by AC Cobble
Zaine didn’t speak, but he could feel her question hanging in the air.
“I was a prince, but I chose a different path. I abdicated my title, my responsibility, and that horrible future. Some of my brothers thought my path was cowardice, and others thought I’d understood something they did not. I’m not sure whether it was wisdom or folly, but I ignored the blood flowing through my veins. I didn’t accept the perks of my station. I didn’t study the high magic I’m capable of. I turned my back on all of that and tried to forge my own way.”
“As a ranger?”
“Eventually.”
“You were something else before?”
“Allow me a few secrets, lass. Yes, I was something else before. I decided that wasn’t my path, either, or Anne decided. You know how she is. I met her. We traveled for a time, and then I sought the wilderness outside of Eastwatch. The king knew where I’d gone, and he appointed me his ranger after I got there. I didn’t say no. For the first time, it seemed his desires and mine were aligned. And of course, he was still my father and my king. I’d meant to find my own path, and being his ranger was close enough. It had to be. I’m not sure if I could have said no and remained within Vaeldon.”
“So what now?”
“For a long time, I hid from what I was, and I pretended it wasn’t true. But it is true. I’m the king’s son. What I learned after meeting you children was that while maybe I’d started my path with the right intentions, the way had become one of cowardice. I decided after meeting you that it was time to take a stand, and take a stand we will. Nothing has changed, except now you all know. Calb was the start, but we’ve much to do to finish this.”
Zaine tilted up her ale and then poured herself another.
“You could turn from it, you know?” he said to her. “It’s not your blood that created what we saw in the crypt. It’s not your responsibility, lass. No one can ask this of you.”
“Aye, and if I ran, would it be any better than when you ran ten years ago?”
“It’s not your blood.”
“Not my blood, but my family,” retorted Zaine. “At least, if you listen to what Anne has to say. She claims we’re family, Ranger, and while I only have spotty memories of what my family was like, I think it was something like this. We stick together, and every person’s fight is all of our fight.”
“Family… That wasn’t what mine was like. My family was nothing but fear and pain,” he retorted. He softened his tone and added, “I know yours was the same, lass. It wasn’t your fault. My family wasn’t my fault. Doesn’t mean I can turn from it, not anymore, but their actions are not my actions. Your parents… that’s not you.”
“Aye, but fighting together, rather than against each other, that’s what I wish it’d been like,” mumbled the thief. “A lot of families are like both of ours, I guess. More hate than love. But not all. Not even most, I like to think. As you say, it doesn’t matter. But we chose this family we’re in now. We can choose what to make of it.”
“You’re a good lass, Zaine,” he said with a grin. “You’re better than your circumstances. Better than me. And maybe you’re right. Maybe we can choose how it is.”
“The child is always better than the parent, right?”
He frowned at her. “That’s not exactly—“
She shrugged and stood, moving to slap him on the shoulder but then pausing, apparently recalling his injury. “It’s close enough. I’m going inside now. I’ll leave the pitcher. I’m sure the others will ask me what you said.”
“Tell them so I don’t have to say it again.”
“Cinda will have questions,” mentioned Zaine. “You know she will.”
Rew grunted and did not respond.
Zaine ducked inside the tavern, leaving him sitting on the open rooftop, staring out at the water.
The next week passed in comfortable seclusion. The fishing village emptied as those who’d fled Jabaan either kept running or returned once it was clear the undead had suddenly dropped, leaving corpses scattered around the palace and the city but ending the threat. The fisherfolk had initially asked questions but soon realized they didn’t want to know the answers, and after that, they left Rew and the others alone.
The party spoke to each other about mundane matters; when to meet for supper, how long the weather would hold, different techniques to vary their arms training, how the bread had been fresher the day before, and other safe topics. After the conversation with Zaine and what she’d relayed to the others, it seemed they were all afraid of what else would be said.
The reality of their task had sunk in following Jabaan. They’d seen first-hand what they were facing, and every one of them must have understood they were not strong enough to face it directly. Even Calb, weakened from his efforts against Valchon, had summoned a creature that was beyond them. They knew, finally, why Rew had hesitated to tell them all of it to begin with.
Rew didn’t have the heart to tell them that he considered Calb the weakest of the three princes. Heindaw did not exceed Calb in high magic, but he was cunning. He would not have been fooled into entering the crypt as his older brother had been. He wouldn’t have left Rew and the others alive long enough to pull the stunt that they had. Valchon was worse. He was both cunning and strong. He commanded magic second only to the king himself and, with that power as an advantage, had amassed a larger contingent of allies than the other two brothers combined.
Of course, the three princes even together paled in comparison to the king. Vaisius Morden was a two-hundred-year-old necromancer who’d spent that entire time accumulating unimaginable power. He had the full strength of Vaeldon’s military behind him as well as its spellcasters, its spies, and its assassins. Beyond that, he commanded legions of undead that were nigh unstoppable. Hundreds of thousands of them. Millions? There was simply nothing they could do to fight against such an army. No one could fight against that. It was inconceivable power.
But the reminder of the difficulty of their task was also a reminder of how necessary it was. They’d seen what the king was doing, and they knew he would continue until someone stopped him. There was only them. No one else had the knowledge or the skill. If they didn’t make a stand, if they weren’t successful, then a nearly immortal necromancer would continue his atrocities forever. It was heavy stuff, and it took most of the week for them to sort through their varied emotions and reactions.
Anne, in particular, gave everyone their space. She told Rew one night, “It’s an important step for them to fully understand what we do and to come to terms with that on their own. They were like children when we met them, unaccustomed to the world outside of their keeps and their minders. They’ve grown since then.”
“Aye, I’ve noticed.”
“They can make their own decisions, but in truth, the decisions were made before we found ourselves in Jabaan. Cinda had some idea of what was coming and was already committed, and the others will follow her wherever she goes. Still, it’s best to let them figure that out themselves.”
“And you?”
Anne smiled at him. “I’ve followed you since the day we met.”
He snorted. That wasn’t exactly the way he remembered things. In his recollection, he’d spent a good bit of time chasing after her, though she’d agreed to come to Eastwatch once she’d finished talking him off the path he’d been on.
“Now that we have that settled,” continued Anne, “what’s next? Do we return to Carff? The nameless woman told me it was Ambrose who managed to open the portal stone and slip through once the excitement had died down, but you could do the same, couldn’t you? Valchon wouldn’t expect it.”
Rew rubbed his freshly shaven head. “No, I don’t think he’d expect to see us back so soon. I’ve considered it, but he’ll be watching the portal stones, particularly now. I’m sure he was before, but Calb overwhelmed his guards to break through without tripping Valchon’s wards. He won’t let that happen again. Even if it wasn’t for us, he’d be protecting him
self against Heindaw. No, if we appear through a portal stone in Carff, I expect we’ll find an army waiting for us.”
“How did Ambrose get through, then?”
“My guess… Valchon let him through,” said Rew. “Maybe he thought the necromancer and the nameless woman would help us in the fight against Calb, or maybe he had other reasons. What did that bastard Alsayer whisper into Valchon’s ear? I worry about that.”
“Whatever Valchon’s reasons, Ambrose is dead now.”
“He’s dead,” agreed Rew, “but the nameless woman is not. We have to consider that her goals aren’t ours. I wouldn’t think Valchon would allow her to take Grund’s falchions, but maybe he did. She could be working for him or for Heindaw. Anne, I think it likely she’s a dagger poised at our backs.”
The empath pursed her lips. “If the woman was planning to harm us, she already could have. She’s had access to us sleeping and could have slit our throats almost any night since we’ve met her.”
Rew shook his head. “It’s not just a physical threat I worry about.”
Anne tilted her head, signaling her confusion.
“I’ve been thinking about it. The nameless woman came from Iyre. Heindaw is in Iyre. Maybe that’s the connection. She could have come to us in Jabaan to make sure we faced Calb. Killing him did as much good for Heindaw as it did Valchon—or for us. We’re helping the princes as much as we’re helping ourselves, and that could be why she hasn’t attacked us.”
“So, what do we do?”
Rew shrugged. “She might be working for Valchon or for Heindaw—or neither of them. King’s Sake, she could be playing the same game as Alsayer and is getting in bed with everyone, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, we don’t know, so we can’t trust her.”
Anne sighed then looked into his eyes. “I’ll ask again, what do we do?”
He looked back at her, waiting a moment before saying, “Cinda proved she’s capable of handling immense power, but she lacks control. Her father is dead, and the king won’t teach her. There’s another place, though, where they understand her art, a place we might find a guide for her.”
“We said we’d never return there, Rew,” muttered Anne.
“Things change. Are you willing to face that again?”
“Do I have a choice?” asked Anne loftily. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and scowled at him. “I was a child when I left that place with you. I’m a woman now. I’ll be fine.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
“If we’re going to do it, should we move along the lake shore to a bigger settlement? Perhaps we can find a place with horses for sale. We have funds now, don’t we? It’d be faster.”
“We do have funds,” conceded Rew. “Zaine managed to steal enough for months on the road before we left Calb’s palace, but ah, I think horses will be too conspicuous. We’re better off on foot. No one will suspect that.”
Anne looked at him quizzically.
Before she could question him, he declared, “I think one more day of rest, then we travel. We should get to bed so we’re ready.”
Chapter Seven
The next morning, they were served heaping bowls of steaming porridge, which they’d ordered instead of the tavern’s usual fare—leftover fish stew. Between mouthfuls, Rew told the others that they would leave on the morrow. Looks of relief and trepidation passed over their faces. They’d known since they’d arrived at the small village of Faevril that they wouldn’t be staying long, and the place had few luxuries to recommend it to anyone who wasn’t interested in taking up a career as a fisherman, but it felt safe.
Since they’d been there, there had been no attacks, no searchers, no spellcasters, no Dark Kind. After the first days, when the narrow mud streets had been filled with refugees from Jabaan, there’d been hardly anyone in the village except them and the fisherfolk. Those now-departed refugees had supplied all of the cover their group needed to be seen and forgotten. What was one more party of injured people recovering slowly when the entire city had emptied out and thousands had died?
But they had to move on. Their path was not one of safety, and they knew that. It didn’t make it easier, though, to embark from shelter into the wild of a looming storm.
For a time, they lingered over breakfast. Then, they scrambled about, finding small chores to occupy themselves. Anne and Zaine visited every shop in the village, purchasing every conceivable good they thought they might need on the next stage of the journey despite Rew’s warning that he would toss half of the gear they’d purchased. He knew Anne well enough to guess who she expected to carry all of that extraneous equipment.
Raif and the nameless woman, on the other hand, tended to their weapons and armor. It was an equally frivolous exercise as Anne’s purchase of a new sewing kit. The empath wasn’t going to find time on the road to mend torn garments, and the two fighters’ gear was enchanted. Their blades did not need the same care and attention that normal steel did, and if it did require repair, they didn’t have the skill to do it.
But fighters relied on their armor and weaponry for protection, so no one said anything as they polished, tightened, unbuckled, buckled, and adjusted. From another group of refugees who’d decided it was too heavy to carry over land, Raif had found a fresh set of front and back plate, along with dull steel pauldrons and gauntlets, which he laid over a motley of leather hauberk and chain that he’d patched together. The nameless woman offered him advice on strapping it all into a cohesive shell then spent hours rubbing oil and a cloth over her own armor. The bronze gleamed as freshly as it must have the day it was forged.
Rew, uninterested in shopping or giving his own gear more attention than it deserved, lurked nearby, curious. They’d finally discovered the enchantment annealed into Raif’s greatsword. The giant blade had the power to sever the bindings a necromancer used to animate a corpse. If Rew had to guess, he imagined it would also serve the same purpose against wraiths, banishing the spirits from this life to the next. He mentioned it to Raif, and they’d both been silent a moment, realizing that they hoped to never test that property. The damage the wraiths had done to Duke Eeron’s men in Spinesend was still vivid in their memories.
But what to make of the nameless woman’s gear? It didn’t have the same properties as Raif’s sword, which was unfortunate since they were aiming toward a confrontation with Vaeldon’s preeminent necromancer, but what would a priest of the Cursed Father have considered worthy of passing down to his daughter? Had it been her father at all who’d gifted her the equipment?
The armor and the scimitar the woman wielded would have cost as much as a minor noble’s landholding. Forging it in secrecy would have only increased the price. Rew smirked, wondering just how much coin the king was funneling through the temple of the Cursed Father in Iyre. For that outpost to have such a treasure horde was impressive. That the nameless woman’s father had been able to siphon off enough to pay a talented enchanter with no one noticing—
Rew blinked.
The nameless woman rapped her knuckles on the bronze armor. “Go ahead and ask, Ranger. You’re wanting to know the properties of this suit, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
Mutely, Rew nodded.
She grinned, showing her bright white teeth. “The truth is, I’m not certain. The armor is nearly impervious to damage, and the scimitar cuts better than the finest steel. I’ve never had to conduct repairs on either. Not even a nick on the blade after a tussle. But there’s more, I think. When, ah, my father gave me this, he told me it was unattuned. He claimed that this gear would bond with an owner, and it would feed off that person’s natural talent. That sounds like a lot of mushy talk to me. If one has a fiery temper, does the sword light on fire? I don’t know. But that’s what he claimed, and I know he believed it. He, my father that is, would know.”
“But it’s never activated for you?” questioned Raif from across the table. “You think you haven’t… bonded to it, or maybe it just do
esn’t have additional properties? Could it be like your sword, Ranger? No magic, but a finer piece that’s ever come straight from a forge?”
Rew grunted. His longsword had magical properties, they were just too dangerous to use. He didn’t fancy getting into that explanation with the young fighter, so he didn’t respond.
The nameless woman shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve been wearing this kit for the last four years, ever since I left Iyre. I’ve been giving it attention like it was a newborn, but aside from being the highest quality metal I’ve encountered, it’s never done anything else for me. I haven’t tried to make it do anything, though. Not sure if that means I’m not bonded to it or if it’s bunk, or maybe I’m just ignorant. What do you think, Ranger? You know more about this than the rest of us, don’t you? Is there a way to test what properties an enchanted item has? Could it be doing something I’m not aware of? Influencing me… somehow?”
Rew frowned. Magical properties or no, how had the nameless woman’s father come by such fine armor?
“What is it, Ranger?” asked Raif. “Is that the way enchanted gear works? Does it bond to an owner? Makes some sense, I guess. My family, with necromancy in our blood, would have had good use for a sword that combats the undead.”
“Yes, it can work that way,” said Rew slowly. “Enchantment, like all magic, has to draw from somewhere. It can either pull from the talent of the enchanter or from the wielder of the item. There is a… bonding. That bonding typically occurs during creation of the artifact, but I suppose there are stories of it happening during use.”
“Does it take four years?” asked the nameless woman. “Four years of regular use?”
Rew shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard, but enchantments are rare, and the men and women who conduct them are secretive. I don’t claim to know all of the possibilities, but I do know this. Only an enchanter can be certain if an object has properties or not.”
