—THE GRANDMOTHER
THE QUARTER-HOUR Reyn forced himself to wait after the infirmary attendant came around to extinguish the lights for the night felt like the longest fifteen minutes mankind had ever been made to suffer in all its history. He put a smile on his face and returned the niceties when the acolyte had nodded to him and muttered a hasty “goodnight,” then settled in to wait. He listened to the boy move about the chamber, hearing the quiet puffs of his breath as he blew out each candle one after the other, and the hiss of dying magic when he extinguished the half-dozen torches on each wall with a wave of his hands.
When the room was dark and tranquil, and the boy had moved off to a different part of the ward, Reyn started to count.
When he reached five hundred he slowly, silently—and ever so painfully—eased himself up from the bed.
Reyn had made his decision in the hour after Wence and the others came and went. It was, in fact, Cullen Brern who had forced the choice for him, when the man had come and—believing Reyn hadn’t noticed him—watched from the corner of the room. When the master-at-arms had left, Reyn had settled in his resolve.
If the councilman had had no words of comfort, no hint of hope to give and draw from all his stoic and strong bearing, then Syrah had well and truly been abandoned to her fate.
And that singular thought had been enough to convince Reyn to cast aside all other things.
He grit his teeth as he pushed himself up, refusing to utter a single sound of complaint when his broken ribs burned in protest. He already had trouble breathing, sitting at the edge of his bed, feeling his left side strain with every inhalation. He gave himself a minute there, in part to see if anyone had noticed his rising in the dark, but also to allow himself to get accustomed to the pain.
When the ache became a constant but manageable presence, and he heard nothing but the shallow breathing of the other patients all about him in their own beds, he eased himself down to the floor.
His feet found warm stone, and he stood up in full. The farther stretch of his chest made his side cry out again, but he pushed the throb away, feeling about carefully to his right. Another acolyte—a woman nearly half his age again, in fact—had deposited his cleaned and folded robes on the small table by his bed an hour before the lights went out, in case he was summoned by the council. There had been no summons—for which Reyn was grateful—and with a small, ironic prayer of thanks to the Lifegiver, he pulled the robes over his head, inch by inch.
When they fell over his shoulders, settling with comfortable, familiar weight around his ankles, Reyn began to move.
He knew his boots would be somewhere about the bed, delivered at the same time as his robes, but he wasn’t sure where and he didn’t have the time or patience to try and find them. Instead he took two careful steps to the side, then started making a steady line straight ahead, as slowly as he could convince himself to go. He knew the infirmary well enough, given the number of times he had visited as a patient after one of Brern’s brutal lessons, but he had requested assistance to the latrine twice that evening just to memorize where exactly he was in relation to the nearest door. As he’d suspected, his little bed-space faced the back wall, curtained off from the other patients. If he was careful, and just kept a watchful eye out, eventually he would see…
The door, he thought in triumph, finally making out the faint outline of the arched doorway some fifty feet to his right. Feeling about himself and sidling sideways a little, he found nothing barring his way.
Picking up the pace, he made directly for the light.
It was a clear lane, he was sure, kept so by the healers in case they were needed for an emergency. He grew more and more confident as he got closer and closer, seeing the whitish outline grow in the dark before him, the stone around his feet becoming more distinct in the limited light. He arrived before it quickly, reaching out a hand to lift the handle and let himself out into the hall.
The latch rose, then struck a lock with a loud clang of metal on metal.
At once there was a grumbling rising of noise as several of the sick and injured closest to the door were roused from their sleep. Reyn felt his heart skip a beat as someone asked “Who’s there?” in a loud, tired voice. Whether it was in his head or actually happening, he thought he made out the beat of boots on the stone, come running from another part of the ward.
Without thinking twice, Reyn drew as much power as he could into the palm of his right hand, then pressed it to the handle of the door.
BOOM!
The door latch blew outward in a deafening crash as the blast of magic tore it free of the wood. Without a moment to lose Reyn reached into the hole, ignoring the splintered timber that bit into his fingers as he used it to swing the door wide. Several shouts of fear and anger followed him out into the hall.
Then he ran as fast as the pain allowed.
Reyn knew now that he didn’t have long. It wouldn’t be more than a few minutes before the healers figured out who was missing, and another ten before the council was summoned and pieced together where he might be going. He had to move, and he had to move fast. Reyn took every turn he could, every passage and shortcut he could find and think of. Even at this late hour he passed a number of Priests and Priestess about their own business, some walking in groups or pairs, others on their own, turning to watch him curiously as he ran by. After the first few of these individuals grew wide-eyed at the sight of him, Reyn reached back and pulled the hood of his robes over his blond hair, keeping his head bowed as he ran. When he was half a mile from the infirmary, well away from any chasing healers wanting to make sure he didn’t hurt himself further, Reyn forced himself to slow to a fast walk.
All it would take was a question as to what he was fleeing from, and curiousity might very well turn into suspicion.
He wasn’t worried about his bare feet. Even in the middle of the freeze it wasn’t uncommon for some Priests and Priestesses to walk about without shoes or boots, usually when they couldn’t sleep, or between lessons in unarmed combat in the practice chambers. Indeed, the next few men and women he passed didn’t do more than give him a polite nod as he hurried by, one older Priest not even bothering to look up from the great tome he had his long nose buried in as he moved languidly down the hall.
All the same, Reyn didn’t relax until he reached his final destination.
It took him nearly ten minutes to arrive at the larders, the old halls that were second only to the furnace room in how deep they descended into the mountain. They were a ways from the kitchen, unfortunately, but the dark coolness did well for certain foodstuffs, and—more to the point—no one had ever been able to come up with a good suggestion on how better to use the Citadel’s dungeons, relics of a bloodier part of Cyurgi’ Di’s history.
Relics, that was, until this day.
For a moment, as Reyn arrived at the top of the steps that led down into the underground prison, he feared suddenly that he had been mistaken. He had deliberated all afternoon, gone over every option he could think of, and in the end had always come to the conclusion: the council would lock Raz i’Syul Arro up in the only place that was—or had at least once been—designed to detain him. No one guarded the stairway, however, and as Reyn started down carefully, keeping one hand on the thick chain that served as a guardrail along the wall, he saw no sign of anyone else waiting along the stairs.
He had almost reached the bottom-most steps, in fact, before he discovered his guess had been on the mark.
Voices.
They belonged to two, maybe three people. A pair of men at the very least, but Reyn didn’t discount that there might be others he couldn’t make out, or who weren’t talking. He descended the last steps slowly, ignoring the continued ache in his side that had only worsened during his hasty flight from the infirmary.
When he reached the landing, he snuck to the edge of the closest wall and peered around.
Two men, both of whom he recognized, stood opposite each other on either s
ide of the larder’s long, wide hall. They were leaning back, clearly bored, talking casually as one man thumbed the steel of his staff, tucked under one arm, and the other motioned excitedly with his hands.
His staff stood some ten feet away, propped up in the nook of one of the dozen iron-and-wood doors that staggered each other on either side of the hall.
Reyn found himself subconsciously noting that he would have to speak to Cullen Brern about putting some thought into how they instructed their sentries.
Like they’ll ever let me teach again, after this.
Something caught the corner of Reyn’s eye then, causing him to startle and twist only to find the flicker of shadows as some draft blew over the candles set in the stone walls that surrounded him. He cursed himself and his paranoia, but the anxiety built up, reminding Reyn of how little time he had.
Taking a breath, he steeled his resolve, then stepped out from around the corner.
The man on the right, opposite the edge Reyn had been creeping behind, spotted him first. Gane Trehl was a pudgy, heavy-framed youth of twenty-two, but he’d been born into the faith and had earned his staff after proving himself a deceptively quick and capable fighter. Reyn had helped train him, and knew what the boy was capable of.
“Hartlet!” Trehl said in surprise, coming off the wall, his staff in one hand. “What in the Lifegiver’s name are you doing here?”
Reyn made a show of limping—which wasn’t all that hard to fake, at that point—and raised a hand in greeting.
“Came to give the bastard that did this to me a piece of my mind,” he said weakly, feigning a wheeze and pressing his other hand gingerly to his side. “The lizard tricked me. He’s crafty, and I don’t mean it as a compliment.”
Trehl nodded sanctimoniously.
“Told you,” he said, turning to the other sentry as Reyn continued to walk towards them. “Told you there was no way he’s as good as they say. Dirty fighting, that’s all it was.”
The man shrugged, looking over at Reyn. Danon Hest was the opposite of Trehl, a tall, wiry convert nearing fifty, but he had a talent with spellcasting that had gotten him noticed by Cullen Brern despite his age.
“May’aps,” Hest said in with his signature drawl that always made the educators amongst the faith wince. “May’aps not. I done heard he messed you up somethin’ good, Hartlet. You and Loric and Grees. And one a’ the councilwomen, too.”
“Like Trehl said,” Reyn replied, stopping between the two and trying to make it look like he were casually observing his surroundings. “Dirty fighting.”
He’d intended to get the men to tell him what cell the atherian was in, saving himself the trouble of searching every one until he got lucky, but realized at once that it wouldn’t be necessary. He had wondered—if Raz i’Syul Arro had indeed managed to create havoc in a room filled by nearly a score of consecrated Priests and Priestess—why the council had thought it wise to post only two sentries in the dungeon. It seemed a gross underestimation of the atherian’s abilities.
Or his madness, Reyn had thought.
But Reyn understood at once why the High Priest and his advisors hadn’t bothered with greater security. Though the magics weren’t actually visible, they were palpable, a strong, binding essence that emanated from a singular door along the right wall, not twenty feet down the hall. Reyn cursed before he could stop himself when his eyes fell upon it, realizing the additional problem now cast at his feet. The ward was a strong one, emanating power about itself in ripples Reyn was sure even those not attuned to sorcery could sense. It seemed to have been bound into the steel and wood and stone around the door, essentially walling off the cell until such time as the council saw fit to release their prisoner.
It would take Reyn longer than he liked to unwind a spell like that…
“Aye, they’re not fooling around,” Trehl said with a jerk of his head, indicating the door as he mistook Reyn’s frustration for admiration. “You’ll have trouble giving the beast a piece of anything. The ward won’t even let us see him, much less talk to him.”
“You tried?” Reyn asked, raising a brow.
“Trehl done tried,” Hest said, spitting into a corner sourly, as though he wanted to make it clear he had no interest in getting mixed up in the nonsense his younger comrade was about. “Earlier, when we traded out with Cayst Etber and Samis Jehn. They told him some damned wild tale ‘bout the lizard tearin’ up the place and howlin’ like a banshee, and of course this idiot just has ta’ try and see what the fuss is all ‘bout.”
Trehl had the grace to blush.
“Reyn came to talk to him!” he squeaked in embarrassment. “Why aren’t you giving him shit, too?”
Hest chuckled, scratching at the dark beard around his neck.
“Cause Reyn got a chunk taken out a’ him by that snake, so Reyn ain’t just lookin’ ta’ chat him up out of stupidity—oh, I’m sorry. I meant ‘curiosity.’”
Trehl blushed deeper, and was about to say something in response when Reyn cut across him.
“Can you take the ward down?” he asked, still eyeing the door, trying to make it seem as though he truly was intent on speaking to the atherian. “Even for a minute?”
For the first time, he saw more than casual intrigue on the faces of the two men, and he instantly regretted the question. Trehl’s pudgy cheeks frowned in confusion, while Hest smartened up faster. The older man was suddenly looking at Reyn with distinct suspicion.
“No,” Hest said slowly, pushing himself off the wall to face Reyn full on, his hands by his side. “We been told the ward stays up, no matter who asks. Why you lookin’ ta’—?”
He never got a chance to finish the question.
Reyn took him down first. Hest’s magic scared him more right now than Trehl’s strength, and he was closest. With a quick step forward Reyn closed the gap between them suddenly, bringing himself within inches of the man. Hest reacted instinctively, throwing up a protective barrier, but too late.
Shielding wards only worked when your opponent was outside the shield.
Reyn allowed the magic to close in behind him, thinking it might buy him a couple of extra seconds if Trehl rushed from behind. Two quick blows caught Hest before the older man could even raise his arms in defense, one hard to the side of the head to daze him, a second to the gut, doubling him over. As he dropped, Reyn’s knee came up, catching the man a devastating strike to the face.
He felt Hest’s nose break against the tight muscle of his thigh.
The Priest’s body twisted back as his knees went limp, and he collapsed awkwardly to the ground, out cold. Turning as quickly as he could, Reyn threw up his own protective shield as he heard the crack of breaking magic.
Good thing too, because Trehl’s staff made short work of the remainders of Hest’s ward.
Reyn managed to get himself around just in time to witness the steel slammed through the rapidly fading spellwork, shattering it in a rainbow of something like splintering glass. As Hest’s magic broke, though, Reyn’s ward caught the staff, absorbing the blow. Reyn could see Trehl’s face now, though, all confusion gone from the chubby creases.
Now the man just looked mad.
“What are you doing, Hartlet?” he demanded, spinning the staff back under his arm and gathering light into his left hand. “What are you doing?”
Reyn didn’t answer. Instead he pressed one hand out, willing the ward around him to expand. It weakened exponentially as it did, but it was still strong enough to disrupt Trehl’s casting when it hit him, staggering the large man and forcing him back a step, yelling in anger as he did.
The sound was cut short, though, as the shockwave Reyn had been building up in his other hand hit Trehl straight on, disguised behind the expanded ward, using the weaker magic as a distraction.
Gane Trehl was thrown back a full five feet, his heavy body slamming into a cell door with a dull thud, his head snapping back to crack against the wood so loudly it made Reyn wince. The man’s steel st
aff spun away with the tinkling clatter of metal on stone, and Trehl himself staggered, rattled by the blow. He had just finished taking a shaky step forward, clutching at the back of his head with one hand as he looked up, when Reyn’s stunning spell hit him square in the chest.
He’d never been as good at throwing them as Syrah was, but at this range it would have been difficult for even a novice to miss.
Trehl collapsed where he stood, all will sapped from his limbs. He tumbled to the ground in a hefty, ugly mess of thick arms and white robes, his head only saved by a meaty shoulder as he tipped sideways.
Then the man settled, rolling half onto his back in front of the door, and lay still.
Reyn stood for several seconds, listening for any distant shouts of alarm, or the clap of booted feet come running. Hearing nothing, he looked from Hest to Trehl and back again. He hadn’t had a chance to truly convince himself the fight was over before he was forced to let out a dull groan, falling to one knee and clutching at his side as his ribs screamed in agony, the pain of the motions dulled until then by the rush of the scuffle. For a good thirty seconds he stayed like that, hissing in every breath, fighting hard not to give in and pass out. He feared, suddenly, what would happen to him after tonight. Would the Laorin allow him time to heal before Breaking him and sending him out into the world? Would they cast him out as he was, pitting him against the freeze and the mountain men below?
No, Reyn thought, forcing himself up onto his feet, grimacing as his ribs protested. More likely they’ll just lock me up down here until they can figure out what else to do with me.
With that uncomfortable thought settling itself in the back of his mind, Reyn limped over to Hest, checking to make sure the man was breathing. He was—if a little throatly through his swollen, lopsided nose—and Reyn moved on to Trehl. The larger man had a lump the size of a small egg where his head had hit the door, but there was no blood and his breaths came in the dull, low lull of unconsciousness the stunning spell brought on.
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