“Why do you say that?”
“Him and that historian. There’s something about them. I haven’t discovered what it is, but when I see them together, it’s like a surge of light.”
Roelle considered this. Was Haerlin mentioning a prophecy, a vision of something that he saw with the historian and the general? Or was it something else, something more mundane?
“What does it mean that the attacks continue to press north?” Roelle asked.
Haerlin sighed. “It means that we must move more quickly. These delegates... If they’re going to do anything for us, they must reach the city.”
“How does bringing the delegates to the city change anything about the Deshmahne presence in the north?” Roelle asked.
Haerlin shook his head. “That won’t be on the delegates. That will be on the Denraen. Endric will be tasked with keeping the Deshmahne from the north. The delegates will maintain the peace and, if they’re successful, will reestablish the role for the Urmahne.”
“Not only the Urmahne but the Magi influence as well.”
Haerlin nodded. “The Magi have been too far away from influencing things for too long. It is time that we get ourselves involved again.
Roelle couldn’t deny the wisdom of that. The Magi once had been the priests of the Urmahne religion. Over time, they had given up the responsibility to those who now served as priests. Eventually, the Magi had stopped exerting their influence on the religion at all.
Haerlin stood and stuffed his notebook into his pocket. “Keep your eye on the historian. Watch him and his apprentice. There is something there that I can almost see.”
Haerlin left her, and Roelle stood at the opening of the tent. She didn’t disagree. There was something about Jacob. It was more than his intriguing swordsmanship. He was an interesting man, and she felt a connection to him, though she didn’t understand it fully. Maybe it was only the swordsmanship. She hoped that was it.
Roelle sighed and shook away the thought. She needed to focus on her responsibilities. They didn’t involve getting tied up with a historian apprentice. She should use him for practice, nothing else.
Why then, did she find herself thinking of him so often?
Chapter Eleven
The next week passed much the same. Fatigue began to overwhelm Jakob. It was a product of taking watch with the Denraen at night and the long days in the saddle followed by documenting what he’d seen. Each night, he rotated through different tasks with Rit and the raegan, learning about caring for horses, tending the cookfire, and setting up the tents, but he heard nothing that Novan found interesting. The men were friendly enough to him, but close-mouthed just the same.
Jakob continued to struggle with the small book Novan had given him. He pulled it out in the evenings and trudged through it. What had seemed so interesting at first had become laborious and difficult. Too often, the language eluded him, the ancient words impossible for his mind to grasp and translate even though the book seemed written such that someone could learn the language as they went. So he pushed forward, knowing Novan expected it of him and hoping what he gleaned would grant him additional understanding of his sword. He’d not taken the time he needed to study it, partly because he hadn’t wanted to unsheathe it while riding and hadn’t had the time once stopped for the night, but partly because he felt an imposter with it compared to the Denraen.
Work wasn’t the only reason he was tired. Sleep was no longer restive for him. Dreams had been coming more vividly, and when he awoke, he found that he often could not fall back asleep. Always, there was the dream of the woman. She was trapped, though Jakob could never see what held her. One night, it was as if she saw him and tried to pull him into the dream with her, but he turned and ran, afraid of what would happen. She called after him, her voice a song of sorrow, and it tore at Jakob’s soul to leave her, though he didn’t understand why.
Other dreams haunted him too. Occasionally, he would dream of the High Priest, seeing nothing of his face but pools of red for his eyes and a haunting laugh chasing him. Something seemed to keep the man at bay, something always at the edge of Jakob’s dream vision, a specter of shadow in the haze of his dream. Each time he saw the man, he awoke sweating, his heart pounding.
Worse was that he’d barely seen Braden since their journey had begun. He could see his friend in the column each day riding next to another of the Chrysia recruits, Tolsin, but at night, between his work with the general, his responsibilities Rit, and his time with Novan, he had no time to look for Braden. Jakob had grown to know Tolsin back in Chrysia through Braden, and they had been nearly friends, yet a part of him resented Tolsin. As a soldier, he had more in common with Braden than Jakob did. Jakob hoped their friendship would make the ride less lonely, but it had not been the case so far.
The countryside and trees had given way once more to rolling hills and immense plains of late fall grass. He hadn’t seen a town or hamlet since the first few days when they left the road, moving across country and tramping their own path through the thick lawn of drying reeds. Flies and huge natmins chased them, and he had begun to wonder if they were the only creatures in this grassland.
The peculiar sense of being watched stayed with him. Every day was the same; it started shortly after they left for the day and continued until well after they stopped for the evening. Occasionally, he saw an animal in the distance. One time, he was convinced it was a fox or some type of cat trailing them, but what he saw was too large to be a fox. He’d not seen it since.
Jakob asked Novan if he saw the creature, but the historian said he’d seen nothing. It didn’t put his mind at ease. If this was the madness setting in, nothing could be done, so he tried to ignore it. Each day, he found it increasingly difficult to do so. One night he even convinced himself that he saw eyes in the darkness and nearly sounded an alarm.
Now, he was no longer sure if what he saw was real.
Jakob found time each evening to work with Endric. His head tingled as he practiced, and each night, it grew stronger. It had become more of a buzzing, something he could almost hear. Jakob worried it was more evidence of his growing madness, but a part of him grew thankful for it as well. It seemed that it sharpened his focus sharpened and allowed his skill to improve more quickly so that he held his own with Endric more and more each night. His mind seemed to slow the more it vibrated, allowing him to see the quick movements of the general and determine the best defense for the catahs and increasingly mount an attack. He still found new bruises after each session, but they were fewer in number each time.
Tonight, though, Endric was not where Jakob had expected him. He found Roelle instead.
“Endric won’t come tonight,” Roelle told him. She held a practice stave casually and flicked it a few times, stabbing the air.
Jakob still hadn’t gotten past her easy way with the sword, or the friendly way she spoke to him. Neither was what he had expected of a Mage. “Why?” The overheard conversations teased his memory, and he wondered if Endric had gone north as he had promised the woman during the Turning Festival.
“There’s been another attack.”
“An attack? I should have heard.”
“Different this time. Several scouts were captured. One was sent back with a warning.”
“Which was?” Jakob asked. He’d grown more comfortable with Roelle over the last week and found it easy to ask the Mage questions. She was often free with answers, surprising for a Mage. It didn’t hurt that he found her appealing.
Roelle studied him a moment before answering. “His head. I’m not sure what else. Endric was apparently quite upset.”
A sudden chill worked through him that had nothing to do with the cool night air. “What does this mean?”
Roelle just shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think Endric does either. The men captured were scouting the far north.” She hesitated before continuing. “There have been other stories out of the north. Has the historian shared those with you?”
/> “Only that he’s heard rumors. There’s more, though I’m not sure what it is.”
The Mage sighed. “That would have been too easy. Haerlin has excluded me as well. I know there’s something far worse than raiders roaming the north that has Haerlin nervous. He and Endric have spoken about it several times, and I’ve been excused each time.”
“What could make a Mage Elder nervous? The Deshmahne?” Jakob asked.
Roelle shook her head again, her long hair bouncing with the movement. “The Deshmahne are little more than a curiosity to Haerlin, I think. The Elder feels the Urmahne need not fear them, that the gods will protect us.” Roelle paused as if considering what she had just said before shaking her head and continuing. “This is something else. I will have to remain patient.” She looked suddenly at the practice sword she held in her hands. “So, without Endric, what would you say to sparring with me?”
The sudden change of topic surprised Jakob, and he laughed. “I think you’ll find me an easier opponent than Endric.”
“I’ve been watching the last few nights. I think it’ll be closer than you think.”
Jakob doubted it, but grabbed a wooden stave and moved into his opening stance, forcing his mind to relax. He struggled with the process but knew the more relaxed he was, the easier the sword would flow. He had found that when he was tense, his reactions were too slow, like he moved through mud. Taking a deep breath, he sensed the slow vibration in his head and embraced it. It was a trick, he knew, but a trick that had started to work for him. As he did, his vision sharpened and his mind seemed to open.
Roelle gave little notice and leaped forward.
Jakob reacted quickly, bringing his sword up in defense, recognizing the catah Roelle used and knowing its defense. Slicing through the movements, Jakob could see what Roelle was doing by the slight twitches of her arms and was able to anticipate where the Mage would go next. In spite of this, he was not fast enough. He felt the sting of Roelle’s sword on his arm two times in quick succession.
Jakob stepped back and moved in a slow circle around Roelle, considering how to proceed. The vibration in his head hummed, and he sank into it, feeling it spread through his body. He took a deep breath and released it, letting the vibration envelop him. Then he pulled at it, hoping to use it.
The sense of it consumed him, and he didn’t resist.
Jakob couldn’t explain what he did, but he was suddenly more aware, everything clearer. Time almost slowed, yet his thoughts moved more quickly.
He jumped forward, catching Roelle unprepared. Jakob whipped his sword through a quick catah, remembering it from one of his bouts with Endric. Roelle met his sword but not before Jakob caught the Mage across the shoulder and then her back.
Jakob pressed his attack, spinning and swinging, his mind forcing his body from one dance to another. Roelle was quick, her sword nearly a blur, yet Jakob saw it differently tonight than he had seen before and was able to react quickly, knowing each defense.
Jakob spun, twisting as Roelle thrust her sword down, barely avoiding it as it whistled past. The vibration rolled through him, and he danced with it. It carried his sword, moved through him, and he allowed himself to move with it.
The vibration intensified through him. His sword moved as if guided by another hand, and his mind knew where it must move. Spinning and turning, spinning and turning, and suddenly, he stopped.
Roelle’s sword was across his chest. He had not seen it.
Looking down, he realized that his sword was resting across Roelle’s chest. Both were breathing heavily, and he was all too aware of how close he stood to her.
Jakob suddenly felt the bruising he’d ignored before as pain pulsed through him, nearly causing him to stumble. “I guess we both lose,” he laughed, trying to catch his breath.
There was a strange cast to Roelle’s eyes. “That was impressive, Jakob. You moved like no other man I have faced.”
“I doubt that. I’ve seen you with Endric. I know I can’t compete with you.”
“I was pushed as hard tonight as I ever am with Endric,” Roelle answered, replacing her practice stave. “You’re an interesting man.”
Jakob didn’t know how to take the praise. He wasn’t even sure what he’d done. The strange vibration still rolled through him, but it had lessened and continued to fade. He let it go and noted his energy drain as it did, suddenly exhausted. What did it mean?
“Come, let us get a drink,” Roelle offered.
Jakob nodded. He would ignore his worry for now.
They started out of the clearing, and both realized they’d been watched. Several Denraen stood talking and stopped as they approached.
“That was excellent. Who were you facing, Mage? Tell me he’s one of ours.”
Roelle shook her head and turned to Jakob. “The historian apprentice.”
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” the first Denraen asked as he turned to him.
What was the answer? He’d always been an average swordsman before, knowing enough not to hurt himself but could claim little more skill than that. His days spent with Endric had begun to change that, had opened his eyes and his mind so that he now actually found himself improving.
“General Endric,” he answered, unsure what more to say.
The Denraen grunted. “I’ve seen you with him. You and this young Mage here are the only ones foolish enough to face him each night.”
One of the other men chuckled. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to enlist you,” the man said, his voice heavy with a thick northern accent.
“The historian instructed me to learn from him.”
“I face Endric as little as possible,” the northman said. “Too bruised.”
Jakob and Roelle laughed at the comment. “I’ve bruised,” Jakob said, still laughing.
“You can bruise more than your skin,” the first man said knowingly.
“Aye, but the skin hurts more,” the northman said.
“It’s the other that lasts,” came a rough voice behind them.
They all jumped, turning to see the general. Rit stood with him, looking at each face in turn carefully. Endric cast his gaze upon everyone, as well, lingering on Jakob.
The Denraen all stood at attention and said, “General!” in unison.
“Easy, men. You are dismissed.” The general watched his men disappear before turning to face Jakob and Roelle. “Rit tells me you have been serving well.”
Jakob shrugged, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead and pushing his hair back from his eyes. “It was what Novan asked of me.”
Endric smiled. “It is. The historian worries about the Deshmahne.” He turned his attention to Rit, who had been quiet during the exchange, and asked, “Do you think any of my men are Deshmahne?”
Rit shook his head. “They cannot be, sir.”
“Why?” Endric asked the man.
“The Choosing is an Urmahne custom, blessed by the gods to allow the Denraen to see a man’s heart. No Deshmahne could pass.”
Jakob noted that Rit had spoken the words as if by rote. “I’ve seen the Deshmahne.” Jakob chose his words carefully. “They seem to have a power that rivals the Magi. How do you know they could not use it to pass the Choosing?”
“Indeed,” a voice said behind him.
Jakob jumped and turned to see Novan standing behind him. The tall historian had a mischievous look on his face and his dark cloak billowed behind him in the night’s breeze. A hint of lavender hung about him, as if perfumed, and it was not unpleasant.
Endric frowned, tight lines pulling his aged face into something more like a sneer, before softening. “Historian, you sneak like a thief. But your apprentice raises a point that has me worried. Come. We must talk.”
They sat quietly within Endric’s large tent, a single lamp casting light enough to see. Haerlin sat covered in his heavy dark cloak, his head tilted forward, his eyes narrowed as he waited on Endric to begin. Rit and Pendin stood behind the table casua
lly, looking over the general’s shoulder. Novan paced, every so often pausing to look down at a canvas map that lay upon a makeshift table, different colored pins scattered along it marking troop locations.
Jakob could see how they appeared surrounded. How many were Deshmahne?
“How many raiders?” Novan asked.
Endric flicked his eyes to the map before meeting Novan’s gaze. “Enough.” His rough voice was subdued, and there was an edge to it that Jakob hadn’t heard from him before. “Though that’s not the real question, is it?”
“No. It is not.”
“The Deshmahne have not been seen in great numbers even in Gomald where they’ve crossed over from the south,” Haerlin said quietly. “This cannot be accurate.”
Pendin shrugged his broad shoulders. “My scouts can count. And see.” He tapped a finger toward the map for emphasis.
“This isn’t how they have converted in the past,” Haerlin objected. “Nor how they have attacked the Magi.”
“No.” Endric eyed the Mage. There was a darkness to his expression, and Jakob wondered again about the passion behind it. “They have cowed, coerced, and taken. Rarely have they spilled blood. Rarely.” The last was said with particular venom, and his gaze turned to Haerlin. “This is not about conversion, though.” His gaze glanced to a corner of his tent. Was that where he kept the trunk he’d agreed to transport?
“Why?” Jakob asked. “What do you think it’s about?”
Surprised eyes turned and focused upon him. Haerlin’s seemed the heaviest, and the unsettled feeling he had when the Mage looked at him fluttered through him briefly before fading. Jakob fought back a bit of nausea. Roelle had a small smile quirking her lips, and she feigned a yawn to cover it. Jakob almost laughed.
“They haven’t needed to attack the Magi,” Novan explained. “The Deshmahne is a religion that started quietly far in the south. Their numbers built slowly, the stories about the Deshmahne, mostly rumors at first, spread quickly. Before that, few knew anything about them. Secretive, they sequestered themselves away from the larger cities, supposedly building a Deshmahne fortress.”
The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Page 13
