“Why not start now?”
Lord Bokeo’s legend of the gods sounded just like all the others she’d heard, a story, nothing more. The mystics might have feared opening Elsewhere because of them, but that meant they knew how. Which meant she could learn.
“The time will come quickly, and it will not be easy,” Lord Bokeo said. “Do not rush it, for it will not be pleasant. Tonight will be a night you will not soon forget, as will the nights thereafter. There is much to appreciate about the Festival of Ghosts. Just try to take it all in. Do you have any autlas?”
“Plenty,” she said.
“Good, good, good. Then I recommend you head to the Emperor’s Quilt and ask for a room overlooking the lake. The views tonight will be spectacular. If they are booked, tell them I sent you.”
“And they’ll believe me, just like that?” She wasn’t sure if the Panpingese were just an overly trusting people, but in the Glass, people required proof.
Lord Bokeo chuckled. “I own the place.”
“Of course you do…”
“Now, I suggest you try to enjoy the night. Forget about all this and see your homeland for the jewel it truly is.” Lord Bokeo stood and brushed off his robe.
“Wait. You said my questions would be answered. You’ve only given me more.”
“Sometimes, the quickest route to enlightenment is the longest path around the desert.” He bowed, then left her.
Sora watched as he descended the marble stairs and disappeared. She considered following him, but couldn’t take any more riddles. Then she considered seeking out Tum Tum, but the thought of finding him in a brothel brought a sour taste to her lips.
Instead, she decided to heed Lord Bokeo’s suggestion. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and a plush bed at an inn owned by a wealthy member the Winde Traders Guild—and evidently the Secret Council—sounded about right.
Finding the Emperor’s Quilt was no trouble at all, especially now that she could understand Panpingese. She could even read it now. She rented a room using Lord Bokeo’s name and plopped down on a luxurious bed. The cool lake air blew in through an open balcony. At least, it felt cold to her. She’d gotten used to sharing a bed with Aquira out on the sea, who was like an oven when she slumbered.
Sleep was impossible to come by anyway. Sora’s mind replayed the meeting with the mystics, and then Nesilia, the sound of Whitney’s voice calling to her. Her mind swam in the many mysteries.
She’d heard Whitney there in Elsewhere, just like Gold Grin said. She was sure of it. All she needed to do was enter again, find him, and figure a way to bring him out. If she'd put him there alongside Kazimir in the first place, certainly she could remove him. And if anyone could teach her how, it was the strange, hidden mystics she’d just encountered.
But it wasn’t only that. For so long she’d sought to belong. The mystics were her people, both in race and in their ability to answer why she had this strange power that seemed to extend beyond any normal blood mages. She’d set off with Whitney to find them, and now, she had.
A chance to understand.
So, as she lay, staring at the wooden ceiling, she decided she would see it through. Whatever it was the mystics wanted. It was the only way. She would learn about her power, bring Whitney back alive before it was too late, and leave Kazimir behind where he could never harm another innocent soul like Tayvada Bokeo again.
Having a clear path calmed her enough to finally start to doze off, until a loud bang caused her to shoot upright. Shouting followed, coming from downstairs in the streets.
She swung her feet off the bed, but two more deafening blasts had her covering her head and ears. Terrified.
XVI
THE DESERTER
Watchtower bells echoed from every direction. Guards flocked down streets, sending Rand through back alleys. By the time he passed through South Corner and into Dockside, their footsteps were distant, lost to the chimes of moored ships and the rasp of beggars.
Nobody would question him here, and the guards were so scarce it’d take some time for the search to reach the grimy place. Rand threw his back against the nearest wall and finally took a moment to breathe. He couldn’t get air down fast enough. His chest felt like it was going to implode, and the armor still felt tight from Redstar’s dark magic even though it was normal again.
He considered tearing it off, then noticed the dirt-covered boy kneeling next to him, a tin outstretched and rattling.
“Spare a bronzer, Sir Shieldsman?” he asked, then coughed.
Rand regarded the child, skin and bones, a product of Dockside. Saving the realm is enough. He could worry about saving Dockside later, plus, the child likely had more autlas to his name than Rand did.
Rand started off at a brisk walk without a backward glance. Keeping his shoulders straight, he bore the proper poise of a true Shieldsman. He took steady, slow breaths through his teeth, so he wouldn't appear anxious. The cold air made his teeth sting, but the pain made it easier to focus. Docksiders didn’t talk to guards, but during the winter months, when there was little to do but survive and gossip, rumors spread like wildfire. A Shieldsman decked out in armor having a panic attack wouldn’t remain a mystery for long.
It was dusk by the time he reached the Maiden's Mugs. Before anything, he had to grab Sigrid and get her out. Trapp knew his name, and so did Redstar. It wouldn’t be long before word reached these parts and while Docksiders didn’t talk, money did. The reward for turning him in would be too much for a sleazy tavern owner like Gideon Trapp to deny.
Grab Sigrid, find shelter, free Torsten. That was the best plan he could come up with. It was clear he couldn’t take down Redstar alone, but with him maimed, the two of them might be able to. Torsten’s renown as a warrior was unparalleled. Wren had provided Rand a chance to strike again and he…
Wren, Rand thought solemnly. All his church-going life, he’d received Iam’s light, but he’d never seen such a display of power in His name. He could only imagine what Redstar would do to the High Priest once he broke through the shield of light the old man had summoned. Rand vowed not to let the distraction go to waste.
He stopped outside the doors of the Maiden's Mugs, drew a few deep breaths. The regulars would be arriving soon, finished with their shifts down at the docks. One had already arrived.
“Shieldsman blessin our li’l corner today?” a drunkard arriving at the same time said. Rand recognized him from other nights imbibing.
“Impossible to get a proper pint in the castle,” Rand replied. Stay calm. Act superior. Don’t draw attention.
“Impossible to find a proper lass too, eh?” he chuckled. “There be a bar wench here who’s pretty as spring. A li’l flower blossom for winter.”
Rand knew who he was referring to, but let it slide. “I’m not here for chitchat, just a drink.”
The man shrugged. “Suit yerself.”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Rand followed close behind and bumped into his back when he suddenly stopped. Rand was about to curse him as any Shieldsman would a drunkard, then realized what caused it.
The tavern was abandoned, tables overturned, ale spilled all over the floors. All of Trapp’s storage barrels, broken apart, the bar cleaved in two. There were no bodies, but a few splatters of blood were counted on the floor, mixing with ale.
Rand heard a whimper and pushed the drunkard aside to rush toward the sound. Gideon Trapp slumped against the wall behind the bar, ale trickling onto the top of his head from a broken tap. One of his legs bent like a galler’s, the wrong way at the knee. His nose was broken and bleeding profusely.
“Trapp, what happened?” Rand questioned, kneeling at his side.
The man’s bleary eyes blinked open. His gaze went from Rand’s face to his armor, then widened. “So… it is true?” he wheezed.
Rand took him by the shoulders and shook. “Trapp!”
“The savage… he… every guard in Dockside went running toward bells; then he storm
ed the place.”
“Where’s my sis—” Footsteps creaked upstairs. Trapp raised one trembling arm and pointed to the ceiling.
Rand shoved him aside and ran for the stairs, unsheathing his sword as he went. A thud followed heavy footsteps and low voices speaking in Drav Crava. Besides his, there were a few apartments upstairs—every door was open revealing ransacked rooms. Beds were flipped, cabinets raided, and in the first room, a man lay sprawled out, groaning on the floor. His face was a flat, bloody mess.
“Where’s the one who did this, girl?” a deep voice questioned.
It was coming from the direction of Sigrid’s room. Rand couldn’t hear the response, but it was muffled and frantic.
“You dragged me here for a girl?” another Drav Cra man answered. “Nesilia’s grave… don’t you know you can pay for them here?”
“Quiet. I’ll never hold an axe again thanks to this little wench.”
“Is it just your axe your worried about holding?” The second man cackled.
Rand stopped just outside his door and peered in. A Drav Cra warrior he didn’t recognize sat on the table—his table—biting on a piece of the stale bread Sigrid had only recently brought home. A wooden shortbow was slung over one shoulder and a full quiver over the other. A hatchet-axe still dangled from his hip. Apparently, ransacking the place was too easy for him to bother using it.
Behind him, the savage Rand had pushed into the bay had Sigrid pinned against the cabinetry by the throat with his left forearm. His weapon hand hung slack at his side, empty, the skin of his half-clenched fingers discolored from frostbite.
“Now, you whore,” he said, “I’m not going to ask again. Where is your man?”
One eating, one crippled. Rand was out of practice, but he liked his odds. He was just about to speak up and answer the devil when Sigrid grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed her assailant in the shoulder just below the neck. He dropped her and staggered, but didn’t go down, the stab missing anything vital.
Sigrid scrambled to the far corner of the room with nowhere to go.
“Bitch!” he barked, tearing the knife out. He stalked toward her, blood staining his furs red. His compatriot burst out laughing, at least until Rand stormed in and cleaved his head from his shoulders in a single, mighty swipe.
“Step away from her,” he ordered, his sword directing the remaining savage with a twist of the wrist.
The Drav Cra warrior turned, a steady stream of blood now pouring down his shoulder and chest. As soon as his eyes laid upon Rand, the corner of lips, still purple from the swim in ice-cold water, curled into a smile.
“And here I thought I’d have to go looking for you,” he said. He playfully flipped the knife and dropped into a fighting stance, but the man’s feet were set wrong, telling Rand it wasn’t his dominant hand.
“I’m right here,” Rand said. “Sig, get behind me.”
She went to move, but the warrior slowly rotated so that he’d be directly between her and Rand. “She’s going to watch you die, soldier-boy. No water to push me in this time.”
“They’re all right about you people. Infesting this city like a sickness with your vile ways.”
“I’ve seen very well what Glassman are capable of. You were probably a pup when the coward Liam invaded my clan to take his Queen. Oleander isn’t the only one of us who got forced to bed that night.”
“The Queen came of her own free will because she saw what it was like to live in the light.”
“’The light,’” he chortled. “All I see outside are clouds.”
“You’ll see black soon.”
Rand charged him and swung. After striking air twice, it was clear to him that he’d gotten lucky down on the docks accidentally knocking this one into the water so fast. The man was nimble as a hare. Rand went high, and the Drav Cra spun around low, slicing Rand where his armor bent at the knee.
“Rand!” Sigrid yelped. She was at his back now, both of them with nowhere to go.
“Stay back,” he told her.
The Drav Cra warrior rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Been a long time since I had a fair fight, but I only need one hand to kill you.”
Rand charged him again and brought his sword crashing down. The man evaded, rolling to the side. Grabbing Rand by the neck, he flung him into the cabinets headfirst. Rand’s ears and forehead were stung by splinters.
“Now where were we, girl?” the man asked, turning to Sigrid who now fully cowered in the corner.
Rand pulled himself free and leaped back into the fight. The warrior dodged without looking, then whipped his frostbitten forearm around and smashed Rand in the face. Rand stumbled back, but not before thrusting his weapon. The man purposefully caught the end of the blade with the palm of his crippled hand. Skin sliced as the metal sunk through, but if he could feel it at all, it didn't show. Once the sword pierced through the other side, he wrenched it out of Rand’s grip.
The warrior placed his foot against the wall to spring toward Rand. It went through the thin wall like a sheet of parchment. Rand tried to take advantage, but before he knew what hit him, the warrior lashed out. The now bloody, frozen wrist forced Rand’s head down and kept it there as the savage’s knee rose to meet Rand's jaw.
Rand flew back, the table cracking in half beneath the full weight of his body and armor. He saw stars but felt the savage on top of him. Blood still poured from the man’s neck, now drenching Rand.
“Because of you, I’ll never be a dradinengor!” His good fist slammed into Rand’s face. “I’m going to drag you into the water. And you’ll freeze as I show your girl what a true man is like.” He flipped the knife over again and held the blade to Rand’s eye.
“Get off him!” Sigrid screamed as she came at him.
His frozen hand snapped up, smacked her across the face, sending her to her knees.
“Don’t touch her!” Rand shouted. He went to push the savage off, but the knife returned to his eye, blade glinting so close he could see how red they were in the reflection. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and now after all he’d been through since he decided to string himself up by the neck, he was going to die by the hands of a coward picking on a woman half his size.
Rand, in a last-ditch effort, forced his hand up and dug his gauntleted finger into the man’s neck wound. The savage screamed, but easily swatted Rand’s hand away.
“Stop fighting, flower picker,” the Drav Cra warrior said. “You’ll be with the Goddess underground soon. You just—”
Blood sprayed across Rand’s face, and the full weight of the warrior fell onto his chest. Rand dragged himself backward, wiped his eyes, and saw the arrow sticking through the savage’s neck.
Sigrid stood holding the savage's shortbow, the string still thrumming. Her cheek was split open. His gaze went there first, then to her usually calm eyes. He’d never seen such rage in them.
“Monster!” she yelled. She tore another arrow from the quiver, took two long strides, then straddled over the savage. He still clutched at his neck as he gurgled on a mouthful of blood. She screamed again and brought the arrow down into his chest. Once, twice, again and again, until his eyelids froze open and his limbs wilted, his chest looking like a pincushion.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she screamed and threw the bow aside, then kicked the fallen assailant repeatedly in the face. Rand regretted how long it took for him to get up and comfort her, but eventually, he caught her arms and pulled her into a tight embrace.
“It’s okay now, Sig,” he whispered. “I’m back now.”
She squeezed him, then shoved away and punched him in the chest. “I heard the bells, I thought…”
“I failed, but I got out. I had to get back here to you, but it seems you didn’t need me. How in Iam’s name did you learn to shoot like that?”
She sniveled, then released a low chuckle. “Ye weren’t the only one paying attention when father took us hunting.”
“Father’s stil
l saving us from beyond the grave.”
“It was a lucky shot,” she confessed.
“I’m starting not to believe in luck. Come on.” His knees were still shaky, and his legs burned with soreness now that the adrenaline stopped pumping. After months of sitting around drinking, he’d been through more real fights in the last day than his entire service in the King’s Shield.
It was clear someone wanted him alive.
“Where are we going?” Sigrid asked.
“Anywhere but here. Redstar’s turned the whole Shield against Torsten as he performs some dark ritual in the Wearer’s own chambers. We have to stop him, but it’s clear I can’t do it alone.”
He took a step away, but Sigrid’s hand fell upon his cheek, and she turned him back. “It’s not your fight anymore.”
Rand nuzzled her hand, then removed it. “It is. I don’t know why, but it’s like this is what I was born for. If I don't, Redstar will make this city a playground for his heathen horde, and more good women will be...”
“I understand,” she replied solemnly. “But if ye can’t do it alone, who can help?”
“Redstar has Wren the Holy in his grips now too, and the King’s trust. So, I’m going to free Torsten so the King’s Shield may do what it's meant to and shield this kingdom. He defeated Redstar once before, and he made a mistake putting his faith in me alone. But right now, we need to get out of here before the guards arrive.”
Sigrid nodded, hurried to the table beside her bed, and grabbed a few items including a necklace. Rand recognized it. The thing belonged to their mother; a bit of bone from a Panpingese sea creature whose name Rand couldn’t remember carved into the shape of a water droplet on a rusty, metal band. Then, she hefted the shortbow and slung it over her shoulder. “Just in case,” she said, shrugging.
“Smart,” Rand replied. He retrieved his sword and a loaf of bread. He had no keepsake from their parents to take with him. No belongings but for the Shieldsman armor on his back. The very armor he’d earned in the name of his parents to try and make Dockside—their home—a little brighter.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 89