Jakob couldn’t see how that was possible. Raime had been willing to sacrifice so many, and had been willing to destroy. There couldn’t be any good in him.
“If I go with you,” Niall began, “promise me one thing.”
“I’m not sure I can make any promises,” Peter said.
“This wouldn’t be a difficult promise. All I ask of you is that you keep your eyes open, and recognize if you’re asked to participate in something you should not.”
“Niall—”
“Peter, you and I were once friends.”
“That’s why I’ve given you the choice to come back. Had we not, I would have come with violence, and come as Raime had asked. He didn’t care if we returned with only your head.”
Niall licked his lips, swallowing. A part of him wondered how much of this unrest he could lay at Raime’s feet. The man did have power, and he did have influence. If Niall knew how to use those in a way that would benefit others, none of this would have been necessary. Perhaps his choosing would’ve been unnecessary. Instead, now he served a greater purpose, one that Raime probably wouldn’t understand.
“I will go, but you will not have my sword.”
A hint of a smile played across Peter’s mouth. “No? Is there a particular reason you would not let me take your blade?”
“It’s a family sword.”
Niall figured that was as accurate as anything. The sword needed to remain with him. He could draw power out of it, and it had been the reason that he managed to succeed in battles when the odds were most definitely not in his favor.
“You may keep the sword, for now. I can’t promise what will happen when we reach Raime.”
“And where is he?”
Last that Niall had heard, Raime had been in Shoren Aimielen, the city overrun with soldiers, most debating the reality of the gods, questioning whether they were fit to rule over the city. As far as most within Shoren Aimielen knew, the gods had not visited in years. Niall knew otherwise, though he also knew they were not quite the gods most believed. They were still powerful, and they still deserved respect, especially those who sat on the Conclave and had chosen him.
“Raime travels throughout the north. There is something there he seeks.”
Niall frowned. He’d heard the rumors out of the north. Stories of creatures—terrifying stories. He didn’t know whether to believe them or to dismiss them. The problem was that many of the stories came from men whose opinion he valued and trusted. That meant there was something more to the stories than he understood.
“Then why does he have you bring me back if he’s not going to even be there?” Niall’s hope of finding answers, of reaching Raime and understanding, faded if the man wasn’t even going to be there. He was willing to return to Shoren Aimielen, though he hadn’t spent much time there lately, but didn’t want to go if there was nothing for him.
No. Niall would rather return to Masetohl. He would rather return to Sasha. He would rather see if he had a son or a daughter.
Now he wondered if he ever would.
If they took him to Shoren, it wasn’t that the distance was so great—he had seen from the damahne how little distance mattered—but it was more the war that waged over the countryside. There was fighting, and then there was fighting.
“I have no horse,” Niall said.
He’d lost his days before. That had been during the last attack, when he had ended the previous skirmish. Unfortunately for those who had been fighting, Niall’s method of ending a skirmish was often more violent than what they expected. He found a sharp blade and a quick stab with the sword an effective way to end discussion.
Had the damahne anticipated his technique when he had been chosen? Possibly, he had decided. They had the ability to look into the future—to glimpse along the fibers as they called it.
“No horse, then you will ride with me,” Peter said. He hesitated, and then shook his head. “I like this no better than you, Niall. I know you want nothing more than to end this war. Know that I want the same.”
“You want the same, but we serve different masters in this, don’t we?”
“I serve the people of Shoren Aimielen. Much like you once did.”
Niall closed his eyes, and a flash of images came to him.
A message, given to him by the damahne.
He knew what he needed to do. He had these visions each time he was faced with a choice. Often, the images involved bloodshed, and violence, and this was no different. Why must it always come to that? Why must his possible future be more killing?
But if he did not follow the orders from the damahne, so much more would be lost.
Niall let out a sad sigh. “Ah, Peter. I once served, but my eyes have been opened, and I understand what I must do.”
Peter leaned toward him, and Niall unsheathed in a flash.
Peter’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles in his jaw tensed.
Niall hated that he had to do this to Peter, a man he truly once had considered a friend. They were on opposite sides now, but so many were in this war.
Niall pulled on the power that coursed through the sword. He had learned how to do it from Sharna, given guidance on the way the sword could be used, and taught that power resided within it.
As he pulled on that power, he lashed out, sending it streaking away from the end of the blade. It struck each of the men, including Peter, knocking them out.
They fell from their saddles, dropping almost as one.
It was a bloodless battle, the kind that Niall preferred. These men didn’t deserve to die, and in his snippets of the future, he could see the possibility that he and Peter remained friends.
Niall didn’t understand how that was possible, not now, not after what he had just done, but he had to trust, and had to hope that the vision was accurate.
With a sigh, he sheathed the sword.
He took Peter’s horse, climbing into the saddle, knowing from the vision where he needed to go.
North.
His heart drew him south, to Masetohl, but his assignment—that which he knew required his attention—pulled him north.
As he often did, he wondered whether the damahne had somehow coordinated his encounter with Peter and the soldiers. Without them, he would’ve assumed Raime had returned to Shoren Aimielen, but now he knew to look north. The north was a vast expanse, nothing more than mountains staggered across the land, dotted by the occasional mining town, but he would search them, and he would find answers. He had to. If he didn’t, he would fail to end the war, and that was his assignment.
Niall pressed his heels into the horse, urging it forward, riding quickly. He had far to go still today before he could rest.
He needed to get some distance between him and Peter and his men. They would sleep for a while, but when they awoke, they would be angry, and they would come after him. He doubted they would show the same compassion that Peter had intended them to show this time. If they fought him, Niall would have no choice but to fight back.
Peace required that he fight.
Chapter Four
The north was colder than Isandra remembered. Snow drifted from the sky, the flakes thick and dry, blowing past her. They didn’t stick, not as many of the snowflakes of Vasha did. There, at least, the snow was comforting, creating a blanket over the rest of the mountain. The city itself was usually spared. The warmth of the teralin ore buried in the mountain kept them mostly protected. She missed the warmth of her home, and missed the familiarity of her room and her bed.
She’d been away from Rondalin for nearly a week. It was a week of wandering, a week of growing increasingly weary, and a week of fearing that she might encounter the Deshmahne. She had been lucky to escape, and didn’t relish the thought of encountering them again.
During her week, Isandra had the opportunity to come to terms with what she had done. She had killed a man. Doing so was anathema to the Urmahne faith, and completely contrary to anything she ever would have thought herself capabl
e of doing. She had always been a faithful servant of the religion, had always observed the ideals of the Urmahne as closely as any who served the gods. It was how she had risen to the Council of Elders, and how she had conducted her life.
Now, serving on the Council was beyond her ability.
Isandra glanced at her legs. She couldn’t see the brandings on her ankles; the heavy trousers she wore covered them, and she rarely pulled off the stockings to examine them, but she could feel them constantly. It was a strange sensation, one that was almost a trickling, that of power leeching away from her. She recognized what the Deshmahne had done, but still didn’t understand how they had managed to do it. How were they able to essentially steal power from her? Hadn’t the gods given that power to her?
But… If that was how the Deshmahne had come to power, if that was how they had gained their abilities in the first place, then other questions came to mind, those without answers. The gods had abandoned the world for countless years. Many of the Magi claimed to still have the ability to speak to them, but none of the Magi alive ever had. Certainly, Isandra never had. Perhaps the Eldest could claim that, but Jostephon had long been a noted scholar, and was among the most capable of the Magi. Of course the gods would favor him.
She was tired of wandering. The road seemed to lead toward the south, veering toward the distant mountains, but the cloudy skies and the intermittent fog made it difficult for her to assess. Without another to guide her, without the Denraen, she hoped she recalled her geography well enough to make it back to Vasha. In her weakened state, she could imagine wandering aimlessly indefinitely. That should terrify her, but maybe it would be a blessing. After everything that she’d lost, maybe it would be best for her to simply fade away, to disappear into the cold, and let her life finally end. At least it wouldn’t be Tresh Longtree taking it from her as he had promised.
No. She had taken the former delegate’s life, beating it from him with anger that had surprised her.
She was always so calm, had always found peace, but there was something about him that had driven that from her. Remorse was difficult to come by. In the days that followed, days when she’d feared for her safety as she ran, she still struggled to find regret for what she had done. Even though the man had deceived his people—turned against them to aid the enemy— she knew she shouldn’t have killed him. Such violence would anger the gods.
Maybe it would’ve been better to leave him trapped in the cell. Then, at least, he would have the punishment he deserved for his torment of the Magi.
The wind whistled through the mountains. Isandra couldn’t see the steep peaks rising high into the sky, but she imagined their presence, imagined them looming closer with each step. The wind was harsher than what she remembered from her journey north, but the weather had been changing, autumn turning into winter, and they were due for snow.
Her stomach rumbled, each step taking her farther from her last taste of food, but closer toward hope. She hadn’t been thirsty, and was thankful for the stream she’d come across, following it for much of her travels.
Had she followed the stream on the journey north?
Isandra no longer remembered. Maybe it didn’t matter. The Denraen sent with her, good men, men who had become something like friends in the time that they’d spent together, had been lost, killed by the Deshmahne. How many others were lost in the same way? How many others that the Denraen sent to the north had been lost fighting the Deshmahne?
She had to believe that General Endric had known what she was going to face. But if so, why hadn’t he sent more help?
It had been foolish of her to think that the five Denraen sent with her had been too many. Then again, she had been a fool about many things.
At least her time while held captive by the Deshmahne had given her a different perspective. She didn’t think she was a fool, at least not any longer. Now, she had a different understanding of the world, one that allowed her to realize that perhaps violence might be necessary, though it didn’t serve the gods.
Perhaps the general had it right about other things as well. Didn’t the Denraen serve the gods? Alriyn’s niece had trained with the Denraen, and Endric had sent her north. The girl had taken many of the apprentices, as well, and all had trained with the Denraen. Would Isandra have been captured had she trained as they had?
Questions like that had no good answer.
Late in the day, the fog began to lift, clearing enough for her to see the mountains stretching out in front of her. They were massive, the peaks rising higher and higher into the distance, snow clinging to them, much thicker than the snow she remembered.
She came skittering to a stop, and her heart hammered.
She didn’t know geography as well as the Denraen, but she recognized the mountains. She’d lived in Vasha her entire life, and these were not her peaks. These were not her mountains.
Had she gone north?
That would’ve been impossible, wouldn’t it?
Then again, the fog and the occasional spitting snow made it difficult for her to see anything clearly. It was entirely possible that she’d gotten turned around, and that she had been heading north the entire time.
And here she thought she’d learned some lesson while in Rondalin.
She was still the same fool who had traveled north, only now she was weaker. Now she was something less than a Mage.
She resisted the urge to sink to her knees, resisting the desire to give up. After what she’d been through, she couldn’t give up. The Council still had to know what had happened to her. The Council still had to know what had happened to their delegates. If there were any who would be able to heal her, to stop the leeching of her power, it had to be the Magi.
Isandra turned back west, already adding to the count of days she’d been gone. With this detour before being able to head south, how much longer would it take her to reach Vasha?
Chapter Five
Isandra stumbled forward, the effort of continuing her trek overwhelming her. Her body ached. It was a fatigue unlike anything she’d ever known before. She struggled simply to stay awake now, afraid to fall asleep, afraid of not the Deshmahne, as she had not seen any evidence of the Deshmahne since she’d left Rondalin, but now more afraid of some of the creatures that she’d encountered. Wolves and laca and other strange animals roamed close to the mountains. She had no way to defend herself, her weakened state leaving her exposed. Along the way, she had grabbed a tree branch, and was prepared to use it as a club, but she prayed to the gods constantly that she wouldn’t have to.
The other fear that worked through her was whether she would encounter one of the creatures like the one whose head Roelle had sent south. What would the creature look like in its entire form? From the size of the head, Isandra imagined the creature to be nearly her height. What did the rest of it look like? Would it be as horrifying as the head?
So far, she’d seen no evidence of the groeliin, as she’d heard them called. Though she doubted that she would be able to do anything were she to encounter one. She had not trained as Roelle had. She was not equipped to counter them. The Magi had for so long trusted the Urmahne faith, and trusted that peace would eventually prevail, depending on the Denraen to keep them safe. From what she’d seen, the violence of the Deshmahne, she began to wonder how uninformed they all really were.
She reached a stream. The water was crisp and cold, likely running out of the northern mountains. Fog had drifted back in, restricting her ability to see the mountains, but she hoped that she traveled in the right direction, making her way south and toward Vasha. Isandra thought she had it right this time, confident she was traveling in the correct direction.
She rested near the stream. As she did, she felt a distant thunder, one that rumbled through her chest, coming up through the ground.
Great. Not only would she be stranded in the cold and the fog, hungry and thirsty, but now she would be drenched by rain. Rain was worse than snow. The snow had been dry, and blew pa
st her. The last few days had given her no snow, nothing but the steady gusting wind.
As she lay there, she realized the thundering was not thunder as she had thought.
Horses at a gallop.
Would it be Deshmahne?
Isandra sat up and scanned the landscape around her. She searched for a place to hide, anything that would provide some protection, but saw nothing.
The stream. That was her only hope for protection, but that meant she would have to throw herself into the water and remain hidden.
If it was the Deshmahne, she had to hope they would not notice her and ride past.
With her luck after soaking in the frigid water, it would be northern soldiers, not the Deshmahne. But if so, maybe they could help her.
She got to her knees and looked around. Which way were they coming from?
She saw no sign of horses, but the thundering was there, a gradual, steady buildup, one that became increasingly louder.
She debated trying to run, but she didn’t have the energy necessary to get anywhere quickly. Hiding would be her best option, but she couldn’t bring herself to get into the stream.
Instead, she stood where she was, helpless to do anything else.
Gradually, five horsed riders came into view.
They were not Deshmahne as she’d feared—at least, she didn’t think they were.
They were all dressed in richly stained leathers, most in colors of deep red, dark blue, and even some shades of green or orange. They were all men. All had their faces painted to match their leathers. All carried vicious-looking curved swords.
Antrilii.
Isandra had never seen the Antrilii, but she’d heard enough stories, and after all the conversations the Council had had recently about Roelle finding the Antrilii, she had them on her mind. She hadn’t expected to see them herself, and didn’t think she was far enough north—or was she?
She thought that she had continued west and south, but with the fog obscuring her vision, what if she had not? What if she had continued toward the north—and toward Antrilii lands?
Twist of the Fibers (The Lost Prophecy Book 4) Page 4
