by David Rice
“Manners, First Warden,” Dorak repeated.
“Bah. A warrior with manners is soon dead,” Ballok replied. He turned to point at Kirsten. “Time for you to discover what that means, girl.”
Ballok stomped away. Kirsten followed, fuming.
Delaying briefly, Dria glided to the stairs and softly descended. Plax’s eyes followed Dria until she disappeared from view. He leaned heavily against the tree trunk and tried to catch his breath. How could he stay in this illusion and get to know that stunning girl? How could he let Kirsten face the dangers of a war party without help? How could he find the strength to answer his father’s insults once and for all when he wasn’t confident that he could even face him again?
“Come,” Dorak gently encouraged. “There is much I sense in you that needs deeds to cure.”
Plax returned his focus to the present. “I’m sick?”
Dorak smirked at Tyrin. “You’ve been sharing your secrets?”
Tyrin blushed. “A simple alteration to give him comfort.”
Dorak nodded. “I can see through it and I sense much conflict and much potential.”
“You do?” Plax stammered.
Dorak nodded slowly. “You are fine as you are. Once you realize this, others will, too.”
Plax let out a deep breath. “I was rejected by my people for how I look.”
Dorak frowned. “Horsewardens are stubborn and intractable. It is our common fault as creations of the One to reject what we do not understand.”
Plax’s body slumped under the weight of buried sorrow.
Tyrin patted Plax’s shoulder. “There’s a second part to that saying,” he stated, “that Elder Dorak loves to repeat.”
Dorak chuckled. “Finally, my student proves worthy. Go ahead, Tyrin. This young fellow deserves the rest.”
Tyrin’s expression grew serious. “The duty in our life is to solve the mystery of ourselves. Once we accept the potential of who we are then we can be everything we are capable of being.”
Plax hesitated before responding. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Never stop believing in your future self,” Dorak summarized. “Now what will your future self do with the rest of today?”
Plax looked back towards where Dria had retreated then cast his eyes in the direction of the distant fortifications along the banks of the Raelyn. “I helped Kirsten in her journey and that helped me. I can’t abandon her now. When we return then I’ll see if Dria wants to speak to me again.”
“You’d better hurry then,” Tyrin smiled. “Ballok isn’t known for his patience.”
Plax bowed to Dorak, nodded to his friend Tyrin, and slipped down the stairwell. He’d use his shadowcharms to follow undetected. And if Kirsten needed him, he’d be there.
***
Dria approached the glade of the woodmothers with trepidation tossing in her stomach.
Woodmother Vendete did not need to turn away from her silkweaving for her voice to penetrate Dria and send shivers coursing down the young loremother’s spine. “Why so nervous, Dria?”
Dria bowed her head and her voice stumbled. “I do not mean to complain about the honours that have been granted me, Woodmother, but I have questions.”
Vendete sighed, carefully set down her silk frame and delicate hooks, and patted the ground beside her. “It is not uncommon for a young lady to be nervous before a joining.”
Dria attempted a smile and approached slowly.
Sit right here,” Vendete commanded. “And give your concerns a voice.”
Dria lowered herself with as much dignity as she could muster.
Vendete’s eyes narrowed as she examined Dria’s coiled mouth, tight shoulders, and the way she concealed her arms. And Vendete judged in a heartbeat. “Speak,” she repeated impatiently. “And then be prepared to listen.”
“Third Warden Siandros is worthy in so many ways,” Dria began her voice betraying far less enthusiasm than it pronounced, “but he has been rough with me, Woodmother. Disrespectful. Insensitive.”
Vendete tilted her head slightly. “He is a warrior born and bred,” she responded. “What would you expect?”
Dria’s heart sank and her eyes flashed. She revealed the bruising on her arms. “Not this,” she snipped. “He has more care for his horses.”
Vendete looked at Dria and suppressed a sharp laugh. “This is your duty, young Dria. You are his promised. Mate with him. Produce a child. Our survival demands it.”
Dria’s eyes narrowed and her body quivered. “I am his partner, not some possession.”
Vendete grabbed Dria’s bruised arm and squeezed hard. She stood abruptly, lifting Dria to her feet and pulling her close. “We have suffered great dishonour with our last joining. Do not bring more dishonour to Longwood.”
Dria tried to pull away but Vendete was far stronger than she appeared. “I will not suffer his violence. I deserve respect, Woodmother. I thought that you would understand that the way
Woodmother Reshae once did.”
Vendete yanked Dria closer and her voice cut to the bone. “Our warriors protect us. They suffer more than anyone else. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Dria harnessed all of her strength and pulled away from Vendete’s grasp. “Yes,” she said. “I understand what you are saying.”
Vendete shook her head. “You already disappoint me.” Dria straightened her back and met Vendete’s glare.
You want to know how to show that you are his equal in strength?”
Dria tightened her jaw and squared her shoulders. “Yes.”
Vendete’s eyes sparked with the cruelty of a hidden joke. “Endure.”
Dria gasped and stepped back.
Vendete returned to her weaving. “Don’t bother me again, child.”
Dria spun on her heels and fled the glade. Endure? Her mind spun. Endure his every violent whim?
That was strength? Dria brushed away unbidden tears and spat into the grass. No, she swore. She’d show a better kind of strength from this day onward. Not a capitulation of any
kind.
***
Alain jumped to his feet when he heard the sound of Vargas barking. Stepping into the sun, he greeted Balinor’s return with a grim nod.
“I was right,” the scout announced as he slipped from the back of his horse. “She couldn’t handle two of them.”
“So, my horse is gone?”
“ I’m afraid so.”
“I can’t believe it. And the package of messages?”
“Like I said, one small part. But not all of it.” Balinor patted his bedroll. “And we still have the translation key.” He showed Alain where he had sewn a hidden flap into his belt.
Alain’s wince tried to smile. “I should’ve suspected she’d be a risk. I still can’t believe that she—”
Balinor shrugged. “She hasn’t seen you in a long time. The rest of your family is gone. She’s gonna try to survive the only way she knows how.”
“By selling us out,” Alain growled. “Probably to Egrant or one of Gow’s other lackeys.”
Balinor nodded. “She’s going to try to cut a deal, no doubt. They’ll only see gibberish until they get a proper codebreaker to look at it and by then—”
Alain snorted. “So, you’re saying we have some time. That’s good.”
“We know where we are, and we know where we’re going. She’ll need more than a little luck taking care of herself alone or finding one of Egrant’s patrols.”
Alain’s jaw tightened. “Then we’d better get started.”
Balinor took another look at the remnants of the hay wagon and grinned. Maybe there were enough pieces to cobble together a two wheeled carriage. “I just had an idea,” he smiled.
“And I think you’re going to like it.”
By the evening, the men were travelling once more, Balinor on his horse, and Alain atop their remaining supplies in a rickety but functioning cart.
XXXIV
Ursurer Ghent and
Prime Inspector Galvry had broken Hubbard with just a display of the torture equipment. Holding Hubbard’s lovely young wife in Halnn as insurance, Galvry had secured the service of Halnn’s new company of light cannoneers for a training exercise. Together, Galvry and Hubbard would journey to Gow’s fort along the river under the pretext of delivering more weapons. Then, they would use Hubbard as the messenger and the cannons as the threat to reacquire the gem that had been stolen so foolishly.
Galvry accepted another glass of port and sipped it with a smile. Nothing matched gnomish engineering. Their cannons were lighter by half than earlier designs, had a longer range, a faster reload time, and greater accuracy due to some rifling of the barrel. Because of this heartless treachery that exposed Halnn to destruction from the drakes, Lornen would never get his hands on any more gnome crafted items of any kind. Not in his lifetime, Galvry avowed.
A knock on his wagon door pulled him from his dark reveries. Galvry opened the window. An officer of artillery smiled and saluted as he gently rode alongside upon his pony.
“What is it?” Galvry snipped.
“We are approaching The Crossing, Prime Inspector,” the officer announced. “Is it your desire that we venture onto the smaller trails to avoid the dwarves?”
Galvry’s nose wrinkled. “Time is of the essence, good man. Push on. There’s been hardly a peep from the Crossing in the past fortnight. I think they’ve locked up shop and all gone home.”
“As you will,” the officer replied. “Dwarves do like to give that impression, sir.”
Galvry rolled his eyes. “Leaving this road will cost us days. How will I explain that if a drake appears over our city before we can return with the gem?”
The officer’s colour drained. “I see, Prime Inspector. Of course. Have no fear, sir. Our guns can respond easily to any nuisance from the flanks.”
Galvry snorted. “Then press on. One crew sleeps while the other rides. We keep moving, do you understand? Under no circumstances do we stop until we arrive in range of Gow’s walls.”
The officer nodded curtly. “I shall give the orders, sir.”
Galvry snorted again and slammed the window shut. He held out his glass once more.
“C’mon,” he grumbled at his assistant undersecretary. “Fill it. No good bottle survives this campaign.”
The assistant filled the glass twice more before Galvry slumped into his cushions, snoring like a potbellied bear cub.
***
Jarl Beru joined his scouts at the top of the north tower. This was where the great spools of chains for river crossings were once housed. Now, this was a quiet perch from where the Halnn road could be observed undetected.
“Looks like far too many soldiers for it to be a supply run or a simple delivery,” Beru announced.
Thane Glandrew Haggisdrop raised an eyebrow. “What’re they up to then? Joining the crusade against the elves, ye think?”
Beru swung the telescope in a slow arc. “They do look to be in a hurry. And I don’t much like what they’re bringing to the fight.”
“A small type of cannon, by the looks,” Glandrew added.
Using our designs an’ our blackpowder,” Beru snarled.
Glandrew smiled. “Kinda makes ‘em ours, don’t it?”
Beru stepped back from the telescope and grinned. “Thieving scum. Prob’ly blow up in their faces after the third shot but wouldn’t hurt having ‘em here to secure The Crossing instead.” “I’d like to take a group to fetch ‘em for ya, if ye don’t mind,” Glandrew volunteered.
Beru rubbed his chin. “Not many left here since we sent a group back to Thunderwall.”
“All locked up in here, not much to do, and not hard to defend,” Glandrew offered. “An’ ye can’t be risking yerself.”
Beru laughed. “Oh, that’s a sad truth. I’d love a good scrap with those gnomes, though.”
Glandrew beamed. “I wouldn’t need more’n twenty. We sneak in behind ‘em, plant charges, and blow ‘em sky high.”
Beru nodded slowly. “Alright. But we can’t afford to lose anyone. An’ that means you, too.”
Glandrew erupted in a laugh and pounded his hands together with a snap. “I’ll get what we need and be ready at first light.”
Beru peered through the telescope once more. “You know, they aren’t even following their column with a picket. Careless little shits.”
“They’ll never see us comin’,” Glandrew chuckled. “Just like we didn’t see their friends, the lifebane, all those cycles ago.”
Beru looked down at the stone and said nothing although his throat clenched and his fists shivered. Eventually he looked up and his stare was as hard as granite. “Make them pay,” Beru hissed, “and make them remember why.”
Glandrew’s glee washed away. In its place, a sober focus upon retribution filled his heart. “By the twelve, they will, Jarl. They will.”
***
Yost lowered his creaky body to the floor and cradled Muren’s head in his lap. At least Ardir has succumbed to the heavy pull of the tea Yost had brewed. The poor fellow would sleep hard. That would be fortunate. There would be no singsong questions or yelps of concern to disturb his necessary work. He dared a glance at the candles half burned down since supper. It was late and everyone slept as the night continued its relentless crawl towards morning. There was much to do, little time to do it, and Yost knew fulfilling his purpose would tax him greatly.
Yost stretched his neck and then reached for Muren’s temples. Not since the Starwatcher was a child had he attempted such a submergence of his mind into anothers. If he succeeded perhaps the dreams that haunted them both would fade. The voices took the forms of lost loved ones in Muren’s mind. Yost had seen them clearly in prior readings. And in his own head ever since he had first met Muren as a child, a squeezing pressure, a compulsion that pushed Yost past all normal limits and touched him with the energy of the weave in ways he could only reconscile with the touch of The One. Yost knew that he was just a vessel for the will of The One, and The One required some additional service from the fragile Starwatcher. Yost closed his eyes and let the warmth of his fingertips mingle with the pulse of the Starwatcher.
*
With a gasp, Muren jolted awake. He was in a small room surrounded by endless soft and white drifting curtains. He tried to form questions but his curiosity melted away to be replaced by sedate calm. Instead he raised his eyes to stare at a familiar figure. Across from him was Father Yost, younger and stronger than Muren expected, sitting crosslegged upon the grey floor. The Father’s eyes were closed, and his mouth beginning to move strangely as if testing the boundaries of expression. When the voice sprang into existence, it filled the room like a chorus.
“Long ago your purpose was forged and disguised so no one could ever suspect, even you. And you will soon be ready.”
Muren let the message roll through him with hardly a quiver. A purpose of some importance? He felt shocks of amazement and anger spark and dwindle. The voice continued like winds of a squeezing hurricane around its eye.
“The keys are coming together. The One sufferes a forced slumber and must be awakened.”
Muren tried to scowl but his resistance scattered. The only force in the room now was the will of The One.
“Two worlds can still be saved and one must be preserved. KNOW THIS. And hide this knowledge in the well of sleep until drawn forth.”
Muren was able to shake his head slowly in bewilderment as the light faded, followed by everything—
*
Yost fell away from Muren with a groan. Two worlds to be saved? The One awakened?
Muren was the key? Perhaps his daughter, too? His eyes opened in wonder. Was the Starwatcher’s belligerent nature part of The One’s elaborate disguise? Was everyone part of this plan? This riddle? Was everyone part of The One?
Yost’s eyes widened as a squeezing pressure gripped his heart. Was The One done with him now? Had his purpose been finally fulfilled?
Against a tightening of his shoulder and a burning in his neck, Yost pushed out a whispered prayer. “Oh, By the Grace of The One, please let me linger a little longer. I have much to say to Ardir about your racing moons, an apprentice to instruct, and,” he sighed heavily, “the secrets of an enemy’s mind that must be cracked.”
His heart slowed and the pain faded. He stretched out next to Muren as if the stine floor was a carpet of soft moss. With a deep rumbling sigh, Yost trusted The One and stopped fighting sleep.
XXXV
A sudden thaw came to the Steppes under brilliant blue skies and a piercing sun. The snow steamed in the light, and the rivers grew in rushes of tumbling ice to spill far beyond their banks. From the fading snow, clutches of rock burst forth in flashes of pink and ochre. Adorned with caps of green moss and edged with drooping juniper, they appeared like small guardians for the wildflowers that would follow in a fortnight. For now, however, everything was turning to mud.
