“To the High King Enalyn,” said Xain. “Long may she reign, and her enemies be vanquished.”
“To long roads traveled together,” said Loren. “Long may we remember them.”
They tapped the necks of the bottles and drank deep. For a while after that, Loren was content to enjoy the sights and smells of the city far below, and track the slow progress of the moons across the sky as they blotted out one star after another. The wine was the finest they had had so far that night, and half of hers was gone before she realized it. The edges of her vision had begun to grow blurry. She held up the bottle.
“How much gold have you spent on me tonight, Xain?”
Xain held up his own wine. “On us, you mean. Do you think I would spend a small fortune just to please you?”
She snorted. “I should say not. I have given you no end of reasons to be annoyed with me during our time together.”
“And I have, in turn, made your life horrible upon occasion,” said Xain quietly. He drank again from his bottle.
Loren shook her head. “Even at its worst, I would not call it horrible. Frightening, yes, and sometimes painful. But horrible was the Birchwood. Horrible was my father. Whatever else you have done, you took me away from that. And that would be cause enough for thanks. But I have learned, too, just how honorable you are at your core—that is, when you are not being a colossal idiot.”
Though she spoke in jest, Xain looked at her solemnly. “And you, Loren of the family Nelda. How could I know, when we first met, the greatness in your own heart? Were you royalty, I do not doubt you would one day be the High King. Were you a merchant, your family would become the richest in the nine lands. And as things stand—well, what commoner could claim to be greater than you?” He raised his bottle in another toast, and then drank deep.
“You are drunk,” Loren proclaimed. “And I mean to join you.” She took another swig.
“Join me? You are further along than I am.”
Loren looked up at the moons, which were close to vanishing behind the roof of the bell tower. But that brought thoughts of sleep, which brought thoughts of dreams. Her good mood dampened.
“Xain,” she said carefully. “When you ate magestones …” She felt him stiffen beside her. “I am sorry. I should not have presumed to ask.”
“It is all right,” he said. “Only that is a tale I would rather not spread through the Academy. But none are near us to eavesdrop now. Go on.”
“Did you dream?” said Loren. “I remember, when we carried you through the Greatrocks, that you would lie there twitching and moaning at night.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “What has brought you to such a question?”
Loren shrugged. “I do not know. It worried me then. There were many things I wondered during those times that I have never had the courage to ask you until now. You seem well recovered now, but it seemed that you suffered so terribly.”
Xain gave a grim chuckle. “I did. But no, I did not dream, nor would I have. Magestones have other properties beyond strengthening a wizard’s power. They quell the appetite entirely, for one thing. Do you remember how Jordel almost had to force me to eat? And they purge the body of other influences. The remedies of the apothecary have little effect upon a wizard who eats magestones, and the same is true for poisons. And finally, a wizard who consumes the stone does not dream.”
“That is good …” said Loren absentmindedly. Then she realized how that sounded and hurried to correct yourself. “I mean, it is a little sad, I suppose. But I am glad you do not have the nightmares I thought you did.”
“Are you worried about last night?” said Xain, his brows drawing close. “Loren, what under the stars did you dream of?”
“I told you I do not remember.” She had made a mistake, and drawn his thoughts far too close to her secret. “I was only wondering if the sickness still troubled you at all. If you should fall back into darkness, I will no longer be here to box your ears and tie you up until you come to your senses.” Pushing his shoulder, she flashed him a wide smile.
He returned it, and her fear left her. “You need not worry on that account. Those dark days are behind me, and will never return. I can hardly believe that you and I once conspired to sell those thrice-cursed stones. Do you remember?”
“Of course. It was not so long ago,” said Loren.
Xain fixed her with a look. “Now that I think of it, that is a piece of information that may yet prove useful. If you remember, I had a contact in Dorsea who I thought might buy the stones. You may have need of such a man.”
“But I no longer wish to sell magestones,” said Loren, studying him carefully.
“Of course not, not any longer. But there are other goods beyond the King’s law—and if you do not wish to sell them, or buy them, a spy should still know someone who deals in them.”
“Oh?” said Loren. “Very well then. Where might I find him?”
“His name is Wyle, and he lives in the city of Bertram. It is in Dorsea, west of the King’s road where it runs by the Greatrocks, halfway between their southern tip and the Moonslight Pass to the north.”
“Very well,” said Loren. “If I ever have occasion to visit him, I shall send him your regards.”
“He will not take kindly to that,” said Xain with a harsh laugh. “You might do better to pretend you never knew me. But now we have spoken overmuch of such things. It is a fine night. Too fine to spend it with talk of magestones and other dark matters beyond the King’s law.”
“I feel as though there are few matters these days which are not dark.”
“That is true enough. This morning I gave my first speech to the Academy students. It was in the front hall, the one we passed through. They looked so young—and so frightened. And it was my duty to convince them not to be afraid, and that I would protect them.”
“But you will,” said Loren. “Is that not part of your duty?”
“It is, and I will not abandon it like that faithless steer, Cyrus,” said Xain. “But I am one man—a wizard, and a strong one, I can say without boasting. Yet I do not know if I have it in me to keep them safe from all harm.”
To her own great surprise, Loren squeezed his shoulder. I must be more wine-addled than I thought. “No one has that power, but few could come closer to it than you. Your only fault is that you are so stupidly serious about everything. If you can only shed the idea that you bear all the world’s burdens, you will do much better.”
Xain laughed. “Wise words from one so young. And I think you may be right. Besides, now that my son is returned to me, I need not worry half so much.”
“I do not jest. You are a great wizard, Xain, and may even be a great man.”
He lowered his gaze, looking down on the city again. “Jordel was a great man,” he murmured.
For the second time that night, Loren swallowed past a tightness in her throat. “I thought you wished not to speak of dark matters.”
“Even in death, Jordel is a light. That is what you must remember, Loren. If you think me great, know that I hold you in even higher regard. But you are young, and the nine lands hold grief enough to fill the lives of all within them. No matter how dark your road may grow, you must remember Jordel. If you live by what he would do, you will rarely go far wrong.”
With another pang of guilt, she thought of the magestones. “I will remember,” she said softly. “I have entered the High King’s service because of him, after all.”
Xain’s eyes narrowed, as though that answer did not entirely satisfy him. But he gave no answer.
Another thought struck Loren. She took a deep breath. “Will we ever see each other again, you and I?”
She thought Xain might answer easily with a casual reassurance. Instead he shrugged. “Who can know? But I think we might. The answer lies more in your hands than mine. My duty will keep me on the Seat for the foreseeable future. Yet who knows what fortunes the coming war may bring?”
“I think the war will be over q
uickly, and easily, if it is not entirely bloodless,” said Loren.
“Already it has claimed its share of blood,” said Xain, quiet and solemn. “And I fear it has only begun. We are among the few who know the true enemy—not the kingdom of Dulmun, but the Shades’ master. The Necromancer.”
Loren shivered at the name. But she thrust out her hand to him. “A promise, then, between you and I. If we survive this war, I will return, and you and I will sit here together again, and here we will stay until all the tales of our journeys have been told.”
Xain clasped her wrist in agreement. But Loren seized his wrist and dragged him closer, until his nose was only an inch from hers, and she scowled.
“And if you break your word to me this time, I will drag you to the top of this tower and throw you off of it. We will see if you can summon a storm to carry you safely to the ground.”
The wizard burst out laughing, the longest, loudest, and clearest she had ever heard from him, and it was as if, in an instant, he had cast off all the cares that troubled him, all the way back to before the moment they had met in the Birchwood. She did not doubt that that laugh could be heard for a great distance in the city below.
“You have my word, Nightblade.”
“I will hold you to it, Dean Forredar.” Her mouth twisted. “It sounds odd upon my tongue.”
“And mine,” said Xain. “But now come. We have spent long enough up here already, and I grow cold. Besides, what would people think if they find the Dean drunk at the top of his own bell tower?”
He stood and helped her up, and they stumbled down the stairs together. And for the first time in all their journey together, Loren thought that she could call Xain her true friend.
eight
One day more passed, a day that Loren spent miserable after the wine from the night before. She spent it in Eamin’s council room, trying to ignore the pounding in her head as Eamin outlined the route yet again. As the sun lowered in the sky, Xain came to join her, and he looked even worse for wear than she did. Then, at last, they were done—or at least, they had run out of time, for their ship left the next morning at high tide.
Xain walked Loren back to their chambers, but they did not remain awake for long. Loren would have relished one more night together, but they would wake early, and she would rather not be exhausted for the first day of their voyage across the Great Bay.
A palace servant roused them before dawn, and Loren and Chet dressed together in silence. Gem needed to be roused twice more, and at last Loren lost patience and threw a pitcher of water on him. Xain came as well, to bid them a final farewell on the docks. In the palace courtyard they found a carriage waiting, which took them quickly to the western docks. It was the same place they had landed a few weeks ago—or a lifetime ago, Loren was not sure—as fugitives and refugees. Now the Dean of the Academy was there to see them off on the next part of their journey—and, to her delight, so was the Lord Prince. Eamin awaited them in the dim grey glow just before dawn, and stepped forward with a smile as they clambered down from the carriage.
“Fare well, Chet of the family Lindel, and Gem of the family Noctis. Fare well, Nightblade. I would have a promise from you, that the next time we see each other, you will tell me the tale of that time you met the Elves, eh?”
Loren bowed deep. “I give you my word, Your Highness.”
Eamin’s smile widened. Then he withdrew, and Xain took his place. He and Chet clasped wrists, with Chet regarding the wizards silently.
“I was not myself when first we met,” said Xain. “And in the course of our travels, I have given you no great cause to love me. Yet I have seen you to be an honorable man, and I wish you well on the roads ahead. Promise me that you will care for Loren.”
“That I will do, promise or no,” said Chet. “Fare well here upon the island, Xain. I may not love you, but you have proven yourself an honorable man as well.”
When he went to Gem, the boy put his hands on his hips and sniffed. “Farewell, wizard. I suppose you have proven not to be such a poor traveling companion—though some times were better than others.”
Xain chuckled. “I wish, my boy, that you were a wizard, for it would be my pleasure to oversee your instruction personally. As it is, my days will be emptier of laughter until we meet again.”
Gem seemed to enjoy the thought of being a wizard very much, and he leapt forward to give Xain an awkward hug around the waist, before scampering bashfully away and towards the ship. At last Loren stepped up. But she made no proclamation, and neither did Xain. They had said all they needed to at the top of the Academy’s bell tower. She only reached out and seized him in a great bear hug, and he squeezed her back, though his arms were far weaker.
“Fare well, Loren,” he said. “Remember Jordel.”
“And you. Fare well.”
The Mystics awaited them on board the ship, and the captain set sail almost the moment they had boarded. Thus began their journey to Ammon, and a miserable journey it was. Winter had come at last to Underrealm, well and truly, and storms wracked their vessel all the way to the southern coast of Feldemar. Loren and Chet spent most of their time in their bunk, though it could hardly have been less private, for it was only one bed of eight in the same cabin, and Gem was in the room with them for the larger part of the journey, curled miserably under his blanket. He was not overly prone to seasickness, but this voyage was unlike either of the ones they had taken together before.
After six days, they landed at last in a town on Feldemar’s southern shore, and there they rested overnight. Loren noticed a curious tension in the town that she did not understand at first. But at last she realized that they were perilously close to the kingdom of Dulmun. Though the seafaring kingdom had made taken no military action since their attack on the Seat, most believed it was only a matter of time. When at last they set out in their longships to attack the other eight kingdoms, coastal towns like this one would likely be among their first targets.
The day after they landed, Niya purchased horses for all of them. They had brought none, for moving steeds by boat was nigh impossible with the strength of winter’s storms. Loren was glad she had sent her horse, Midnight, to Ammon before she left for the High King’s Seat. It was one more thing to look forward to when they reached Jordel’s home at last. She marveled, too, at how Niya seemed to give no second thought toward paying such a high price for their steeds. Working within the Kings law, it seemed, had its advantages.
Their road north through Feldemar was hardly any more cheery than the ocean voyage had been. They traveled through a wet and marshy land, where the air was muggy despite the cold of winter. It did no snow, but that was little comfort, for it rained heavily, and always. Often the roads would be flooded, or covered by mudslides from hills to either side, causing long delays as they had to go around obstructions. Thus, a journey that should have taken them four days took seven instead.
When they camped for the night, or stopped for a midday meal, there was little conversation beyond what was necessary to set up camp. But Loren did snatch some tidbits of information from the Mystics in their party, particularly the new ones. She learned that Shiun was a woman of Dulmun, an awkward fact considering that nation’s treachery. But she had left that land when she was a young girl and entered into the service of the Mystics, and had spent the last many years in the southwestern reaches of Underrealm. Uzo hailed from Feldemar, and seemed the least uncomfortable with the heavy rains that pelted them. It was the way of winter in this land, he told them, and this was far from the worst storms he had seen growing up. Weath and Gwenyth were from Selvan, while Jormund was a man of Calentin. That caught Loren’s attention.
“Truly?” she said. “But you are a sword fighter. Why do you not use the bow?”
“You know something of our archers, then,” said Jormund, flashing his wide, easy grin. “But a whole kingdom cannot stand back and fire upon their enemies from afar, for then they would be in grave trouble should those enemies ever g
et too close. And besides, I am too large to be an archer. When they put a bow in my hands as a boy, it snapped to kindling when I drew it.” He laughed.
Gem’s eyes went wide, but Loren leaned close and said, “He is joking.”
She had meant to be quiet, but Jormund heard her. “I am not,” he insisted. “Give me your own bow, if you do not believe me, and I will show you.”
Loren declined.
Niya proved more reticent to speak of herself. When Loren asked the land from which she hailed, she said only “Wadeland.” But she did not have the look of one from that kingdom, and she told them nothing of how she came to join the Mystics. Loren thought at first to press her for the tale, but soon realized that this was neither the time nor the place. She herself did not speak freely of her childhood in the Birchwood, and particularly her parents. But that did not quell her curiosity—a curiosity, she admitted to herself, that was stoked to greater heights by the intense, smoldering look she often saw in Niya’s eye when the woman thought she was not looking. Mayhap, Loren decided, she would be able to learn more once they reached Ammon.
Gem tried often to get Uzo to drill with him, for the boy still practiced the sword stances Jordel had taught him in the Greatrocks many months ago. He was much better at the forms now, and his arms had begun to fill out with his constant practice. But Uzo seemed to regard Gem as little more than an annoyance, and only joined in his training with great reluctance. Over and over again he trounced the boy, but Gem always sprang up off the ground beaming.
“You are a great warrior indeed,” he said.
“Greater than a boy with almost no practice? Stay your praise, for my pride cannot bear to be stoked any more.”
Gem laughed as though that were a great joke.
That night, Loren spoke of it when she lay with Chet in their tent. “If he does not leave off, Uzo will beat him senseless.”
Weremage: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 5) Page 5
