these thoughts showed on his face. What would the Mage Roelle do then? What would she say?
Does she speak with the gods? he wondered.
“I’ve found that you must question your faith in order to have it. If you don’t ask the questions, how do you know the answers?”
“My father once said something like that,” Jakob said, remembering the conversation the last time he’d seen his father. He felt a surge of sorrow with the thought.
“Your father sounds like a man of wisdom,” Roelle said, a faint smile pulling at her mouth.
“He was a priest.”
Roelle arched an eyebrow. “Was?”
Jakob nodded. “He was killed in the temple explosion.”
“Ah… I’m sorry.”
Novan came up to him then, casting a curious glance at the Mage Roelle.
“Don’t fear the answers,” she said, looking casually at Novan before turning and walking back to join Haerlin.
Jakob let his eyes follow her, trying to ignore the way she walked, and the sway to her hips, and focus on her comment. It was strange, and he didn’t know what to make of it. There was something different about Roelle, something less arrogant than Jakob expected from the Magi, something alluring.
Novan didn’t give him a chance to figure out what it might be. “It’s time to ride,” he said.
The ache in Jakob’s body made him wonder how he’d handle the saddle.
They rode harder than the day before. The sun was often hidden behind layers of clouds, and the day was cooler for it. The air was crisp, making it clear winter was not far off. There was a dampness in the air, a hint of rot, almost a sense of decay, though overtop this was the familiar scent of earthiness and the fragrance of flowers. He had noticed smells more often lately and began to wonder why.
Novan was silent for much of the morning. The historian rode tall in his saddle, making notes in a notebook occasionally before tucking it carefully away. “What do you see, Jakob?” Novan asked suddenly.
Jakob looked over to the tall historian, seeing the man’s thin features, the wrinkled face, and tired eyes. He had been pushing himself hard lately. Was there are reason behind it? “I watch the Magi,” he answered honestly.
Novan looked toward where the Magi rode, his blue-gold eyes rimmed in red today. He chuckled, and Jakob flushed. “The Magi are said to be the link to the gods. Some say the hands of the gods, some would say the voice. This is part of the Urmahne teaching. Your father would have instructed you on this, Jakob.” Novan turned toward him, a question in his eyes.
“My father taught me many things about the gods. I’m not sure what’s true.” Novan arched an eyebrow at the critical comment but said nothing. “Why do the Magi no longer involve themselves in the Urmahne?”
“What I think is of little consequence, Jakob. I’m little more than a recorder, a reporter, of what I see. That is what historians do.”
He had seen Novan acting as more than a reporter more times than he could count, including when discussing the High Priest. His opinion had been asked and given many times. “A historian is more than a reporter. There is an element of interpretation required, I think.”
“Oh?” Novan asked. “What makes you say this?”
“The books you have had me read have all had an interpretation of what they recorded. I have seen you do it as well.”
“I am, perhaps, not the best example. But you’re right. One must place what he sees in the appropriate context. That’s part of the historian’s duty.”
“Then what of the Magi?” Jakob asked again. Novan seemed to be avoiding the question.
The historian rode on in silence, and Jakob wondered if he would even answer. “The Magi are of the Urmahne. They await the Return. This they tell us,” he began. “Some would say they are the Urmahne, more so than those of the priesthood, as they are the Founders of the Urmahne.” Novan stared at the Magi. “I’ve seen the Magi do many things, great things at times. Their abilities are impressive, said given to them at the time of the Ascension, giving them powers others don’t have. This would seem to make them godly.”
Novan paused, seeming to be lost in thought, then continued. “Yet they seclude themselves from the rest of us while claiming that they still speak to the gods. Their abilities could be used for such good, yet these days they rarely are. Is this what the nameless gods have instructed? Is this what the Urmahne preach?” He shook his head in answer to his questions. “It was different, once. I fear it will have to different once more.”
It was more of an answer than Jakob had expected. He had seen how Haerlin set himself apart from others, but Roelle seemed different. Were the Magi more like Haerlin or more like Roelle? “Do you think they speak to the gods?”
“There are others who might better answer that question.” There was a long pause before he continued. “But are we certain that gods even exist?”
Jakob felt a moment of shock. He had never suspected Novan to be an atheist. “But the Tower—”
“Built by gods or by those with abilities like the Magi?” Novan offered.
Jakob shook his head, not knowing how to answer. He had felt guilty for doubting the Urmahne faith, but Novan took it a step further, doubting even the gods’ existence. What if he’s right? What would it mean?
Jakob wasn’t comfortable asking those questions so near the Magi. “How can Roelle learn the sword? The Magi are said to be the epitome of the Urmahne, and peace is the core of the teaching.”
Novan smiled. “That’s an interesting question. The first Magi were warriors, and I wonder if there are those among the Magi who would be like their Founders. That is another thing I would like to learn in Vasha. As to Roelle, I’m not surprised she’s drawn your interest.”
“I…”
Novan flashed a smiled, but fell silent once again as they rode north and west, and Jakob didn’t press. They moved steadily and stayed on the roads as much as was possible. As the sun peaked overhead, they stopped at a small stream to water the horses and to eat. Clumps of trees broke up the horizon and grew thicker in the distance to the east.
A growing sense of unease crept through Jakob. He had felt it all morning but thought it the effects of his conversation with Novan. This was different. Almost familiar, and he realized what it was that made him uncomfortable: the sense that they were being watched had returned.
Jakob did not know how to describe it, even to himself. It was a strange sensation, an unpleasant irritant in the back of his mind. He constantly resisted the urge to look quickly over his shoulder, yet he still found his head frequently turning, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he felt. It did not happen.
The feeling stayed with him throughout the day. The first stop was brief; it was only long enough for Jakob to stiffen again and dread the remainder of the day in the saddle. His body was not made for this, he decided, yet knew it was too late to come to this decision. The column continued in the same direction, and Novan said little more throughout the day, though he would occasionally make notes in the small book he carried.
The sun gradually drifted beyond the horizon, and stars appeared overhead. Still, the feeling of being watched was with him. Once, he had looked and thought he saw an animal stalking them, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t think it was what he felt. It wasn’t until they stopped and the camp was set for the evening that he felt it disappear.
Novan dismissed him, and Jakob used the opportunity to set his bags in their tent before wandering to where Endric once again practiced. Fires danced brightly, and the moon shined brightly overhead, letting him see more easily than the night before, not that it would help.
Roelle had again beaten him to the old general. The
y sparred a long time, the fluid dance going much the same as the previous night before the general finally ended it. The Mage came over to him, panting. “Relax,” she reminded when she stopped nearby to catch her breath.
Jakob stepped forward to grab the practice stave, doing his best to relax as Roelle suggested. Endric led him through a new series of catahs, his movements almost too fast to catch, and certainly too fast to remember. Jakob defended as best as he could, moving to the offensive briefly when he realized that Endric expected him to, before struggling to defend the barrage of attacks. It lasted longer than the night before, though Jakob wondered if it was just his imagination. He had been tired, and his focus had been lax, yet because of it, he had felt a little more fluid.
Endric ended it with a flourish before waving him off. “Tomorrow,” he called as Jakob was leaving.
At least he had that to look forward to. Perhaps when he was better rested, it would be different. Unlikely, but he could hope he would improve.
“Better,” Roelle offered as Jakob approached. This time, it was he who was panting, trying to catch his breath. “You didn’t force it as much tonight.”
He started to say something but was interrupted by a strange scream that split the night.
A call went rolling through the camp, a sentry yelling and ringing the alarm. There was an odor, one he couldn’t place. It was the stench of decay. The sound of steel ringing off of steel echoed through the camp and then came the sound of men shouting and screaming. Jakob started forward, but a firm hand on his shoulder held him back.
“You’re unarmed,” Roelle said. “Let the soldiers do their job.”
Jakob turned to her and saw a strange look to the Mage’s face. Concern? Frustration? He wasn’t sure.
“Raiders,” Roelle said. “We came across them on the way toward Chrysia, but they left us alone.”
The Lost Prophecy Boxset Page 11