by Cat Bruno
Once again she tried to call out for Jarek, yet he was storm-raged, and heard nothing. Without choice, she moved toward the man, a shadow of mist riding the Elemental’s winds.
Syrsha watched as the man’s eyes, faded and worn, found her black-stained ones.
“I will not hurt you,” she hastily explained as he stared at the swords hanging at her waist.
“Please!” she gasped. “I must speak to Jarek. Do you know him?”
Only after the mention of Jarek did the man’s fear lessen, and he wailed, “Can you help him? We came for the Tribe boy, but found his ship in flames. Jarek thinks the Lightkeepers have him.”
It was worse than she feared.
“Is Blaidd dead?” she sobbed, unable to shield her pain.
Without letting go of the boat wheel, the man answered, “Jarek does not think so. But we cannot see him or the other boy. And he refuses to depart until we do so.”
After a moment, she announced simply, “I must find him.”
“I would help,” he whispered gruffly, “But Jarek warned me to stay safe from the storms. Even now, I am trying to decide if I should let down the sails. Tell me what I must do.”
The man, whom she did not recognize, spoke as if he knew her. He was older than Aldric, wrinkled and rough from the sea and large-bellied. But his eyes were truthful ones, and she figured that the ship must be his.
“Call for me if the Lightkeepers approach,” she told him, readying herself to lower her ward. “Stay safe here, and, if Jarek wakes, tell him that Syrsha has come.”
Her words offered little comfort, but she did not wait for the man to react. Using nearly all of what energy remained to her, she called for Blaidd while she searched. As her eyes swept outward, she yelped, her body tingling and icy. It was the same feeling she would get if she did not ward herself when using her atraglacia dagger. However, it was far more painful, and she could feel herself weakening further. The Lightkeepers had to be armed with a large supply, and, if she could become affected so soon by it, then Blaidd would have surely fallen victim to the black-ice.
Renewing her ward lessened the ache, and Syrsha again searched. This time she looked for the other boy, knowing that he would not have been sickened by the atraglacia. Up and down the docks, her dark eyes explored, breathing in the scents of salt and storm. Above, crackling shards of lightning loomed, in threat, but not yet reaching the ground. Clouds churned, loudly grumbling. On her lips, she could taste rain, although her flesh was far away under the watch of Aldric.
Toward the end of the piers, where the group of yellow-robed Lightkeepers gathered, she heard the clanking of chains. As fast as she could, Syrsha rushed forward. Again she strengthened her ward, pulling at the web of magic that Aldric had placed over her. The mage would soon collapse under so much energy used, yet without his assistance, she might be detected. With little time, Syrsha cloaked herself and crept near to the Lightkeepers.
Rain had dampened their robes, and mud mixed with sand, making the ground slick and sticky. She stared at their speckled sandals, all matching and evenly stitched, and slithered behind the arc of bodies. Further back, tied and shackled, stood a naked, bronze-colored man. He kneeled, with two Lightkeepers at his side. Each time he struggled to shake free of the thickly-linked fetters, one of the Lightkeepers tapped him, causing him to quiver as if struck by fire.
Crawling now, Syrsha leaned into the man, who was heavily muscled and smelled of honey and ale.
So close that she could taste the rain dripping from his ear, she mumbled, “Do not let them know that I have come. At the edge of the pier, there is a boat that will take you from here. I will take off your shackles, and then you must run toward the copper-hulled boat. Atop the deck, a storm-mage stands, bespelled, but he has come to see you safely from here. Where is Blaidd? I must get him out of here, too.”
Louder now, she said, “Point out where they are keeping him, for I cannot sense him.”
Blaze could not see her clearly, Syrsha realized, as he twisted and strained as if looking for her to appear. When the Lightkeeper would have again struck him with an orb of shock-magic, Syrsha pulled the dagger from her boot.
With a twist of her wrist, she struck the orb, shattering it. Shards of light, hissing and spitting white fire, fell upon the Lightkeeper, who screamed and collapsed to the ground, his hands cradling his burnt face. Hurriedly, she addressed the Islander.
“Tell me now where they have him!” she begged, cutting at the ropes at his wrists. Next, she yanked at the chain-links, pressing the ancient blade against steel until his feet were free.
Rising unsteadily, he coughed and wept, before lifting a shaking hand. Beside them, the Lightkeeper jerked, his body shaking with death.
“If Blaidd yet lives, then he will be in the white-topped tent. I watched them drag his body there.”
“Go now,” Syrsha ordered as she ran her hands across his body, shielding him with what magic remained.
She did not watch him run, but listened as his bared feet splashed across the planked pier. Further up, at the base of a moss-lined crag, stood the tent, and, as soon as Syrsha spotted it, she made her way there. A single Lightkeeper was stationed outside the flapping entrance, and, right as she neared, Syrsha understood why.
The tent was lined with atraglacia, the shards thrown across and around the small enclosure, forming a circular barrier. Her breath turned to mist as she fought to push open the door. Her arms, heavy and chilled, struggled to rise.
She stumbled into the tent, nearly toppling the guard. Through red-hazed eyes, she saw her cousin, unclothed and unmoving, atop a bed of atraglacia rocks. Into ringing ears, Syrsha heard Aldric yell for her, but she did not answer. His voice was distant and strained, and faded as she neared Blaidd.
Pulling hard for her magics, she cried aloud, begging him to wake. When he did not respond, Syrsha dropped to his side. Placing the dagger at his neck, she again called for him. With fingertips like streaks of ice, she pressed the blackened blade against his throat.
“Wake up!” she sobbed, as tears froze on her cheeks.
Never having been so cold, Syrsha shivered, her arm trembling until drops of blood dripped onto her hand. The blade’s tip pierced her cousin’s neck as she shook. Her voice sounded like gray, wintry clouds and chilled her further.
“Please,” she whimpered, calling on the Great Mother for help and thinking of all that Otieno had taught her of the Cove.
Her body, bordered by moon-like shadows, lay upon Blaidd’s, and his blood stained her tunic and vest. His blood.
I am here, she told herself, and not in Tian. Over and over, Syrsha repeated the words, until she lifted herself off her cousin and pushed his body onto its side. His life pulse beat still, although it was faint and flickering. With another heave, Blaidd rolled from the pile of atraglacia and onto the sandy ground. His neck was dotted with streaks of blood, yet it would not be enough. Near her lower leg hung a dagger, and Syrsha grabbed it. This blade, unlike her own, was a mortal one.
With another plea to the Great Mother, she sliced an arc across Blaidd’s palm and let the flowing blood seep into the sand. With her other hand, she took his uninjured one, moving it to his forehead, his chest, and his loins, as tribute. Her own hands were nearly invisible now, yet Syrsha continued. Three times she made him call on his earth magic, forcing his hands to move as he slept.
The air warmed, but still she quaked. Until Blaidd rolled, moaning and mewing like a babe. Sputtering and heaving, Blaidd growled and twitched.
“You must stand up!” she quietly cried.
Syrsha, weakened and without energy, was unable to offer him further aid. He would die here if he did not leave at once.
“Please get up!”
His eyes, as dark as her own, squinted open as his body shook again.
“I am so cold,” he whined, his chin pressed against the cradle of his chest.
“Come,” she told him. “There is a boat just steps from here.”
As she attempted to call flames for warmth, her cousin crawled to his knees. Even the fire would not come, she realized, watching him uneasily rise. His body was marked with slashes, yet only his neck bled. Across his back, silver scars formed, down his arms and legs, too. Pearly lines, some small and others thick, marred his nut-colored skin. Burned by the icy heat of the atraglacia, Blaidd would always bear the marks of torture.
“Come,” she instructed again, leading him from the tent and readying the dagger.
“Can you ward yourself?” she whispered, knowing that he would be seen otherwise. And knowing, too, that she was nearly powerless now.
Blaidd eyed his bleeding hand, and shook it, splattering his body and the ground with the blood offer. She paused at the edge of the tent, waiting for him to set the ward. As his hands swirled, Syrsha waited, yet feared that he was too weak.
Moments later, he hissed, “Nothing will answer.”
“Then you must run, as fast as ever. Follow me closely.”
The Lightkeepers were mage-trained, and not soldiers, despite the shortswords hanging at their waists. Nonetheless, Blaidd would need to dodge any power-orbs thrown at him, for they were both without ward.
If only I had Enyo, she fumed. Her dagger would only work half as well and injure her further.
After hastily cutting a hole in the back of the tent, Syrsha led him through, past the Lightkeeper who stood guard on the opposite side. Now, however, they would have no choice but to sprint past the remaining Lightkeepers. In the distance, the coppery ship nearly glowed against the gray-black sky. And, at the bow, Jarek still waited.
He was no longer alone. Just behind him stood Blaze, naked and shining as Jarek’s rain fell upon him.
“Now!” she cried.
Moments later, Syrsha heard the sizzling crack of lightning as the skies revolted.
When Blaidd hesitated, she screamed, “Jarek will protect you! Now run!”
Her cousin said nothing, but raced toward the boat; glowing, jagged streaks burst around him. Syrsha followed, but even the bright shards of lightning seemed faded and dull. Echoing thunder no longer filled her ears, and when she looked toward her hands, they were nearly all shadow, blackened and dust-like. She would not last much longer.
Without Jarek, Blaidd would have never reached the ship. Under the Elemental’s watch, the Tribesman dove for the hanging ladder. Blaze reached for him, pulling him onboard roughly.
The lightning still came, less now, as the ship’s sails billowed under an increasing breeze. As the ship backed away from the docks, Syrsha glanced at Jarek, who had not once moved. Her gaze, black as night, met his sky-shrouded one.
When next she looked, Gregorr stood above her, yelling her name. And then she knew nothing but darkness.
*****
“What of the men that I struck?”
The sky had been cloud-free for hours, light blue and welcoming. Azzaro, his gnarled hands lightly lying on the boat wheel, sighed. Without lightning, Blaidd would not have lived, yet Jarek fretted over what he had done.
“War is never clean,” the Captain told him. “They might yet live, whereas the boy would not have if you had not called for the storm.”
No words would ease him, Jarek knew, and, instead, asked, “What did you think of the girl?”
Azzaro had explained how Syrsha had visited, although the Elemental had not once noticed the girl. It was the first time that she had come while he was storm-caught, and he had not heard her calls. It was not until the lightning ceased that he had been able to make sense of what had happened.
“It was not my first time seeing her, Jarek,” the Captain answered.
“What do you speak of? Has she time-walked to see you before?”
“Ah, you do not remember,” Azzaro laughed. “That first night in the King’s City, I told you that I had seen the girl once in Cossima, when she was a child. You were heavy with drink and perhaps forgot my admission.”
“How did you know it was her?”
“She was with the Islander and the Mage. And by then, your father and I had been long friends. I knew of them all, even though I had met none,” Azzaro explained, gently guiding the ship.
Shaking his head with confusion, for he had not remembered, Jarek questioned whether his father had known about the encounter.
“Aye,” he admitted. “I told him on my return. Crispin knew for moon years that Syrsha was in Cossima. As far as I recall, he told no one.”
“Why would he protect her?” Jarek exclaimed.
Laughing, Azzaro replied, “I think Crispin was half in love with the girl’s mother. Or the memory of her, I suppose. He could never forgive himself for her death.”
The Captain’s laughter quieted, yet Jarek was not yet satisfied. “It was not he who killed her.”
“I know, boy. But Caryss attempted something that your father long avoided. She promised you the throne, did she not?”
Jarek knew better than to answer as Azzaro continued.
“It was not lost on Crispin that it was the healer who introduced you to your grandfather. Before King Herrin’s death, he was able to know his rightful heir. For that alone, Crispin kept Syrsha a secret.”
Each day, Jarek learned more of his father, yet this knowledge was unexpected and surprising. That Crispin had told none of Syrsha’s location suggested much.
“Do you think that if my father yet lived he would protect her still?”
“Are you asking if I think Crispin would have sided with his son against his brother?”
The Captain was no fool, understanding what it was that Jarek could not say.
After a moment, Azzaro looked toward the sea, the long stretch of sun-streaked blue ahead of them, and said, “If your father lived, he would be with us now, I think.”
It was enough, Jarek decided.
“Now tell me true what you think of Syrsha,” he half-heartedly demanded, not wanting to think of his father anymore.
With a shrug of his wide shoulders and belly shake, the captain said, “I have met the girl twice, if you can call it that. Once from a distance and once when she was naught but a spirit. How can a man judge a person by such encounters? She has the look of the Tribe to her, minus those eyes of course. Do I think her a loyal ally? Is that what you need to know?”
“None of that,” Jarek grumbled. Uncertain himself what he wanted to hear, Jarek added, “I will go see to Blaidd and Blaze.”
When he found the men in the under-cabin, Jarek tried to force the thoughts of Syrsha from his head. Blaidd had not yet recovered fully, and had slept most of the past two days. Blaze was no worse from the battle and often joined Azzaro at the helm. He was, Jarek had found, good-natured and amusing. And, as he often boasted, fine with both bow and sword.
With a nod toward the still-slumbering Tribesman, Jarek said, “The seas are quiet, and now would be a good time to spar.”
Jumping from where he sat on a splintered barrel, Blaze whooped. “Let’s have at it! I have long looked forward to testing my skills against a Cordisian.”
Azzaro had gifted him a sword, although Jarek knew not where it had come from. Had it been finer, he would have guessed it to be his father’s, yet the sword was plainly made with a serviceable but unimpressive blade. For now, he would make do. But Jarek would need better steel soon. Even without his own sword, he did not think Blaze would be a match for him, despite the boy’s boasting. The boat deck was small, and the two had little room to backpedal. And, without wooden swords, they would need to take care not to draw blood.
They had sailed south from Vesta, which would take them past the King’s City, through the Three Seas, around the southern edge of Cordisia, and into the Calitonias Sea, near the Tretorian coast. Word had been sent to Kennet of Pietro’s duplicity, but Jarek did not know if it would reach him in time. If the librarian was still at the Healer’s Academy, he planned on taking him to the Tribelands and would give the man no chance to argue, knowing that he had been a foo
l to trust the healer.
Jarek had not yet decided what he would do with Izaak, although he doubted that any would know the boy.
“What are you waiting for, Jarek? Strike!”
Shaking free from his thoughts, Jarek raised the blade. “I spent more than half my life training with the Royal Army. Do not take it to heart when I better you, Blaze.”
The Islander wore a tunic much too large for him, for it had been Azzaro’s, and it smelled of salt and ale as Blaze shook with laughter.
“I shot the short bow at two, picked up a sword at three, and the long bow by the time I was seven. Take your own advice, prince, and humble yourself.”
With that, Blaze lunged forward, his borrowed scimitar arching near Jarek’s face.
The tip of the blade brushed his cheek as the boy cried, “First hit awarded to the Cove.”
His swing had been swift and controlled, impressing Jarek enough that he stepped back.
As Blaidd slept, the two continued, for hours, until the sun sank and the skies darkened.
*****
A yellowy mist greeted her as she opened her eyes. Even softened, the kiss of the morning sun burned her cheeks, and Syrsha rolled to her side until her forehead cracked off a wooden plank.
“Hells,” she croaked, rubbing at her pained head.
Through a slitted gaze, Syrsha realized that she was in the back of an uncovered wagon. By the way the cart bumped and banged, she knew that it was being pulled behind a mount. Yet the girl could recall nothing else and nothing of how long it had been since she had time-walked to Vesta.
Her next thought was of Aldric, for she did remember how much energy she had drawn from him. With effort, she struggled into a seated position and searched for the others. Behind her rode Gregorr, who kicked at his horse after he noticed her wake.
“Halt!” he yelled, riding near to the wagon.
It took him yelling thrice more until the cart came to a stop. Around her, the others circled, still in saddle, except the mage.
