He really wasn't breathing. Rennyn noticed that because she held her breath, and recognised an absence from him. But his heart was beating faster. She hated that she could tell.
More movement. Glass constructs, some turquoise, others of deep blue, ranging in size from a small cat to a half-grown person. Their joints made no sound as they picked their way across the vine-covered ground, moving purposefully—but not toward the two escapees.
Rennyn relaxed marginally as the strange procession vanished through another of the archways leading out of the courtyard. So the things were resistant to magic, but not immune to casting effects. Or perhaps were simply not very observant.
Whatever the case, her Wicked Uncle wasted no time debating the possibilities. As soon as the last of the constructs had passed from sight, he skirted the edge of the courtyard and slid around the corner of one of the arches.
A short corridor to a second courtyard, and this time her Wicked Uncle chose speed over caution while picking a circuitous course so that he never stepped from shadow. The next corridor, however, ended not in a doorway, but a ramp leading up to a square of sunlight.
Helecho walked as far forward as he was able, so that Rennyn could glimpse paving, the remnant of an archway, and—further away—a glitter of water. And, just before the end of the ramp, shards of glass. Here was the shield that had stopped him last time, now doubly impassable to an Eferum-Get prince.
Biting her lip, Rennyn did not ask why he had not waited for evening. She would not risk drawing the guard with an incautious word, especially since—after a long pause gazing intently back the way they'd come—he allowed the concealment casting he'd been using to lapse.
Beyond the shield, paving stones began to lift. Shedding showers of litter and sand, they tilted until they were vertical, and then settled neatly back down, one by one. A curving wall to solve the problem of sunlight, with dirt and leaves lifting in turn to plug any gaps, and help hold the stones in place.
Rennyn, her attention divided between this practical solution and the way they'd come, stiffened. "Movement," she murmured, in the softest of whispers.
Her Wicked Uncle didn't look back, but his casting shifted to a complex twist that was not immediately comprehensible to Rennyn. She attempted to decipher it while watching a new procession of guards—or possibly the same one—patrolling busily around the nearby courtyard. They were less than fifty feet away, moving at the same unhurried but businesslike pace, and gave no sign of having noticed the escapees.
If they came in the direction of the exit, she would pull the ceiling and walls down to block the corridor. That was unlikely to hold them for long, and would risk her hold on consciousness, but delay was a better option than combat.
Her Wicked Uncle's casting took on a familiar pattern, echoing notes she had half-heard more than once. He was not using sheer power to force his way through the shield—perhaps he did not have the strength for that, without a focus—but was matching and subtly altering the casting itself, sliding a gap into the shield.
Then he walked forward, and they were outside.
Immediately, he stepped right, moving from the shadow of his already-crumbling temporary wall into a narrow band cast by the remains of a pillar. From there he could go no further for the moment, trapped in a sliver of shadow. Behind them, the paving stone wall collapsed.
In the wake of that clatter, neither Rennyn nor her Wicked Uncle moved, listening intently. Rustling. The sound of dozens of delicate footsteps, approaching rapidly. And, then, retreating. It seemed the constructs were bound to the building's interior.
Her Wicked Uncle promptly set Rennyn back on her feet, and contrived to plaster a smug and obnoxious expression over clear exhaustion.
"And now you say thank you, little cousin."
He would never be anything less than hateful to her, but he had been true to his word, and it would be petty not to acknowledge that.
"Thank you," she said. "You surprised me."
His smile widened. "Did I? Reflect that the absolute worst thing that I could do to you—outside returning to mutual self-destruction—was to keep to our bargain, leaving you not one thing to complain of. How will you hate me now, little cousin?"
"I think I'll manage," she said, and turned to conceal her annoyance, surveying the terrain.
A lake, or very wide river, dotted with small islands and crumbled buildings, linked by bridges in various states of repair. Directly ahead was a single arch of stone, probably formed using magic. One side had been shattered, leaving only a narrow path intact. Excessively tall statues in various states of disrepair lined the far bank and beyond…more tumbled walls and the remains of a road winding through familiar trees. Semarrak oaks, looking rather bare.
"This is an island as well?" she said, looking back over the corridors they had just exited. A cellar, swimming with magic, with very little sign of whatever building had been aboveground.
"The second prison you've broken me from, little cousin. I wonder if that balances your other handiwork."
He began drawing power as Rennyn turned to stare at him. Second? What… But of course he meant Solace. For all his power, Helecho Montjuste-Surclere had been, like the Kellian, a tool created by Queen Solace.
His casting this time was shadow. It reached out toward the bridge like a dark finger. He followed it unhesitatingly, tossing parting words over his shoulder.
"If we meet again…let us hope that we do not."
Rennyn did not move, or respond, until he had crossed the narrow point of the bridge. This man she had travelled so far to kill, the key to her recovery, walking away
"Goodbye, monster," she said, with a shake of her head.
With her back to the problem she could not similarly abandon, Rennyn considered the wilderness before her. Famously dangerous Semarrak, and obviously not a part near the Kellian settlement—or any place frequented by people. The wind was rising and, outside the ivy-covered cellar the temperature was less than pleasant.
No food, no shelter, no allies.
No shoes.
It should be overwhelming, but Rennyn did not let herself be caught up in guessing her chances. She would start with a place out of this wind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Being under a sleep spell might mean Fallon was getting plenty of rest, but missing breakfast and then lunch was a big problem. As the day wore on and he remained awkward baggage, a dim ache of hunger began to tug at him. But, despite needing to conserve his energy as much as possible, Fallon couldn't help but be relieved when Auri drew him into the Dream for a second time since he'd been knocked out.
"Does it hurt, being carried like that? Does all the blood rush to your head?"
"Not much," he said, considering his body slung over Darian Faille's shoulder. "I can feel how much I need to eat, and I need to go to the bathroom, but I just sort of feel uncomfortable otherwise. If my head hurts, I think it's because Dezart Samarin hit me." And saved his life.
"I wonder if healer-mages have spells to use for when sick people need to pee?" Auri hopped along a ridge of rock, grinning. "Or if they just won't think about it until you go all over this lady's shoulder."
"Auri."
"She'd probably drop you. I would. How many days do you think they'll keep walking vaguely in this direction before giving up?"
"I don't know." Fallon glanced nervously at Lord Surclere, whose expression was much the same as it ever was, yet somehow gave the impression of a strung wire being wound tighter with every step. "I think most likely some would continue looking, and the rest would try to get out of the forest. Depending on exactly where we are in Semarrak, continuing north might be the shortest route out, anyway, though then there'd be mountains to get through."
And then what? Permanent unconsciousness? Years as a sleeping magical puzzle for student mages to try their hand at? No, this pit in his stomach would swallow him up long before then. This was absolutely the worst time for the revelation he'd been hoping an
d fearing for so long. Duchess Surclere absolutely had to take priority, but there would be a point where the energy cost of maintaining the Dream would eat away at him so severely that nothing could pull him out of the downward spiral.
Auri poked him in the shoulder. "Stop fretting yourself into the ground, worry-wort. You should be celebrating! They know! They knew you were enchanted and they were trying to figure it out, even. Your Duchess turned out not to be useless after all. Let's hope she's not dead."
"Don't be so callous, Auri."
"Blah." Before Fallon say anything more, Auri pointed: "That's why I pulled you in. What do you think that is?"
Something was glowing, far off among the trees. At first Fallon thought it might be one of Semarrak's legendary inhabitants, those that supposedly dwelt at its heart and had descended from powerful, humanoid Eferum-Get. But when he followed Auri to the limits of her range and peered through the widely-spaced tree-trunks, he could make out a squat stone obelisk, about half the height of a man.
"Looks like a road marker. They enchant them to glow along the Imperial Ways."
"But it's not really glowing, or someone else would be pointing at it."
"It's obviously old. Perhaps we're just seeing the dying dregs of the enchantment. I didn't know there were once Imperial roads through Semarrak, but I guess the Empire does claim the forest as part of its territory."
"Roads go places," Auri pointed out, but there was nothing Fallon could do with the information, and the stone was slowly lost to sight as the group moved on.
For eight people thrust into the depths of a dangerous forest without any preparation, and with only one weapon, they were doing remarkably well. Anything actively stalking them was noticed by the Kellian long before it reached them, and Captain Faille or his mother would leave the group to take care of it. Only twice had anything dangerous even come close enough for Fallon to see.
Some of these hunters had been edible, and Tesin had supplemented the meat with mushrooms and nuts that she seemed able to spot with the merest glance. She'd even located gourds that could be hollowed out to carry only slightly odd-flavoured water. And everyone except Fallon was dressed well enough for a fine day in autumn, though the wind had picked up after midday.
In fact, Fallon thought the biggest problem most of Duchess Surclere's rescuers had was—ironically—a lack of sleep, since dawn had arrived only a couple of hours after they'd emerged from the transportation casting. Kendall was the worst, struggling with the cost of whatever she'd done to hold open the travel casting. Had that really been a recreation of Nameen's Walk, just as Lieutenant Meniar guessed? Elder Mage magic! Which was not a good sign at all, since there was only one person around other than Rennyn likely to know how to manage such an amazing work.
Ahead and to the right, Fallon spotted the glow of what must be another of the road markers—even further away this time. Since there was still nothing he could do about it, he followed Auri who, with an instinct for drama, had strayed over to where Sukata trailed the group with Kendall.
"It would be very easy for me to carry you," Sukata was saying. "It will not tire me."
"Yes, it would. Don't be silly. And I don't need carrying."
Kendall made a far from convincing attempt to walk normally, picking her feet up instead of shuffling through the leaves, and promptly staggered, snagged by some hidden obstacle. Sukata caught her, hesitated, and formally offered her arm, which Kendall pretended not to see for another few steps, then took with her usual lack of grace.
"The headache is the problem," Kendall mumbled. "The pain muffling wore off too quick."
"They are designed to have a short duration. The pain is your body's warning that you pushed your limits, to keep you from casting again."
"Last thing I want to do is play pick up right now," Kendall muttered. "Just rest. Guess we're going to have to stop soon anyway."
"Another hour at least until sunset," Auri put in helpfully, but Kendall and Sukata just looked grimly at the sky, and then in unison at Lord Surclere. They walked together in silence, clearly thinking about where Duchess Surclere might be at that moment, and what could be happening to her.
"I am glad you called for me, Kendall," Sukata said carefully.
The shorter girl made a face. "Why in the Hells wouldn't I? We're all supposed to be looking after Herself. I should have stayed in the damn room." Then she hunched her shoulders, adding: "I'm glad you heard me. Can you imagine me and the Lieutenant trying to cart the Pest about while that Imperial pain-in-the-neck played at being in charge?"
Sukata looked at her feet, and Fallon could tell that she was pleased. But then she said very softly: "He is a pain-in-the-neck with very good hearing."
Fallon, Auri and Kendall all stared forward to where Dezart Samarin was keeping pace with Lord Surclere at the front of the group. Well out of normal earshot.
"Good as yours?" Kendall muttered.
"Possibly. He hides it well, but he reacts to noises as you do not."
"Have you seen him casting?" Kendall glowered at the Kolan man's back. "Or could it be something that's been cast on him?"
"I have never seen him cast. But his mask is layered with enchantment, and he never strays any distance from it. It may lend him more than authority."
"Or he's a sneaky lying mage. Not that anyone here was planning on trusting him any further than we could throw him."
Sukata's attention had strayed to something to their left, and then her hand flickered in one of the signals that the Kellian used to talk to each other. Fallon turned to see both Darian Faille and Lord Surclere heading west. Something must be stalking them, and whatever it was required a more than usual response.
With the two older Kellian gone, Sukata hustled Kendall up to join the rest of the group, where Fallon himself had been propped neatly against a rock, and Lieutenant Meniar was using the pause to check him over.
"His colour's not good," the Lieutenant said. "I don't think this is sustainable."
"Borrow your slate?" Dezart Samarin asked.
Lieutenant Meniar raised his eyebrows, then wordlessly handed over his slate book, along with a stick of chalk. He'd already removed one of its 'pages' and given it to Sukata, ready for emergencies, and three sides of the remaining two were written up with Sigillics. Dezart Samarin began writing rapidly on the remaining blank.
"Still going to say you're not a mage?" Kendall asked acidly, while Fallon tried to peer at what the man was writing.
"Still entirely without the strength to cast usefully," Dezart Samarin replied, and handed the slate back to Lieutenant Meniar.
"A muting spell?" Lieutenant Meniar looked from the slate to Fallon's body. "This won't necessarily stop whatever chokes him from activating."
"In which case you can knock him out again," Dezart Samarin said. "But if that casting interacts with his awareness of not being permitted to speak on certain matters, preventing speech—and keeping him away from slates and the like—may be enough to prevent the choke from triggering."
"This one's clever," Auri commented. "Think it will work?"
Fallon didn't reply, watching tensely as Lieutenant Meniar decided to go ahead with the experiment, and cast the mute before lifting the sleep spell that had sat on Fallon's head the entire day.
"Bet I miss all the interesting stuff again," Auri grumbled, as Fallon settled cautiously down where his body sat, and he lifted his head to respond, but was out of the Dream, sitting surrounded by people.
He tried to speak, lifting a hand cautiously to his throat, and waiting tensely for that familiar tightening. Nothing happened. He let out his breath in relief, reassured that he couldn't possibly explain a problem as complex as Auri without words.
"Looking good," Lieutenant Meniar said, pleased. "I expect you'll be wanting something to eat."
Fallon did. He also wanted to do something about his bladder, but fortunately Lieutenant Meniar seemed to understand that without Fallon needing to attempt any embarrassin
g pantomime. By the time the two Failles returned, Fallon was feeling almost cheerful, munching on nuts while Lieutenant Meniar wrote out a Sigillic that would make his heavy bed socks think they were waterproof.
"Not exactly what this waterproofing casting was intended for," the Lieutenant said, after explaining the two Sigillics to the Failles. "But it should serve in the short term. Sukata, will you cast it?"
As Sukata obeyed, Darian Faille took off her jacket and, ignoring Fallon's silent protest, dropped it around his shoulders.
"Do you believe this proof against further attacks?" she asked. "Or should we avoid addressing any kind of question or speculation to him?"
"Hard to say whether yes/no questions would trigger it, but it's better not to take the risk. In the short term, I don't think he knows much more about the Duchess' disappearance than he's already told us." When Fallon tried to shrug in a way that expressed agreement, the Lieutenant patted his head, then turned to Lord Surclere. "Next water source we get near, we'd better think about camp."
Lord Surclere nodded, then paused when Fallon—remembering those two glowing road markers—straightened and peered off to the east, trying to spot the second one. All the Kellian immediately shifted into alert defensive postures.
"Not a threat," Lord Surclere murmured, after a moment. "Something you saw in your dreams?"
Fallon nodded and, finding that his throat gave no sign of tightening, jumped to his feet and took a few steps in what he hoped was the right direction, beckoning.
"Wait here," Lord Surclere told Lieutenant Meniar, "but mark our current heading." Then he followed Fallon until they had, with only a little difficulty, located a stone almost as tall as Fallon, worn and unreadable, but definitely not a natural rock. There was a road, too, or the remains of one, almost entirely buried. It stretched off to the north, then hooked to the right.
Fallon thought at first that Lord Surclere simply couldn't decide what to do. He stared down the curve of the road for an uncomfortably long time, not moving at all, while Fallon gazed up into a face that had always looked grim to him, but now seemed chipped from ice, locked into harsh, unyielding lines. But then Lord Surclere turned, and gestured for the others to come join them.
The Sleeping Life (Eferum Book 2) Page 22
