The missive finished, Samsin set the page aside and wrote out two more copies in his thick, blocky scrawl. He then rolled the parchments up and took out the sealing wax—purple, to match the importance of the information. He set it in the flame and pulled out one of his family’s signets. They were gaudy things, even for Samsin, but it was one of the most recognizable seals within the Orinai. It was a pity his family was divided in their Progression beliefs or else they could have been the most powerful of all the families. The wax ready, Samsin pressed it to the parchment, sealing it closed with a quick press of the signet on each of the scrolls.
Nikanor would be furious with him, but that wouldn’t be much different than now. The man was like the rock, changing slowly.
A knock sounded on the door. Now, who would be up at this time of night? Nikanor perhaps? No, Nikanor slept in his stark stonework room detached from the manor itself. Samsin got to his feet and walked toward the door. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss this with Nikanor tonight. Samsin had made his decision. He opened the door just a crack, letting in the light of a lantern. A slave, Nikanor’s steward, stood in the doorway.
Samsin squinted against the glare to get a good look at him. “How dare you disturb—” Samsin began, flushing with irritation, but the slave cut him off. A dangerous move.
“Great One,” he said. “Master Nikanor has gone. He bade me tell you.”
“Gone?” Samsin asked, forgetting his temper in a moment of confusion. “What do you mean gone?”
The slave went to respond at the same time that cold realization drowned Samsin in ice.
“He went to—” the slave began.
“How long has he been gone?” Samsin said over the top of the slave, swinging the door wide.
The slave took a step back. Samsin realized he must look a fright, clad only in breeches and towering a good two feet above the slave, but he didn’t care. Samsin moved forward to match the slave’s step.
“He left when the sun went down,” the slave stammered. “I was to tell you when you awoke, but I thought . . .” The slave trailed off.
“What did you think?”
The slave swallowed. “I thought maybe you could save him, Great One. From himself, I mean. He’s—he’s not acting like himself.”
Samsin raised his hand, which was clenched into a fist, to strike the slave for such blatant disrespect, but then hesitated, his hand upraised. The slave faced him, not moving, back straight, jaw firmed into a hard line. Where had the fear gone?
Samsin found himself lowering his fist. “Fetch me the pack Nikanor had made up for me,” he said. “Bring it here and be silent about it.”
The slave gave a small nod—another disrespectful familiarity—and hurried away down the hall.
Samsin turned back into his room and shut the door behind him. What was he doing? Let Nikanor run off into the mountains on his own. Samsin couldn’t decide if he was angrier with himself for caring that Nikanor was being a fool, or with the fool himself.
Samsin pushed those thoughts aside. He had to stop Nikanor, go after him, and bring him back if he could. The idiot would get himself killed in the high mountains without a Storm Ward to warn him of coming gales.
Idiot!
Samsin grabbed some clothes from his armoire and shoved them into a satchel, before donning traveling clothes and a thick, dark green cloak. Next, he strode into an adjoining room and grabbed the spear he kept there. The weapon was almost as tall as he was, haft made of a light metal unable to be manipulated by any of the lesser magic users. The blade, as wide as his palm and as long as his forearm, was of reinforced, sea-green glass. He’d rarely had cause to use it out here, though it had seen great use aboard the ships of the Southern Dominion in his younger years. Taking it, Samsin returned to the room just as another knock came at the door.
“Enter,” Samsin barked, slinging the satchel over his shoulder.
The slave steward entered, struggling with the weight of the pack that was obviously too large for him. Samsin strode over and took it from him with one hand, then set the spear against the wall and shouldered the pack. The slave stepped back, looking anxious. Samsin turned back to his writing desk and snatched the three missives he’d written earlier from the desktop. He turned back to the slave and pushed the large scrolls into the man’s hands.
“If we’re not back in three days, send these along to the next relay point. They will know what to do with them.”
The slave nodded, but Samsin held his gaze.
“If you don’t do this, or if the missives don’t get to where they’re going,” Samsin said, “it will be your life.”
“Yes, Great One.”
Samsin nodded and, with a heavy sigh, strode out of his rooms after Nikanor.
Part 2: Conqueror
Chapter 4: Outcast
“Quantification begins with the Schema, which is the simplest representation of the three elements upon which the mystic abilities are based . . . In simple terms, each element has three levels of power, an Iteration of the first, second, or third tier moving up from the least power to the greatest.”
—From Commentary on the Schema, Volume I
Khari entered the healing chambers, taking comfort in the sound of the small gurgling spring in the corner of the room. The political machinations of the clans, and Gavin’s farce of leadership, grated on her like the sounds of metal against rock. The tension eased as she turned to check on Lhaurel’s sleeping form.
Despite eating regular meals of softened foods—which Lhaurel accomplished surprisingly well without rising—Lhaurel had lost weight. Her pale skin pulled tight against her skull, making it appear as if there were no skin at all, just bone. Her hair and nails were just as unnaturally red as they’d been before.
Where Kaiden had started to recover, Lhaurel hadn’t. Khari had no idea why. Nothing she tried helped.
A soft knock sounded at the door and Farah entered. The girl nodded respectfully toward the Matron and glanced at Lhaurel, then her gaze flitted away just as quickly.
“Yes, Farah?”
“I finished the weapons,” Farah said, pulling a pair of red-glass knives from behind her back. “I was just on my way to the eyrie when I noticed you in here.”
Khari took one of the knives, intrigued. She’d seen what Kaiden had done to Makin, how easily the mystic had killed the greatest warrior Khari had ever known. Having a weapon that couldn’t be manipulated by any of the mystic powers was imperative. The knife was blocky and looked cumbersome, but the balance was perfect and the edge—
“Ouch!” Khari grunted, pulling her finger away.
A small rivulet of blood welled from the tip of her forefinger, dripping down into the knuckle creases of her hand. Lhaurel stirred in the cot near them.
“It’s sharper than any steel blade we have,” Farah explained.
“Good.” Khari tried to ignore the throbbing wound, but failed. Blood started pooling in her palm. Khari handed Farah back the knife. “Make more. At least a score.”
“That’s what Beryl said as well.” Farah nodded while trying to hide a small grin.
Khari made a small dismissive gesture and the girl left.
Khari walked up to the cot and fished under the frame for the box of bandages underneath it. As she bent over, she noticed Lhaurel had stopped thrashing. Khari sat up and studied the girl, who lay still and calm as a pool of water. Some small amount of color had returned to Lhaurel’s face. Khari’s brows came together over her nose.
Pursing her lips, Khari absently pulled a bandage from the box in her hand. She’d need to wrap the finger before it got irritated. She turned back to tending her hand, and then froze.
The blood was gone.
There’d been a pool of blood in her palm only moments before. The cut on her finger looked as if it had already had several days to heal. Khari stood up straight, mind racing. Wetta healing didn’t work on the wetta themselves. And Khari hadn’t felt anything at all, hadn’t even accessed
her powers.
Lhaurel stirred, drawing Khari’s gaze. She looked so much better. She—
Khari looked from her hand and then back to Lhaurel. Could she have . . .
Khari pulled a dagger from her belt and pricked one of her other fingers enough to draw blood. It pooled on her finger and then began to run down toward her palm. Lhaurel stirred.
The blood turned to mist, then vanished, the cut healing partially before her eyes. Immediately Khari looked to Lhaurel. Even more color had returned to Lhaurel’s cheeks and she’d entered into a deeper slumber, a true sleep, not the tempestuous unconsciousness she’d been in before.
It was the blood.
Khari looked down at Lhaurel, hand still held in the air before her. What was she?
* * *
Gavin entered the eyrie with a hesitant step and stopped only a few feet into the room. He’d seen the aevians flying in the great battle of the Oasis—the storyteller within him wanted to give it a grand name, but hadn’t come up with anything yet—but this was the first time he’d actually set foot within the eyrie itself.
This was majesty.
“Here now. You can’t be here without the Matron’s permission.”
Gavin turned to regard the speaker, expecting to see an older woman glaring down at him in that imperious, grandmotherly way. Instead, a willowy young woman, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen years old, stood a dozen or so feet away, hands on hips. With startling blond hair and deep blue eyes regarding him from the middle of a stern expression, she was as far from old and grandmotherly as a woman could get. A simple earring adorned one of her ears high up on the lobe.
“My name is Gavin.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it was already out of his mouth.
“That’s nice. Does Khari know you’re here?”
Gavin cocked his head to the side. Did she not know who he was? “Not exactly, no. I mean, she told me I should familiarize myself with the eyrie so I’d know more about the subject when it comes up in gatherings, but that was a couple days ago. She hasn’t said anything specific recently . . .”
Gavin trailed off, noticing the edges of the woman’s mouth twitching. Was she making sport of him?
“And you are?” he asked.
“I’m Farah,” she said, mouth moving into a soft smile. “The Matron told me you might be stopping by, but I expected you to be older.”
“Why’d you go through all that if you already knew who I was?”
Farah shrugged and smiled, one corner of her mouth twisting upward into a half smirk. “Honestly, it was kinda fun to see you squirm.”
Gavin had to consciously keep himself from rolling his eyes. At least she was nice to look at.
“Do you normally stop everyone at the door?” he asked.
“Khari fears some of the Rahuli may try and steal aevians. I told her we should let them try, especially the Heltorin or Londik, but she didn’t want to have to explain the thieves’ deaths to their families this soon after—well, after the Oasis.”
Gavin looked over at the closest aevian. It was small, at least in comparison with its larger companions, though it still stood well over six feet tall. One look at the foot-long talons and the wickedly hooked yellow beak was enough for Gavin to understand Khari’s fear.
“Well, can I look around? Is it safe?” he asked.
Farah shrugged, though her smile didn’t slip. “Just don’t make any sudden moves when you’re close to a group.”
“I won’t,” Gavin promised.
He walked toward the middle of the eyrie floor, though he shot a few sidelong glances back at Farah as he walked. She watched him, but went back to her work, which had apparently been dressing goat carcasses.
Gavin studied the aevians, watching the playfulness of the smaller ones and the regal nobility of the massive, white-plumed specimens which nested high up on the side of the eyrie wall. He was surprised and a little taken aback at the intelligence he saw in them and the fierce social hierarchy. Studying them, watching them interact with one another, Gavin was almost able to push aside the sense of gloom that had been troubling him. With all the problems going on with the Rahuli right now, the logistics issues, the rivalry and resentment between the clans, and the ominous message from Kaiden, Gavin’s life had become steeped in omnipresent stress.
Gavin strode over to a massive, oddly-shaped opening in the side of the eyrie. The opening was high up the side of the plateau that contained the Warren. A sheer drop down onto the sands, yet it afforded a nearly perfect view of the entire Sharani Desert.
He could see the distant smudge that was the Forbiddence, which ringed the desert sands. He’d never seen it up close, but there wasn’t a place in the Sharani Desert you could go without seeing it. And there, to the southeast, lay the broken remnants of the Oasis. Clouds blackened the sky above it, and—though Gavin couldn’t see it from here—he knew rain fell with abandon. And, for the first time in living memory, those storms were drifting outside the Oasis. The deep red sands were getting stained maroon by the pooling water, plants were starting to grow where they hadn’t been before, and—even more than that—no sign of the genesauri had been found.
“They tell me you’re a relampago,” Farah said.
Gavin hadn’t heard her approach. He turned, finding the young woman only a few feet away regarding him with deep, blue eyes.
“A what?”
“A relampago,” she repeated more slowly. “You can manipulate energy.”
She held up a hand. Gavin felt something drawn toward the woman, like thousands of ants rushing across the sand, and white sparks suddenly crackled along Farah’s upraised hand.
Gavin swallowed, remembering the battle with Taren. He had manipulated energy then, though he hadn’t had the time nor any real desire to delve into it. There was so much else going on, so many other things to keep track of, for him to worry about something that, frankly, scared him just a little.
“I guess.”
Farah snorted and the white sparks disappeared. Gavin felt them returning to the sands like water spilled on the ground.
“You either are, or you aren’t, outcast. There is no guessing.”
Gavin didn’t respond, watching a massive white aevian crouched on a crag. The aevian looked down over the eyrie with an imperious gaze. It rebuffed any of its fellows who approached, chasing them off with a few muted shrieks and ruffled feathers.
“What’s with that one?” Gavin said, gesturing with his chin toward the aevian. “Is he sick or something?”
Farah looked where Gavin had gestured and then sighed.
“That’s the prior Warlord’s aevian. It’s rare for an aevian to outlive its rider, but it does happen from time to time.” Farah’s voice held great pity in it. “I wish that one hadn’t.”
Gavin frowned, turning to look at her directly. Farah made a sour face. “He is understandably moody, but he’s also the master of the eyrie. The aevians are leery of him and unsure what to do. It doesn’t help that they’re going through some tough rationing right now with food.”
Gavin hadn’t thought about the aevians facing the same shortages in food the Rahuli were. “The Roterralar didn’t have nearly the size goat herd it would need to support this many aevians when I got here,” Gavin said.
“They ate the genesauri before,” Farah said it as if the answer should have been obvious.
Gavin shook his head. One more problem to add to the growing pile.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you changed the topic. You’re a relampago. Since I’m the only other one now, I think I’ll end up being the one to train you.”
Gavin arched an eyebrow at her.
She grinned. Gavin found the look ominous.
“There are more important things to worry about for now,” Gavin said, looking away. “Thank you for letting me take a look around. I’ll probably be back a few more times.”
Farah shrugged. “That’s fine. Don’t wait too long though.”
Ga
vin frowned.
“On the training,” Farah clarified. “Once used for the first time, your powers will get harder and harder to control the longer you wait to begin training.”
“Just give me some time to get my feet under me.”
Farah shrugged and walked back to the carcasses near the door. As he left, Gavin found himself looking back over his shoulder at her. He certainly would be back soon.
Gavin only made it down the first side passage when shouts echoed down from the hallway above. Gavin’s pulse quickened and he broke into a run. Echoes made the direction of the shouts hard to discern, but the sounds grew louder the further down the passage Gavin got. The voices were angry, shouting curses like arrows.
Gavin rounded a corner and the scene resolved before him. Two groups of men formed two halves of a ring around an additional pair in the center of the group. The center pair circled one another on light feet, swords out. One of the men—Gavin thought he was one of the Heltorin by the distinct tattoo on the man’s cheek—had a long cut on one arm, which dripped blood onto the sandy floor. His opponent, a short man with both a sword and a dagger, Gavin did not recognize.
“What’s going on?” Gavin demanded, shouting to be heard over the jibes and jeers lobbied by both sides.
One of the onlookers glanced at Gavin and then snorted. “This isn’t any of your business, outcast. Keep on walking.”
The Heltorin man parried a blow from the dagger-wielder, then stepped away, taking up a defensive posture. Dagger-wielder grinned and followed the man.
Gavin pushed forward, intending to step between the two men, but two of the watchers grabbed him by the arms before he could get by them. Gavin struggled, but their grips were firm. If there’d only been one of them, Gavin could have—but there were two and he didn’t want to start a second fight while trying to stop a first.
Dagger-wielder batted aside a parry with his sword and struck the Heltorin man a glancing block across the chest with a quick follow-through strike with the dagger. The Heltorin man growled and continued to back up, but was stopped by the ring of men.
Sharani series Box Set Page 33
