by Karen MacRae
Pyteor could see the blood seeping through the slice in her leathers despite the hand pressing the wound. He really didn’t want to be on his own. “We’re a good way off already and they had plenty to deal with back there. Maybe we should stop now? See what’s in these bags and ditch what we don’t need so we’re not carrying any extra weight?”
Elona pretended to think about it. The truth was, she needed to stop and see to this wound. Damn that Seaskian and his axe. She’d been a fool to fall for that move, but the guard’s aura had been fearless and the Seaskian had moved in without even a ripple in his aura. She doubted any Reader would have known the guard was about to willingly sacrifice his life. She’d never understand these crazy Kingdomers. “Find somewhere to shelter out of this damn rain for a few minutes,” she told the Concealer.
Ten minutes later, Elona was gingerly taking off her clothes to inspect her wound while Pyteor emptied the bags taken from the three horses. Apart from some spare clothes and the local girl’s rucksack, there were only water skins, a couple of thin ropes, some rations and a small wooden box with Rybis’ crest on it. He took them over to the Reader. He avoided looking at her breasts. He could do without any part of her haunting his dreams.
“Find some clean cloth and rip it into long strips,” she told him.
He watched her rummage through the small box as he picked out clothes from the pile he’d abandoned. There wasn’t enough to be fussy about cleanliness; she’d just have to take what he gave her. As he began cutting and tearing the fabric into strips, he saw her choose what looked like a needle curved for repairing leathers and a spool of thread. She was going to fix her clothes? His eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw her stick the needle into her skin.
“What are you doing?” he asked, horrified.
“I need to fix this scratch and a couple of bandages isn’t going to be enough. I saw this done in Sistin. It’ll keep me going until we get to the ship’s Healer.”
Elona’s face was pale and running with sweat and her words were stilted. Pyteor had never seen the Reader show pain like a normal person before. It must be agony because everyone knew she normally enjoyed it.
“You’ll have to finish off,” she told him. “I can’t reach. Just copy what I did and make sure you tie each one off. It’ll unravel without knots.”
Pyteor took the needle with the greatest of reluctance despite the shiver of expectation the smell of her bleeding, sweaty skin had triggered. He was more than delighted to be hurting her, but, knowing her, she’d take equal pleasure giving it back at some time in the future even though she’d asked him to do this.
“Don’t be pathetic, Concealer. Your fear of reprisal is laughable. If I’m going to kill you, I’ll kill you, but probably not before we get those stones back to our master. Many things could happen between now and then.”
Pyteor bent to his task, suppressing his instinct to make it hurt her more than it already did. “It’s going to be tricky to get Ebdry’s help without Mystrim,” he said.
“The man is a pompous ass. All bluster. He’ll do as I tell him or I’ll string him up outside the library for the crows to feed on.”
“The books?”
“Kuri is never going to give them back. We find the librarian, Leo. Get him to write out the important parts.”
“We’re a bit short of manpower.”
“Ebdry was forever bragging about how many people he’d converted to our cause. We’ll give him the chance to prove it. Even if he was exaggerating, which I would bet my life on, he must be able to call on a few willing to do what we need. If not, he’ll just have to pay for some. It’s not like he can’t afford it.”
“What about Sifry?”
“That’s a trickier dilemma. What do you think we should do?”
Pyteor gaped. She was asking what he thought? “He’s our master’s father. We have to take him home. Perhaps Ebdry can get him to the ship without anyone noticing?”
Elona nodded but had no intention of wasting a moment of her time on Sifry. He might be High Quorum, a famous professor and hero of wherever, but he was useless without a functioning brain and a complete liability without a functioning body. Being Nystrieth’s father didn’t change that. She wasn’t about to take the blame for him not getting home though. “You can take responsibility for our master’s father, Pyteor. Now Mystrim’s gone, you’ll need to step up.”
“Yes, Reader,” the Concealer beamed. “I’d be happy to.”
Elona couldn’t believe the young man’s stupidity. She hid a smile when she realised he could take the blame for the weather mage’s death too. After all, he was the only one to escape the encounter without injury and the only one to squeal like a pig when he actually had to do something other than hide. Nystrieth was not known for friendships, but his relationship with Mystrim came close. He’d make the boy burn in agony for days. He’d deserve it too, shrieking for help then running for cover as he had. The guard he’d run from had been the one to put his blade through the weather mage’s belly. There were no excuses. Elona embraced her anger. When combined with her glee at finding a scapegoat and the pain from the needlework, the sensation was surprisingly pleasant.
“I’m done,” the coward told her some minutes later.
“Wrap the strips around like a bandage. Join where you have to, but not over the wound. Much as I might enjoy it digging in, the wound will not.”
“You want to take any of their stuff?” he asked her when he’d finished binding the wound.
“The girl’s rucksack, the water skins, the rations and the box. Leave the rest.”
“What’s in the box apart from a needle and thread?”
“It’s a kit the King’s Guards get issued with when they join up. Stuff for mending leathers, sharpening blades and waterproofing boots. It’s actually quite useful.”
“Our master will want to see it then. The army might be able to use something similar.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to know of it. Here,” Elona said, tossing the box to the Concealer, “in return for your sewing.” She almost laughed as he thanked her but managed to hide her delight at yet another example of his naivety. Nystrieth had set his cats on the last person to suggest spending money on something so trivial.
Pyteor was surprised at this new Elona. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe it was having Mystrim around that had put her in a permanently bad mood?
The two set off in much improved spirits. It seemed no one was following them, Elona’s bleeding had slowed to a trickle and, best of all, they had a bag full of peristone beads. It had been a good day.
The following day was not so good. Elona’s wound made her even more irritable than normal, the rain was coming down in sheets and word had clearly spread of their presence on the island. They’d laughed when the first two people they’d come across had fled from them in panic, but it now seemed they had fled merely to organise a posse. Elona and Pyteor were hiding in a copse as twenty or more armed locals swept the surrounding area. It was only a matter of time until they were discovered.
Pyteor noticed Elona was sweating despite the heavy rain and cool air and immediately started worrying about getting to the ship in one piece. He seen wounds go bad before. “Are you all right?” he mouthed.
Elona could feel her wound throbbing and felt like she’d been beaten by half a dozen Rubrans. She cursed the Healer for sticking his head up at the wrong time. What an idiot. If he miraculously appeared in front of her right now, she’d run him through herself. After he’d Healed her, of course. She ignored Pyteor’s concern. She knew it was generated purely by self-interest. She needed to get to the damned ship. Soon. “Can you fake an image of us so they go in the wrong direction?” she whispered.
“I… I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
Elona hissed. “Then try! And be ready to switch back to us if it works and they move off. We need to get past them.”
Pyteor thought of the students he’d seen in Iona
ntis. It had to be possible. He fixed an image in his mind of the two of them galloping away on horseback then looked for a suitable background to add to the image. He held his breath as he released it, willing it to appear two hundred yards off to their right. He knew it was a pathetic attempt by Quorum standards, but a quick flash of escaping spies through the torrential rain was enough to confuse all but two of the posse. These two stubbornly stuck to their original location. Pyteor was overjoyed. He quickly Concealed Elona and himself behind a generic, rainy scene and they began to creep up on the two remaining searchers.
Elona gestured that she’d take the one on the right. Pyteor’s hand tightened on his dagger. The one on the left was a teenager, a bit younger than Nijel. He plunged his dagger into the boy’s back with glee. It would be his fifth kill in service to his master. Each had been more glorious than the last. Nystrieth would be pleased.
The dagger bouncing off stone-enriched leathers took him completely by surprise. He found himself embraced in two strong arms then pummelled with rock-hard fists as the boy shouted at the top of his voice for the rest of the posse. Pyteor cowered, his arms over his head, his dropped dagger forgotten. Suddenly, the punching stopped and all was silent. He lifted his eyes to see Elona standing before him, her blade dripping with blood. The boy lay dead at her feet.
“Move,” she growled, “and give us cover or I swear I’ll kill you myself right now.”
Pyteor grabbed his dagger and ran for his horse, putting up a new Concealment to protect them from any who had heard the boy’s shouts. His pride at successfully hoodwinking the searchers had been dashed to nothing by his being bested and beaten by a boy ten years younger than himself. He felt deeply ashamed.
Elona was seething. Yes, the Concealer’s gift was useful, but the Concealer himself was pathetic. She cursed the lack of gifted on the continent and the lack of proper schooling that had her having to put up with such a deplorable partner. She’d attended the Quorum of Gifted’s University of Wythe long before she’d been converted to one of Nystrieth’s disciples and it had been the making of her. Granted, her Reading hadn’t reached the levels she’d hoped for, but they’d taken her from being good at swordplay to being unbeatable. Her master’s plans to introduce free, compulsory schooling had been a major reason for her joining his cause. Only proper training would allow the gifted to take their rightful place in the world. With Nystrieth at the helm, and her at his side, they would rule over the grovelling, ungifted masses.
She turned her mind to the manpower issue in Ionantis and the likely presence of the ginger do-gooder and his various sidekicks. The White and two guards were dead and the Seaskian and the unknown girl who’d jumped off the cliff had to be badly injured. She supposed the Seaskian’s gift might have saved him in which case that left him, Peyton, a couple of other unknown, probably ungifted, guards and Malik Brewcherrion at Braxton’s beck and call. It was interesting the Mastran had shown up here on Shae. She hadn’t seen him in years. She’d look forward to ruining his beautiful face then gutting the smooth-talking liar.
She forced herself to stop daydreaming of metal ripping through silky black flesh and counted again. Braxton, Peyton, Ffion, Brewcherrion, two guards, Peyton and Ffion made eight. No, wait, had she counted Peyton twice? Start again… Braxton, Brewcherrion, Peyton and Ffion made four. Oh, and the guards. That made six, didn’t it? Had she forgotten the Seaskian? No, she’d said Ffion, hadn’t she? Ffion, Braxton, Peyton, Brewcherrion, Ffion, Peyton… Was that seven? Never mind, it was a handful or so, plus whatever manpower the Councillor could provide. Kuri: she of the unreadable lilac aura and the tricks. No way did Sifry suddenly make sense. It had to have been a trick. Her men had been predictable. Nothing to worry about. All they had to do was kidnap the librarian and get away. The do-gooders would think they were after the books. Elona smiled. She didn’t need the books. What were they called again? Purity and Consonances? Something like that. It would be easy. Just take the librarian. Leave the do-gooders to the books. They didn’t even have the White anymore. She laughed. A burning White hanging from a burning rope swam across her mind’s eye. So good. So right. Do-gooders deserved to swing from burning ropes, preferably around their necks.
Pyteor heard Elona laugh but didn’t risk asking her what she found amusing. It was probably the sight of him being beaten up by a child. He hung his head and dreamed of different outcomes.
Elona’s mind was playing with the White, slowly twirling her on the end of the rope, swinging her left and right as her face melted, her delicious screams and the smell of her burning flesh filling the air. Suddenly, burning flesh changed to the unmistakeable scent of the Mastran. Slightly musky, oh so masculine, unbelievably erotic… She imagined breathing him in as her dagger dug a deep gash down his flat stomach to his groin, slashing his genitals and laughing at the pain in his big smoky eyes… no… green eyes… Braxton… defeated and dying, pleading up at her as she twisted a dagger in his gut. Elona smiled with intense satisfaction and Malik’s lying dark eyes and Braxton’s emerald green eyes mingled and morphed into Leo the librarian and Ebdry the ass, Kuri the show off and Douglas the brown-nosing moron. Sounds began to play over the images. Mystrim’s dead body thudding to the ground. Nijel’s perfect skin bursting on the rocks. The unknown guard crying, “Fice!” Kuri’s man thumping to the carpet... Malik’s treacherous mouth dripping with blood… Drip. Drip. Drip. “Fice!” Ginger hair blending with the flames from burning ropes… Drip. “Fice!” Edbry’s face turning puce as Sifry peed in the cupboard… “Fice!”
Pyteor stopped in alarm as the Reader fell from her horse. He jumped down and ran to her, recoiling in disgust at the putrid blood that leaked through her bandages. He shook her then slapped her boiling hot face, desperately trying to rouse her from her mumbling nonsense. She was too heavy to lift back onto her horse and he couldn’t carry her all the way to the ship. He remembered the rope they’d discarded in the cave and cursed; he wouldn’t be able to keep her on her horse even if he managed to get her on it. How far he was from the bay? Could he hide her and go and get help? He looked around. All he could see was waterlogged grass, scrubby bushes and sheep.
He grabbed a water skin from the horse and tried to get her to drink. The contents splashed all over her face as she fought against the liquid. She moaned about crimwort and poison and spat the water back at the Concealer. It was impossible.
“Nystrieth wants you on the horse, Reader,” he shouted in her ear. “The Emperor demands it. On the horse, Elona. Now!”
The warrior struggled to sit, tried to follow her master’s command. She knew disobedience meant death.
“The Emperor wants you on the horse, Reader. Now! He’s coming! Quick! Stand up!”
Fear drove the fevered woman upright.
Pyteor manhandled her onto a horse, but she swayed alarmingly in the saddle. He finally got her lying face down in front of the saddle, grabbed the other horse’s reins and climbed on behind her. She fell in and out of consciousness as he made the horses walk on. She was oblivious to her surroundings, lost in endless delusions. It would make the Concealment easier at least, he joked to himself. It didn’t ease his terror. She had to make it. He didn’t want to be alone.
CHAPTER 33
Aboard the King’s flagship, Lealta
T he first thing Finn had done when he came aboard was tell everyone the good news about Mystrim. They’d found the mage lying in a heap not far from the junction of the western and southern trails. Hew’s sword had found the spy’s belly and Sy’s dagger his back. Elona and the Concealer hadn’t even closed the man’s eyes. After the elation and scorn came fresh sorrow at the loss of Lachlan. Finn held a small farewell at sunset and they shared fond stories to send the Dornie man’s soul into the light with laughter and love to accompany it.
Afterwards, the voyage to Ionantis quickly became dedicated to one thing and one thing only: the white peristone.
“I’ve made a decision,” Anna announced from her bunk, the
first morning at sea.
“About what?” asked Seleste from the neighbouring bunk.
“I’m going to keep Breac’s beads together. It doesn’t seem right to split them.”
“And you were going to split them because…?” asked Beitris from above Anna’s head.
“Because having a white peristone has changed things?” guessed Seleste.
“Yes.”
Beitris jumped down from the top bunk to sit next to Seleste. The pair of them looked at Anna, waiting for more information. “Come on then, tell all,” said Beitris impatiently.
“I inherited more than jewellery from Evaline. She passed on knowledge too. Like knowing Shaen.”
“You’re still you though? You don’t have a five hundred-year-old woman’s mind floating around inside you too do you?” asked Beitris, her voice joking, but her eyes very serious.
Anna shook her head and smiled. “No, much as I’d have liked to have known her, that would be the worst kind of intrusion. A Black Shaper might do it, I suppose, but… ugh!” Anna shuddered. “No, I’m just me.”
Seleste and Beitris looked relieved. “I find it hard enough dealing with my own thoughts and feelings without having someone else’s to deal with too,” said the assassin.
Beitris looked at Seleste, her face a picture of amazement. “You? But you’re the most together person I’ve ever met!”
Seleste smiled. “I’ve just learned a few tricks,” she said quietly before turning back to Anna and changing the subject. “What kind of knowledge?”
“I’m not sure, but I can Read way better than I could before and I knew Caitlin didn’t speak much Standard and suddenly found myself talking to her in Shaen without even thinking about it. The same sort of thing happened with the white peristone. As soon as I touched it, I felt like I’d read a book about it. It’s all there in my mind, but I don’t have the faintest clue if I can actually do any of it.”
