by Brian Fuller
“At least two weeks, but with this route, we should be able to keep the horses for most of the journey. It does take us close to Dunnach Falls Bridge again, though I doubt they left any force there.”
“Have the Uyumaak any weaknesses we might exploit?” Athan inquired hopefully.
“Few,” Maewen replied, twirling an arrow in her hand. “In most respects, the Uyumaak are our superiors. The Hunters are faster than us and have a superior sense of smell. The Warriors are stronger. The Bashers tougher. The Archers more accurate. All of them have scales that change color, so they can hide more easily, and they see better in the dark than humans do.”
“A discouraging list,” Athan frowned. “Where are they weak?—if you would answer my original question.”
Maewen stood. “I was getting to that. They do not have language and must communicate by tapping rhythms on their chests, sticks, rocks, or whatever is available. Thus, to be coordinated they must at least partially reveal their position. They also must be led. If the Chukka and the Shaman in the group are killed, the Uyumaak tend to fight among themselves. So, you see, my decision to use Gen to help me try to assassinate the Shaman was not all folly.
“They also hoard and value shiny objects. I escaped an Uyumaak attack once by throwing bronze pieces on the ground behind me as I ran. Unfortunately, I don’t believe anyone has any such treasures, unless you can conjure some up, Ha’Ulrich. Lastly, if you can kill the Hunters, they will be ‘blind’ in most respects and easy to evade, as they exclusively rely on the Hunters to track their quarry. We have little chance of pulling that off, unfortunately. They are likely patrolling Elde Luri Mora’s borders in numbers.”
“There doesn’t seem much there to take advantage of,” Chertanne interjected darkly.
“You are correct,” Maewen agreed. “The speed and endurance of the horses are our only advantage, which is why I would prefer to keep them as long as we can.”
“I will try to turn some of the dirt into gold,” Chertanne offered, “if it will help.”
“It might, but it need not be gold. The Uyumaak have no need of money and appraise the worth of an object by its luster only. Now, if you will excuse me. I need to search for some herbs while I have the luxury of doing so.”
“But it’s pouring!” Chertanne blurted out in disbelief.
“The rain concerns me not,” Maewen said and left.
Maewen’s dire description of their chances set the Chalaine’s heart to beating, and she sipped her grog to help clam herself. The half-elf returned as night fell, soaked to the bone but not showing the least bit of inconvenience. The rain tapered off as full dark approached, the sound of dripping amplified as the roar of the downpour dissipated. Dinner consisted of tough strips of meat and bread that were alternately stale and soggy where the rain had soaked into saddlebags.
“We have about two more weeks of meals like this one,” Maewen announced to the group. “After that, we need to find game, roots, and what berries might be left. Do not eat anything unfamiliar without asking me first. Tighten your belts and eat as sparingly as you can bear.”
The Chalaine had little appetite to start with and pocketed most of what her mother handed her. Maewen’s potion worked well for the pain, though the Chalaine had difficulty accustoming herself to the sling and splint. In the hours leading up to the meal, Chertanne managed to transmute the dirt around the doorway into four shiny disks the color of silver for use against the Uyumaak. He was enormously pleased with his success, though the task drained his strength and he fell asleep directly after dinner.
The Chalaine shook her head at his thunderous snoring. How could Chertanne possibly face down Mikkik? His abilities seemed only good for cheap parlor tricks or to create and destroy trinkets. She fervently hoped his skill and strength would improve vastly before she had to rely on his protection from anything.
Athan staggering into a wall, eyes wide and face in shock, silenced the room. He fended off attempts to see to his welfare, requiring several moments to steady himself, breath labored and hand clenched about his robes. Chertanne snorted awake at the commotion.
“What is it?” Maewen importuned, face concerned.
“It is the former Pontiff,” the besieged Padra finally divulged. “He is dead. It is a great loss, for us all.”
“Is your ward still intact,” Chertanne asked urgently.
“Yes.”
“Do you think Gen killed him?” Chertanne pressed.
“No,” Athan said. “No. His time was come.”
Chertanne was disappointed. The Chalaine felt a brief surge of hope, and her mother’s face betrayed the same emotion. Even if the ward were up, with the Pontiff dead Gen might find some other way to get out of the building.
“Now, leave me be,” Athan said, voice slightly strangled. “I need time to mourn . . . and to think.”
“Everyone sleep,” Maewen ordered. “We leave before sunup tomorrow.”
Athan lay awake for hours reeling under the dying Pontiff’s news. Mikkik was indeed clever. Gen had poisoned the Chalaine and her entire nation against the Ha’Ulrich without doing one thing anyone could fault him for. Their trip across the Shroud Lake shard demonstrated beyond doubt that the web of prophecy was slight and fragile, ripe for destruction. Gen’s near devastating blow the night of the marriage confirmed the blindness of their eyes and the futility of their efforts to protect the holy couple. The time for tough measures had come.
While Athan wondered how deep Gen’s complicity in Mikkik’s plan went, the answer was little more than a curiosity. While Chertanne had promised he would not harm Gen, Athan had not. Scholars might debate ends and means, but with the world in jeopardy, such concerns faded into the realm of the pedantic and irrelevant. Padra Athan did not fear the secular or spiritual consequences of the tough decisions he had made and would make to ensure the birth of the Holy Child. Gen had already ruined the unity of the two most powerful nations on Ki’Hal, and if he should perchance escape the ward before death, he would no doubt spend every waking moment seeking Chertanne’s life.
The greatest damage, Athan knew, was the plain disgust the Chalaine felt for Chertanne. The relationship so crucial to the final scenes of the prophecy had degraded to complete animosity by both parties, and Athan saw no clear way to repair it. The way the Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich insulted and ignored each other frightened him beyond words. If he could reconcile the two—and he would try it against all odds—then Eldaloth could not help but reward a patient, stalwart servant.
The Padra rolled off of his bedroll and stood. Maewen, standing at the front door, glanced over her shoulder at the movement and then wandered out into the night. Athan shook his head. Gen’s allies ruled their party and would hold the balance of power until they could portal off the shard. Luckily, Athan knew the art of tacit instruction as well as anyone.
Standing, he crossed to where Chertanne slept. “Your Grace,” Athan whispered as he shook Chertanne gently, trying not to disturb anyone else. He glanced back to the door, hoping Maewen would not reappear. Dason or Cadaen was likely awake somewhere, but that could not be helped. The rest of the dark room was alive with the sound of muted and deep breathing, though the Padra couldn’t ascertain if everyone was asleep.
After the former Pontiff’s devastating final message, Padra Athan knew he had to inform Chertanne of what he knew without anyone else’s knowledge or suspicion. Chertanne’s eyes slowly opened and widened, the whites barely visible in the weak light. Padra Athan leaned close.
“Holiness,” Athan whispered, “follow me out the back. Be quiet. Wake no one.”
Chertanne wrestled his blanket off himself and stood more noisily than Athan wanted, but once they passed outside, damp grass soft beneath their bare feet, they listened for any sign that anyone had awakened. Once Padra Athan was reasonably assured of their secrecy, he whispered into Chertanne’s ear.
“Before the Pontiff died, he sent a message for me to relay to you and to all Ki’H
al. You must keep this to yourself until you are within safe places and surrounded by people that you trust. He did not indicate how he knew, but he revealed to me that Gen is the Ilch!”
Chertanne’s face transformed from misunderstanding, to shock, to near glee. “We must let everyone know immediately!” he whispered excitedly. “This will finally put an end to his interference! Furthermore, we should send someone back to kill him outright! At last, I have him!”
“No, your Grace,” Padra Athan pleaded. “You must not say a word of this to anyone! If you so much as suggest the idea in that room, you will have a sword at your throat before you can let the last word fall!”
“But surely they should know,” Chertanne argued, “for their own protection, if nothing else!”
“Do you think they’ll believe you?” Padra Athan returned heatedly. “I’m not sure I believe it! It does explain why he tried to kill you and perhaps why he was so sickly in Elde Luri Mora, but beyond that, the notion that Gen is the Ilch is preposterous! Only the Pontiff’s declaration that it is so makes me trust that it is.”
“Why should you doubt?” Chertanne countered. “He fought my will at every turn. He set people against me who should follow and obey me. I would say he’s done Ilch’s work.”
“Your reasoning is sound, your Grace, but for everyone else, there will be a lot of pieces that will not fit! Mikkik’s greatest fear is that you and the Chalaine should have a child. Gen could have destroyed the prophecy at his convenience at any time in the last year. You and the Chalaine were both within easy reach of his sword. Instead, he has risked his life for her, and I, for one, am not ready to say or could prove that any of his deeds were faked or disingenuous.”
“Yes, but. . .”
“Hear reason, Chertanne!” Padra Athan’s voice intensified. “You hate Gen. Every Rhugothian noble and aristocrat knows it. If you go in there and start spouting accusations, they will only see it as further evidence of your jealous disdain and turn against you. They honor Gen and revere his actions and his bravery. Anything you say, especially without obvious, demonstrable proof, will be seen as spiteful slander!”
“You are the proof! The late Pontiff is the proof!”
“No!” Padra Athan, disagreed, voice calming. “I . . . I have not been as kind or respectful to Gen as the Rhugothians think I should be—for my own reasons. They think I dislike him, and if I stand with you in this claim, I hope you can see what would come of it.”
Chertanne’s face twisted into a dissatisfied snarl and he hit the nearby wall with the meaty part of his fist. “Why did you even bother telling me if I can do nothing with the information?”
“Because we must prepare some measures for your protection and the Chalaine’s. Ilch or no, Gen will see you dead if he can. You must leave Gen for me to deal with and ask no questions. Do not talk of him, even to people you trust, or get lured into any conversations about him by those loyal to him. Avoid any private conversations with Mirelle at all costs. She is dangerous.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. While we travel tomorrow, I want you to talk to the Chalaine about how you were brought up, the people who taught you, the restrictions placed upon you, the things you enjoyed and those you didn’t.”
As Athan expected, Chertanne frowned. “Why? I don’t think there is a woman alive that hates me as much as she does.”
“That is why. Just do it and do not respond in kind if she baits or insults you. It is time for control.”
Chertanne grunted, clearly dissatisfied, and Athan’s stomach clenched with renewed worry. The Ha’Ulrich did accept, however, even if grudgingly.
“Now get some sleep,” Athan ordered. “I have other matters to take care of.”
Chertanne stumbled off to bed and fell asleep more quickly than Athan liked. He thought the man would be sufficiently worried about their circumstances that it would disturb him enough to fend off sleep for at least an hour.
As silently as he could, Athan woke a slumbering Aughmerian soldier. As with Chertanne, he led him out the back of the building.
“What is your name?” Athan asked him quietly.
“Wendeman, your Grace.”
“Wendeman, I need to lay a task to you. This is for you alone and you should speak of it to no one else. Can you do this?”
“Yes, Padra.”
“Good. Listen carefully. I am afraid that in our haste this morning, we may have left something behind that could be potentially dangerous to our mission. I would like you to return to Elde Luri Mora and scout the area. If you find a potential threat still alive, you will need to destroy it immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I would do so gladly, but. . .”
Athan understood his worry. “If there is anything behind us, it will be weak and little able to defend itself. You shouldn’t have much trouble, especially if you keep your distance and use a bow. If anything is there, of course. I will establish a connection with your mind. Should you need to inspect the Hall of Three Moons, you need but think the wish and I will drop the ward so you may enter. Once finished, return immediately. Do not report to me. I will know how you fared through the link to your mind. If anyone asks, I ordered you to scout about. Lord Khairn truthfully knows nothing of this and you will aver to such if asked.”
“I understand.”
“Now I will establish the link.” Athan palmed the soldier’s head, incanting softly for a brief moment. “Now go. Stay out of sight, especially from Maewen.”
Wendeman left, slowly picking his way through the wet forest to the rear of the building. Athan bit his lip, hoping against hope the half-elf had occupied herself elsewhere. Wendeman was no match for her skills.
Reentering the building, Athan noticed Dason sitting wide awake by the sleeping Chalaine, eyes toward the front of the building, where, Athan noted thankfully, Maewen stood staring into the night. The Padra reclined on his uncomfortable bed, and, unlike the slumbering Chertanne, remained awake through the night listening to the thunder roll overhead.
Chapter 50 - Whispers and Secrets
“I can’t see a thing,” Volney whispered as he and Gerand peered through the open entrance of the Hall of Three Moons into an absolute blackness. Cloud cover obscured the light of the moons, and the fireflies that had illuminated the ceremony the night before did not appear to sense their plight or deem it important enough to return. “What do we do?”
“We wait,” Gerand said, stepping to the left of the entryway and secreting himself inside the dense wall of flowering bushes that lined the building. Volney pulled his cloak about himself and hunched down next to his companion, boots squishing in the mud.
After arranging the branches to minimize their uncomfortable poking, Volney whispered, “If you don’t mind me saying so, Prince Kildan, you seem to be quite angry about this assignment. I thought you should be happy to aid your prestigious countryman, whatever his mistakes. At the very least, it is an honor to serve the First Mother.”
Gerand’s tone reflected his unhappy feelings. “Maewen asked us to do this, not the First Mother.”
“You know better, Gerand. Maewen acts on the First Mother’s instructions. Surely you do not regard what we are doing as dishonorable?”
“Dishonorable? He nearly killed the Ha’Ulrich! Do you understand what that means? I dislike Chertanne as much as any decent person, but whether we like it or not, the world must have him. If Gen would have succeeded, this whole trip and the lives sacrificed to get us here would be for naught! This world nearly met its end at Gen’s hands last night.”
“I understand, but there’s something else at stake here, isn’t there? Something is eating at you.”
Gerand sighed. “I think by accepting this assignment, I will, at last, have sealed the dishonor of my family.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you a little family secret, Volney. You remember when Dason lost the Protectorship?”
“Certainly.”
“My fa
ther has not written to Dason since then, and the letters I received before this journey were nothing but admonitions to be circumspect in my behavior lest I further disgrace the family name. Dason was my father’s pride, and I continually strove to match him in skill and honor. Once Dason fell from his position, my father looked to me to restore our good name among Rhugothians and to staunch the gossip in the courts at home. What will happen when the news spreads that I deserted the Ha’Ulrich and the Chalaine to aid the man who tried to assassinate the Savior of the World?”
Volney frowned.“Then why accept this assignment at all, Gerand? You could have declined and Kimdan would have taken your place.”
“I have asked myself that very question repeatedly for the last two hours,” Gerand answered. “I might ask you the same. You cannot be ignorant of the potential consequences for you or your family.”
“I did this because I think the First Mother and the Chalaine wish to see Gen safe. I know Chertanne is my King, but I feel no attachment to him as I do to them. And Gerand, while Gen endangered Ki’Hal, can you not see that Chertanne not only wished for but planned out and invited the confrontation? He hoped Gen would attack him so he could demonstrate his power, a folly that almost turned to his own ruin. If Chertanne were any other person, every decent man would pledge their support to Gen now.”
“And therein lies my difficulty,” Gerand said earnestly. “Chertanne isn’t just another man, and Gen has never given him any consideration for his station or his mighty purpose in the prophecy! He impudently and repeatedly crossed the most important man in the world. That is recklessness. If Chertanne wrote the invitation to a confrontation, then Gen addressed and sealed it.”
“I can see your point, Gerand, but I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer it truthfully.”
“As I answer all questions.”
“Of course,” Volney snorted. “The first night we were on duty and Gen challenged Chertanne for the Chalaine’s honor, how did you feel when he won?”
