by Dorian Hart
As Tor’s sword hung limply at his side, the rat spun, slamming its bulk into him. He bounced off its slick, muscled body and fell to the ground, and time and thought sped up again, and out of the corner of his eye Tor saw that help was not coming. The rest of the company was still down, certainly not recovering as fast as Tor had done, so no one else could save Aravia, and that horrible, evil thought of betrayal vanished from his head at the sight of the rat swinging its head back to her, lowering its snout.
Tor rose to his knees and struck once more, but his arms trembled, and he lacked leverage. He cut only a shallow score upon the rat’s neck. It turned its head to him, fixing him with its deadened gaze. The black spots beneath its skin writhed and danced, and the droplets of its blood on his own skin seethed in reply. The strange insanity returned, whispering its calm evil into his heart. He imagined he could hear the rat’s thoughts in his own head. Kill. Extinguish. Devour. Together they returned their attention to Aravia who still lay stunned. Her head was turned toward him, and their eyes met.
Do you love me?
The rat’s jaws closed around Aravia’s outstretched arm. She tried to ward it away, weakly, and the thought of her dying here, now, in this foreign jungle, snapped Tor from his dark reverie. He flipped his blade, leaned in, and pushed the sword point-first into the rat’s enormous cheek. The rat’s mouth opened convulsively as the length of steel entered it, leaving little dots of red on Aravia’s arm where it had started to bite down, and more blood splattered Tor’s face, but this time he drowned out its whispering malice with the memory of those words.
Do you love me?
He pulled out his weapon, sliding it from the rat’s head, and still it wasn’t dead though by rights it ought to be, and it reached for its prey despite its wounds. Tor struggled to his feet and banished every thought, every feeling from his mind except for his love for Aravia and the need to protect her. He had a power, the power to let his thoughts recede into the distance, left behind as soon as they came to him, and the rat’s malignant blood lost its hold on him entirely, and the beast now had one forepaw on Aravia’s leg, its claws cutting her, its weight pressing her down, its enormous incisors gleaming in the light shining upward from Aravia’s face, and he raised his weapon one more time.
“Of course I do!” he yelled. His blade came thundering down and cut entirely through the rat’s neck. Its obscene spotted body toppled sideways and crashed onto the burned-out vegetation and blackened bones. The greasy foulness of its presence vanished, and he knelt beside Aravia, who looked at him with wide green eyes filled with a trembling weariness and horror and something else, something else…
“Tor…”
“Are you hurt? Your leg, maybe Dranko can—”
“Tor, listen to me.” She gripped his shoulders, put her face up next to his cheek. “I…I feel…”
He didn’t dare speak. He couldn’t sort out his emotions.
“Sparks. Sparks are born dispassionate.” Her words, sounding in his ear, were all that there was in the world. His eyes were closed, his breath held. “It’s in my gods-given nature not to feel. And Serpicore—I’ve spent years practicing putting my emotions aside, teaching myself to quash any inklings of sentiment.”
“It’s all right,” Tor heard himself whisper. “It’s—”
“No, Tor, please, just listen. I’m not going to wait after all. Pewter has been helping me sort some things out. I’ve been trying to overcome my nature, my habits, to understand what I’m truly feeling. It’s hard. It still doesn’t come naturally. But I think…Tor, I know you love me. And I think…no, no, thinking has nothing to do with it.” She pressed her forehead into his shoulder. “I feel that I love you also. I know it’s not the time for it. We have so much to do, the world to save, the quest, but please, give me time. And help me. Help me understand what it means to feel. And when all of this is over, you can court me properly, and meet my parents, and all those things normal people do when they’re in love, and we can figure out what to do. Will you do that? Will you help me?”
“Yes.” He hadn’t noticed when had he started to breathe again. “Of course I’ll help you. But we can talk more later, once you’re feeling better. Are you injured? And we should check on the others, your fire spell was incredible but it knocked everyone silly, it’s amazing how you were able to cast with all of those rats coming at you, did any of them bite you? We’re out of Dranko’s salves, but—”
Aravia pressed her fingers to his lips to stop his babbling. Her face crinkled into the most wonderful smile and tears dotted her lashes, but whether she laughed or cried he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that she was safe, and that she loved him.
Everything was turning out for the best, the way it always did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Morningstar’s head rang like a church bell. Her skin felt hot, sunburned, reminding her of that terrible trek across the Mouth of Nahalm. The light shone upward in slashes out of the thick vegetation in which she lay.
“Gods, what a nightmare,” Dranko groaned nearby. “I dreamt that Aravia went crazy and blasted us all with a fireball.”
Aravia! It came back to her; Aravia had woken them all up from a sound sleep, screaming at them to run, and they had run, and there had been…rats? The spell she had cast must have been the one she’d been studying so fervently—conflagration, it was called. That certainly made sense; the fires she had summoned up were worthy of the name.
Had she survived?
Morningstar fished her light-rod out of the undergrowth and pointed it to where Aravia had been standing. She and Tor knelt together at the spot, embracing, heads on each other’s shoulders. Alive. Next to them squatted a large mound that hadn’t been there before. She squinted. An animal, maybe?
“Did she get ’em?” Kibi had sat up, hands pressed to his head.
“I think so,” Morningstar answered. “I don’t see any more rats, and Aravia is still alive.”
“Maybe we should give them a moment,” said Dranko. “It looks like Tor may have finally spilled the beans. He picked a hell of a time!”
Morningstar’s feelings were mixed on that topic. Tor and Aravia could not have been more opposite from every angle she could imagine, except for their young ages. And romantic distraction would be a liability when they all needed to keep clear heads.
“Dranko!” Tor lifted his head from Aravia’s shoulder. “Aravia’s injured!”
The five of them staggered out into the circle of devastation. A bed of blackened bones crunched beneath Morningstar’s feet. The bulky shape next to Tor and Aravia was a monstrously large rat with its head lopped off; Tor’s bloody sword lay beside it, telling the tale of what had happened while the others had been stunned by Aravia’s fire blast. A blanket of smoke still hovered above the ground like a layer of fog, which for the moment kept the insects away from their lights.
Dranko knelt beside Aravia and examined her. “Small bites on your lower legs, a nasty bruise on your left thigh, a row of superficial puncture wounds on your right arm. Normally, I wouldn’t worry, but smart money says these rats carried some nasty diseases. Looks like you win the contest for who gets the last of my disinfectant from Persk.”
“What happened?” asked Grey Wolf as Dranko applied his medicine.
“Pewter saved us,” said Aravia. “He was out scouting while we slept and noticed the rats closing in. I knew immediately that the only way we could survive was if I cast conflagration, which is why I shouted at you to move away.”
“And what about the big one?” asked Ernie.
“I’m certain that rat was the creature Inkspot told me about, the one killing Sparks. He warned that it might come for me, which in the end worked out well for us. Thanks to Tor.”
Aravia was, in fact, looking at Tor the whole time she spoke, and he at her. Well, it would be what it would be.
“Where is Pewter now?” asked Grey Wolf.
“Up a tree, where it’s relatively safe. He says he’l
l come down and make perimeters while we sleep.”
Ernie looked down. “We certainly can’t sleep here. Yuck.”
They chose to bed down in the spot to which they had fled, since all of their gear was there. As the corpse of the giant rat would attract nighttime scavengers, Kibi hauled it by its tail—a truly prodigious feat of strength—to the far side of the clearing. The insects converged on their lights once the smoke began to clear, so they were forced to leave the rat and then hastily retreat into the thick brush. The smell was not as off-putting as Morningstar expected; Aravia’s spell had so thoroughly destroyed the rats that the residual odor was more smoky than anything else. Swiftly she fell into sleep.
* * *
“We have just under three weeks.”
Previa stood before the assembled sisters in the midnight glade. Half of them idly created and transformed small objects in their hands—cups, knives, scarves, stones. It was a constant exercise they could perform with little thought.
Morningstar let out a long sigh. It was good to have their deadline defined so clearly, and three weeks was more than she had feared.
“Do you mean it will be three weeks until Naradawk escapes?” she asked. “Or until Aktallian’s assault becomes too much for them?”
“The second one, I suppose. Abernathy had made it very clear to Eddings. Without Aktallian’s interference, he believes they could hold the portal closed for between twenty-five and thirty days. Because of Aktallian, they are near certain of only nineteen days. Maybe as many as twenty-two. If the enemy is neutralized in time, they can hold out for their original guess, so Abernathy suggests we continue training for the full nineteen.”
Amber manifested a small knife and twirled it in her hand. “How can they know so precisely? What if Aktallian changes the nature or intensity of his attacks?”
“They’re wizards,” said Morningstar, knowing full well that didn’t explain anything. “If Abernathy is certain of something, we should take it as the truth.” She swept her eyes over the nervous faces of her sisters. “Nineteen days. That’s what we have to work with.”
“But we have to find Aktallian first,” said Sable. “He could be anywhere in the Tapestry!”
“No. As I said, when the time comes, we will be able to track him by observing the dreams of the archmagi.” I hope.
“So you assume,” said Scola. She created a small stone, tossed it in the air, and idly swung her hammer into it. It shattered into dust. “It would be wise not to wait until the nineteenth day, in case he’s better hidden than you think.”
“We should be spying on him now!” said Jet. She gestured with her hand into open air, as though Aktallian hid just beyond the boundaries of the glade. “We could learn something about him that might prove useful when we challenge him.”
Morningstar had already been tempted by the idea. “Perhaps, but the danger is still too great. At least for you. If Aktallian detected someone encroaching, he could be alerted to the danger we pose to him, and he would probably kill whoever it was that observed him. None of you are powerful enough, either to hide from him or confront him alone.”
“But you are?” Scola sounded skeptical.
“I don’t know.”
“What I know,” said the elderly Starbrook, “is that you’re the one we can least afford to risk. If one of us gets caught and killed, we still have a chance.”
“I can go,” said Jet, her young face resolute. “I’m the craftiest of all of us, except for you, Morningstar. I know I could find Aktallian without him noticing me. And I am quite willing to risk my life, or I wouldn’t still be coming here.”
“I know you are,” said Morningstar. “I know you all are, which is more humbling than I can possibly convey. But I want you to leave finding Aktallian to me. Understood?”
Her students nodded, though not all looked entirely convinced. Sable, Amber, and Gyre never looked happy during these meetings, and they seldom missed an opportunity to point out how much stronger they would be with a larger force. But they hadn’t abandoned her, and as far as she knew, they hadn’t told anyone in the church hierarchy about their activities.
“From now on, we will train in the equivalent of full daylight, all the time. I know you can counter that, make it dark, but it’s possible that if and when Aktallian brightens the Tapestry, you will be unable to do anything about it. Best you learn to fully overcome your natural weakness.”
Her sisters grumbled but did not object.
“Then let’s begin.”
She ran them through the wringer for two solid hours. Beneath a moon as bright as a noontime sun, she had the fighting team—Scola, Sable, Gyre, Belle, and Obsidia—hack away at a row of target dummies. Meanwhile, she and Jet did everything they could to make that as difficult as possible. They changed the dummies to stone, moved them around, shrunk them to the size of dolls. They opened pits beneath the attackers’ feet and put up walls to block them. Jet had the idea of manifesting a huge sphere of water around the attacking team, concentrating furiously to keep it from collapsing or drifting away.
Previa, Starbrook, and Amber endeavored to counter all of these efforts, allowing Scola and her team to make headway, land blows, break the dummies apart. The mental acuity of her disruptors was gratifying; in many ways they were nearly her equal in creativity and agility. The main advantage Morningstar retained was that her creations and distortions persisted longer after she had shifted her concentration to a new object or target.
Yes, Previa had chosen the team well. Even Scola had developed a minimal proficiency as a disruptor, able to make small adjustments to reality without losing combat focus. Morningstar’s confidence in the team had never been higher—but would they be up to the task of defeating Aktallian? It frustrated her not to know, not to understand how high the bar was set, but it did no good to worry about it.
By the end of the session, her trainees were utterly exhausted, puffing out rapid breaths, bent over with hands on knees. Morningstar returned the moon to its normal, gentle radiance. Amber and her cadre had worked as hard as the rest, and none of them pestered her about adding recruits or involving higher-ranked priestesses. They drifted away one by one until only Previa remained. The two of them sat side by side on the grass.
“I have hope,” her sister said. “But is it still true that none of this will matter if you don’t come back soon with your maze?”
“Yes. Nineteen days or thirty, it won’t matter in the end unless we find it and figure out how to use it to keep Naradawk out.”
Previa created a cup of water and drank from it. “If you acquire and use it soon enough, is it possible that we won’t need to battle Aktallian at all?”
“Theoretically. But we shouldn’t think about it that way. And we certainly don’t want to put that notion into the others’ heads. We can’t let them think they can ease up on the training.”
Previa frowned but nodded.
“And it’s more than that,” Morningstar continued. “Even if Naradawk is thwarted, Aktallian would remain a great danger. If he learns to find our individual dreams, he could kill us one by one. And not just sisters of Ell—every person in the world would be in danger. Nothing would stop him from killing hundreds or thousands of people in their sleep. Nothing, except us. Naradawk may be the greater threat, but we need to make an end of Aktallian either way.”
Previa looked away, staring into the darkness. “Sometimes I think Amber is right. If Aktallian is such a threat, if the world is in such danger, why does Ell insist on maintaining the Injunction so strictly with us?”
She’d be lying if she hadn’t entertained similar thoughts. “We can only assume it’s because the consequences of not maintaining it would be worse.”
Previa raised her eyebrows. “Worse than the death of thousands? Worse than the destruction of the world when Naradawk gets loose?”
“I suppose.” Not that she could think of any such consequence. “It is not for us to question Ell’s will.”
“I know them,” said Morningstar. “Her avatar told me. Directly. And, yes, I understand how it looks from the outside, that I have no proof, that I am the White Anathema, that I am the white meteor sent to smash up the proper ordering of things.”
She heard her voice grow louder. “Do you think I asked for all of this? I grew up despised by my sisters, and now I’ve been asked to lead them, to save them, to fight, to sacrifice. All my life’s ambition was to have quiet, to serve the goddess and avoid the scorn of those who should have been my family.”
Previa glanced at her briefly, then cast her eyes at the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, please, don’t apologize. I’ve put you in a place hardly more comfortable than my own. Without the strength I’ve drawn from your friendship, I may have long ago given up.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Previa spoke again. “Have things improved since yesterday? Have you caught up to Lapis and Certain Step?”
“No, but today was every bit as momentous as the day before, if you can believe it.” She told Previa about their trek through the jungle and about Aravia and the rats.
“It all sounds so unbelievable,” said Previa. “Goblins, waterfalls, rats, Lapis, the rest of it. Every morning when we meet here, I fear that some terrible danger will have done you in, that we’ll be left on our own. I know your waking task is the more important, but please, don’t die out there.”
“I’m doing my best,” she promised. “If Ell smiles upon me, we’ll find the city in the next two days and discover the Crosser’s Maze before Lapis. Aravia thinks she can teleport us back to Charagan as soon as we have it.”
