The vision faded into the sound of chimes and a horse drawn carriage led by a gray gelding. Siabra stood beside it, her mane braided with several white flowers woven into it. King Mekkai stood with a broad grin beside a stone-faced general. Opposite of him, Nadel gave the briefest of nods as Elessara and Rayhan, dressed in white, walked hand-in-hand toward the carriage.
The vision disappeared upon the sound of a baby’s cry and Elessara saw herself holding a tiny child with horse-shaped ears. It then faded into the sound of laughter and the scent of a feast set upon a long wooden table. A proud voice introducing, “General Mendeley and Lady Elessara,” led to she and Rayhan entering a festival inside a castle she assumed belonged to King Donovan.
“Rayhan?” She felt his heart beat against her cheek, its rhythm like a hundred horses galloping.
“Sara,” he whispered. The sound of his voice pulled her out of the trance. The nickname was new and yet it didn’t feel that way. She saw his face now, his hair slicked against his neck and shoulders. Those handsome brown eyes pinned themselves to her, their depths like crashing waves of confusion, joy, fear, and uncertainty. He had seen it all, then. His own past and their supposed future had been shown to both of them.
When Rayhan had entered Mekkai’s hall, the scars of the war had forced them both to be wary, yet none of that seemed to matter now. Tennakawa had torn the veil of time and revealed their paths intertwined in a way that could mend the broken links between each other and their kingdoms.
“So this is how it’s done?” There was trepidation in Elessara’s voice. “You and me…”
Rayhan rubbed his thumb back and forth against her cheek, still trying to digest their experience. His lips were tight as if he were holding his own questions in restraint. “There are many paths, my lady. This one is open to us, but we must choose to walk it. Our steps are not pre-ordained.”
“Choose it?” Elessara shook her head. In an instant, they’d experienced a lifetime. None of what they saw felt like a choice to her. She could not unsee the path Tennakawa had shown them. Rayhan gently set the elf back on her feet and walked toward the shore.
“We should head back,” he said. “I do not want to risk Nadel’s wrath should he find us here together.”
Elessara stared at him, dumbfounded by his composure. Rayhan dressed and gathered her clothes, his emotions tightly hidden for the first time since they met. When he handed Elessara’s garments to her, she dressed quickly.
Rayhan started to wrap his belt around his tunic, but paused as he watched her shiver, her hair dripping water down her back. He stopped and shrugged the fabric from his shoulders, the briefest of smiles on his lips as he wrapped the thick tunic around her slender frame.
“What do you make of it all, Rayhan?” The elf whispered, her expression clouded with questions.
The captain considered the visions Tennakawa had shown them, from the silent looks that spoke of love to the child not yet born. He did not comprehend what he saw. Only what he felt, and he feared it quite terribly. There was only one word to describe how the wake of Tennakawa’s visions made him feel.
That word was whole.
He cleared his throat and took her hand, dependent upon her lead under the forest’s lightless canopy. “Let us see what the next day brings, my lady.”
Jaspur shivered, suddenly aware of himself. A white flash of pain jolted through him again as he was ripped from his host. Rayhan didn't notice. He moved on with Elessara back to the inn while Jaspur watched another one of Rayhan’s unspoken secrets disappear, his spirit drawn back to the present.
Choices
Jaspur came to with a gasp, his chest heaving. Tilting his head back, he tried to catch his breath. Where was he? His vision swirled, unable to focus on anything around him. He woke up sweating, his heart pummeling his chest as if it were trying to break free.
“Must have been quite a vision,” said an unfamiliar voice somewhere to his left. Jaspur rolled his head to the side, only to make out the shape of a figure sitting next to him. He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus until he could finally make out some details.
The elven girl who had Rayhan’s ring smiled at him. Jaspur glowered. She had the fine features of an elf. Her long ears swept close to her head, their tips poking through at a sharp angle parallel with her wide eyes. There was something peculiar about those ears though. Instead of being flat, they sported a funneled shape.
Like a horse’s.
“And you are?” Jaspur’s tone was rough and uninviting.
“Deley Wintergray,” she tilted her head curiously and wavy strands of her brown hair slid across her cheek. “Your friend told me you are a vision walker.”
Jaspur tossed a glare in Tobiano’s direction. “My friend talks too much.” Everything ached. The pain made it hard to think, yet the elf’s name felt unnervingly familiar.
Tobiano crouched beside the rogue. “I talk no more than is necessary. How are you feeling?”
Jaspur closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. His head threatened to roll right off his shoulders if he didn't prop it against something. “I'm fine,” he muttered.
“His eyes are hollow and his skin is pale,” Deley countered. “These are common symptoms of magic drain,” turning to Tobiano, she added, “Do you have a healer? Perhaps you should call him in.”
“I am sorry,” Jaspur grunted. “Would someone mind telling me when any of this became the elf’s business?”
“Since I learned you and your friend here are part of the rebellion against Shadow,” Deley replied. She seemed completely undeterred by Jaspur’s cantankerous disposition. It bothered him.
“And that matters to you why?”
“You tell me who my ring belonged to, and I’ll you why killing Shadow matters.”
“It is not your ring,” Jaspur growled. “I do not know how you came upon it, but anyone who remembers Nevaharday would know who it belonged to.”
Deley’s doe eyes doubled in size. “Then you can tell me his name?”
Jaspur tossed a hand in the air. “Rayhan Mendeley.”
Saying the name out loud brought the pieces together inside the rogue’s head. He slowly sat up as the familiarity of Deley’s name began to make sense. He stared at the girl, his muscles tight as sinew. “Deley,” he muttered. “Mendeley.”
Meanwhile, the elf looked like she was ready to leap to her feet and dance. Her cheeks were flush and she glowed with an unshakable smile. “Rayhan Mendeley,” she whispered the name as if it were sacred. “All this time the answer to my question was in my own name.”
Jaspur winced. “Do not tell me you are claiming to be Rayhan’s daughter.”
Deley froze. “Oh gods... that isn’t bad, is it?” She looked frantically at Tobiano, who she seemed to trust. “Tell me it isn’t a bad thing!”
Tobiano slowly shook his head, his focus more on the rogue who was building steam like a kettle. He ground his teeth, his jaw working furiously as he processed Deley’s confession. “No, lass,” the re’shahna whispered. “Rayhan Mendeley is a very good name.”
“You are certain he is your father?” The anger in Jaspur’s expression gave Deley her doubts, but she held fast to her claims.
“That ring was given to me by my mother,” she replied. “If you are certain this ring belongs to Rayhan, then I am certain he is my father.”
“Tennakawa’s hooves,” Jaspur cursed. He looked at Tobiano, who in turn gave a helpless shrug.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” the re’shahna muttered in the old language.
Refuge came in the form of a red-haired re’shahna as he stepped into the tent. Three heads looked his way. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said in the same tongue as Tobiano. “Is the rogue well?”
“Well enough,” Jaspur grunted.
The messenger gave an accepting nod. “Patchi requests that both of you join him in the tchaka’s caravan.”
Tobiano pointed to Deley. “You will watch over her while the rogue and I are
gone?”
The messenger nodded. Tobiano helped Jaspur to his feet and gave him a gentle nudge toward the door. Tossing one last glance at Deley, he gave an assuring smile. “We will return soon.”
The pair squinted as they stepped out of the dark tent and into the moonlight. The licking flames of a bonfire illuminated the center of the camp.
Qualle's band congregated with several re’shahna around the flames, their voices low against the song of a flute player. A few glanced their way, curious. Jaspur purposefully dragged his feet, slowing their walk so he could survey the state of things.
Scimitars, swords, and daggers hung on the hips around them. The camp was alert, but at rest. He spotted a large, maroon caravan in front of them, the round door set in the back left ajar. Inside, candlelight cast a warm glow across a pelt covered floor. He saw Qualle's leg outstretched from a chair hidden behind the door frame. Then a shadow cast over the entryway and a familiar figure blocked his line of sight.
“Teeyam, Patchi,” Tobiano greeted.
The re’shahna chief stood with his arms behind him, his head shaking ever so slightly at the rogue. The rogue smirked. Apparently, his latest episode had not earned him any sympathy from the chief.
“Jaspur... feeling better, I hope?” It was Qualle’s voice. Jaspur turned to see the tchaka walk down the three steps that led from the caravan to the ground. “Patchi told me your outburst had to do with some vision gift. From the pitch of your screams, it sounded more like a curse.”
“I am well enough.”
Qualle waved them into the caravan. “Come then, let us talk in private.”
Inside, warm coals sat in a covered pan in the center of the floor. Four pairs of numb toes nestled near its heat as the four horse folk settled cross-legged among the furs and pillows. Food and wine were brought to them, and Qualle invited his guests to eat and drink their fill.
Jaspur didn’t have to be asked twice. He dug into a boar leg as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Tobiano subtly offered the water skin containing the foul brew Jaspur took after his visions. He took a swing, coughed, and tossed the skin on the floor near his hip.
Judging by the ease in Patchi's posture as he sat down beside the tchaka's leader, their hours of negotiation had proved fruitful. “I feel proper introductions are to be made, Qualle,” he motioned to the pair sitting in front of him. “Before you are two key players in the resistance against Shadow: Jaspur Clovenhoof, a rogue who once served as a Nevahardan soldier and is gifted with magic that rivals King Shadow’s, and Tobiano Lightning Dancer, my right hand who mentors the rogue in his gifts.”
Qualle nodded. “We thought it would take months just to find signs of the re’shahna. We could not have dreamed your people would have approached us, much less so quickly. Tennakawa smiles upon our objective.”
“Our objective?” the rogue didn’t hide his surprise.
Qualle grinned. “You are not the only ones to lack a fondness for Shadow Silverhorn. Your chief believes that our assistance could aid your efforts in removing him from his stolen throne. I agree.”
Jaspur sat back with the subtlest of grunts. He knew politics when he heard them. He sang the tune and, when willing, became one of its greatest dancers. However, today he found his patience for such games severely lacking. “What does Qualle bring to the table that we do not already have?”
“One can never have enough swords, sirrah.”
Jaspur gulped water from a wooden goblet and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Aye, but I find it peculiar for a band of Sarrokian gypsies to care about quarrels over a throne. Particularly when it belongs to a kingdom many days journey from their own territory.”
Qualle tapped a jeweled finger against one of the silk pillows by his side, his patience for the rogue wearing thin. “Is there no longer a brotherhood between horse folk? We promise to serve your cause, and we intend to serve it well.”
“Promises are just words to me.” Jaspur looked to Tobiano, then to Patchi. “Are neither of you curious as to how they heard of the re’shahna in the first place? Forgive me, Qualle, but I do not trust easily. The first time I walked into a battle against Shadow, my comrades turned against me. I want to ensure that does not happen a second time.”
Qualle offered a nod, understanding the rogue’s caution. “It is true. We care nothing for your kingdom and its throne. My people would be content to sit back and let you kill yourselves over politics, but Velagray’s tyrant has an obsession that has pressed itself upon my kin.”
Jaspur lifted his goblet. “Now we are getting somewhere! Please, explain.”
Qualle sighed. “Over the last few months, his agents have been harassing my people with the accusation that we are harboring some sort of fugitive. They have taken to slaughtering entire caravans, even children, as punishment for not handing over a rahee they call Melah.”
“Why not mention this before?” Tobiano wanted to know.
“He did,” Patchi cut in. “To me, in private.”
Qualle sighed. “I suspected this Melah was one of your people. Shadow's huntsmen described her as a Nevahardan refugee, but we do not know of any rahee who can force herds of horses to do her bidding. Many of my kin sought to hunt her down and hand her over so that Shadow’s agents would leave our people alone.
“But I have encountered fiends like Shadow before. Even if we managed to find this Melah and give her up, he will assume we were simply holding back until his assassins forced our hand. Melah or no Melah, Shadow has painted us as a target, and he will continue to kill my kin unless we stop him somehow.”
Patchi offered a grim nod. “Qualle’s story aligns with the reports our spies have delivered of assassinations in the south. His claims are true, and we need help. Supplies are low, and so are recruits. Qualle can rally help from the south, and intercept Velagran merchants on the trade roads, pilfering supplies for our cause while limiting the king’s resources.”
Tobiano nodded as he began to understand the chief’s greater picture. However, Jaspur was still stuck on the mention of a rahee called Melah.
He recognized that name. Levee had many these days, but the rogue had memorized them all. He had spent the last eighteen years monitoring the safety of his mate through Patchi's spies.
Letting her go had been part of an agreement he made with Patchi after Nevaharday fell. Jaspur promised to let her go and commit himself and his gifts to defeating Shadow, so long as the re’shahna watched over Levee. Why he hadn’t been told his mate had become a target was a question he’d take up with Patchi at a later time.
“How did you know to seek out the re'shahna?” Tobiano asked. “You said yourself we were only legends to the rahee.”
“A young Sarrokian boy delivered a message to us, written in a cryptic manner only a gypsy could manage,” he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, worn as if it had been opened and closed many times during their journey. “It said help could be found in the legends of the northern mountains. It had a map that ended here, with the name Patchi scribed at its end.”
Patchi handed the parchment to Jaspur, who glanced at the writing and frowned. It had been many years, but he still recognized the handwriting. He offered Patchi a grim nod. “Aye, it’s hers.”
Qualle raised an intrigued brow. “Her? As in this Melah Shadow is searching for?”
“She is a northern gypsy,” Tobiano replied.
Qualle sighed. “I hope she is worth so many dying for her.”
Jaspur stood up and walked out of the caravan while Qualle was in mid-sentence, leaving the tchaka’s last words to pitter off in a frustrated grumble. “Where is he going?”
Patchi quickly intervened. “This is the first the rogue has heard of Melah’s peril. They were close once, and I imagine it is troubling news. Give him a moment.”
“You call him your champion,” Qualle tossed his hand above his head in frustration. “He strikes me as a wild card.”
Patchi shook his head. “Wild cards do not carry blades
forged from unicorn horns.”
“I know many men who can wield a sword,” Qualle countered. “Men who are loyal, obedient, and predictable.”
Patchi raised his brow. “Can your men do this?” Jaspur had barely made it five feet out the door when he called to the rogue. “Drop your sword on the ground.”
The rogue unsheathed Lumiere and tossed it onto the ground before the caravan steps.
Patchi nodded. “Now pick it up.”
Jaspur understood a demonstration was expected. Without complaint, he outstretched his hand and beckoned his sword to come to him using his magic. Lumiere flared to life with a soft blue hue. Qualle’s mouth fell open as he watched the veins in the rogue’s arms begin to glow in the same fashion. Lumiere slid obediently toward its master, its hilt rising to meet Jaspur’s grasp as if it were an extension of the rogue's arm. Jaspur gave the sword a casual swing, then sheathed the blade and continued to walk away without a word.
“Jaspur does not fear who holds his sword because he is the only one who can wield it,” Tobiano explained to Qualle. “Lumiere is bound to him. There can be no other owner.”
Qualle fell back upon his seat in the caravan as he began to realize the scope of Jaspur's power. “Magic flows strongly in him.”
“Aye,” Patchi clenched his hands together. “Beyond that, Jaspur fights like a lion, sees visions of the future and can walk through the memories of the dead. Tell me, Qualle, which one of your men can fill those boots?”
The tchaka sighed. “What I have seen in Jaspur is not comforting. There is a reason the unicorns reserve their power for the pure of heart. Troubled souls handed great power often turn into fiends like Shadow.”
“I will steer him away from corruption,” Tobiano assured.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 58
