Etchings of Power aotg-1

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Maybe,” Hagan said, “But what of Amuni’s Children?”

  Bertram waved his gnarled hand in dismissal. “They are but men. They can die as easily as any other. With there being so few shadelings, we should be able to muster enough divya between the elders to defend ourselves.”

  Hagan shook his head. “We should do as Ryne says and leave.”

  “You would think like that,” Bertram snickered.

  “This be about the safety of all,” Hagan said. “Not just your personal vengeance.”

  Bertram began to reply, but stopped as Vana and Vera brought three cups and two flagons to the table. One flagon contained wine and the other juice, both drinks made from kinai. Ryne acknowledged the sisters’ fond expressions with a nod and a smile of his own. After quick bows, the women returned to arranging the furniture around the room with practiced efficiency.

  With a sigh, Ryne reached for the kinai juice, chair creaking under his weight. “Listen. As much as I despise the Tribunal for my own reasons, not all of them are bad or intend harm. However, if you hurt Mariel in any way, no good will come of it. And as for fighting against Amuni’s Children.” He waited impassively for Bertram’s one-eyed gaze to meet his. “Not everyone in Carnas fought in the wars, Bertram. You have women and children here. Don’t let your hate continue to blind you. You may be willing to cross the doorway to death, but plenty others here still want and deserve to cling to life.” He filled a cup and took a sip. A tingling sensation followed, quickly spreading from his gullet through his body. “To be safe, head south to Berin, it’s the fastest and the safest path. The Bana won’t turn you away. You might want to consider sending some scouts to cross the Black Reaches and take word to Castere too.”

  A thoughtful expression crossed Hagan's face as he puffed on his pipe a little more than usual. Smoke roiled into the air once more.

  Mayor Bertram massaged his stump. “Fine. Let’s convene the elders to see what we should do. In the meantime, we should take Mariel. Question her properly about who she is. Find out what part she plays in what’s happened.”

  Ryne grunted. “You forget she won’t let me or Sakari get close to her, which in itself is part of my concern.”

  “Be her fleeing from you two such a danger?” Hagan chewed on his pipe. “I’d run too if I saw a giant with a face like yours carrying that monster you call a sword.” He gestured with his head toward Ryne’s five-foot greatsword.

  Ryne smirked, fingers creeping up to touch the scars that striped the left side of his face. “I don’t think my appearance scares her much, if at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “When you’re afraid of a person, you don’t stalk them,” Ryne said. The initial energy burst from the kinai juice wore off, so he emptied his cup. He never quite grasped the need for the wine. Kinai juice or the fruit itself bore enough energetic properties all on its own. Why anyone would want to dull the feeling by impairing their faculties was beyond him.

  “Maybe, she be how we were when we first met you. Scared but curious. It’s not like you be the most normal looking fellow,” Hagan said.

  Ryne glanced at the Scripts drawn on his arms. They matched those covering his entire body and his armor up to his chin. Each displayed scenes more detailed than epic tapestries. If he stared at them long enough, they appeared lifelike, almost as if he could reach out and touch the leaves upon the trees, or the water within the lakes and waterfalls, or smell the battlefields etched into his skin.

  Still, neither who Mariel represented and how she trailed him meant well. Only creatures on the hunt moved as she did, appearing and vanishing in the bat of an eyelid but leaving the feeling she hid close enough to pounce.

  When faced by the unknown, cut out its heart before it can take yours. An old teaching he and Sakari had used countless times. And how has that worked for you in the past? Thousands of innocents slaughtered is how. Either he or Sakari needed to find another way to get rid of Mariel without harming Carnas.

  Thoughts of his friend made Ryne become acutely aware of the lump at the back of his mind. Right now, it felt distant, but as Sakari moved closer, the feeling grew more solid. Ryne sensed his companion somewhere to the east. Did he manage to find out anything new about Mariel?

  With that thought, Ryne’s link to Sakari bloomed. He saw through Sakari’s eyes as if he walked in his boots. The man stood at the edge of the Fretian Woods watching Mariel’s distant figure.

  “She has not allowed me to come close once,” Sakari said, his tone empty. “She moves every time I do.”

  “That’s fine. Just keep an eye on her,” Ryne said before breaking the link.

  The sight through Sakari dissolved. Ryne saw only his surroundings within the inn once more. He noted Hagan’s knitted eyebrows and Bertram’s fidgeting.

  “You feeling well? Should I send for Taeria?” Hagan asked.

  Ryne shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, you were just staring off into the air and talking to yourself,” Bertram said, but avoided Ryne’s eyes.

  “Just thinking aloud.” Ryne ignored the men’s skeptical glances. “What were you saying before I became caught up with my thoughts?”

  “I be telling Bertram when I seen her, she spoke every bit like a priestess or a Granadian noble. You know the sort. They expect to be heard and obeyed,” the innkeeper said. He pursed his lips while looking at the mayor from the corner of his eyes. “He still wants us to run her off or worse.”

  “We all know running her off won’t work,” Ryne said.

  “Which leaves the worse,” Hagan concluded. “Do you really want to do something that might make them dispatch soldiers looking for her? If she be who she says she be, what will the Granadian Tribunal think if them eagles she sends every morning stop delivering messages?”

  “And what if it isn’t Granadia she’s delivering messages to? What then?” Bertram shifted his head so the ruined side of his face turned to Hagan then Ryne.

  “We know your opinion of the Devout. But suggesting she be sending messages to Amuni’s Children, wherever they are, be foolish. And blasphemous.”

  Ryne almost told Hagan it could be a possibility. But Bertram would only feed on such a suggestion.

  “In Humelen’s name, Hagan,” Bertram said, his already black skin growing so black it shone with his rage as his aura gave an almost imperceptible quaver. “Open your eyes. The Tribunal has always wanted to conquer Ostania. Ever since Nerian rebelled, and they lost their hold on us. I tell you, the War of Remnants was their doing. It was their way to get a toehold back into Ostania.”

  Hagan chuckled. “You and your plots. I know the reason you wish to harm her. We all do. Maybe you have the right of it, but-”

  “You’re damned right I do,” Bertram blurted out.

  “Bertram, your son’s death be-”

  “You think this is just about my son?” Bertram’s face twisted with the question. “I forgave Ryne long ago for my son’s death. It wasn’t by his hand. The Alzari assassins hired by your precious Tribunal were the ones responsible. The same Tribunal that’s responsible for everything else me and the rest of Ostania has suffered. I’ll be damned if I let someone else get hurt or grovel at their feet. I’m sick of it.”

  Ryne kept silent. He’d apologized many times for the loss of the mayor’s last family member. Sometimes, he felt as if he had never been in Carnas the boy would be alive today. However, if he’d not been here, the village would have fallen to raiders years ago. That had never made him feel any better about what the Alzari had done to the boy. He knew no words to console Bertram.

  “This be foolishness,” Hagan said, his lip curled in disgust. “Blame the Tribunal for sending them Alzari back then, fine. But harm Mariel for the sake of vengeance, and the Tribunal’s attention will turn on us. You wish to condemn us all? Killing their assassins be one thing, but to kill a Devout?”

  “A Devout? Ha,” Bertram scoffed, the angry scar from his burn twitching, “If you’re s
o blind as to believe she’s just out here to teach us ‘savages’ about the purity of the Lord of light, then you’re more fool than I thought, Hagan. Ilumni…Amuni, they’re all Streamean in case you forgot. The Tribunal use the Devout to preach justice and spiritual harmony and meanwhile conquer all who don’t convert. Same shit, different chamber pot. Next, you’ll tell me you believe she’s really interested in how we survive, and why we risk settling this far into the wilds. Tell me this, since you do believe she’s just a Devout. Would you be satisfied with the offer she has made to take those who wish to follow her to Granadia?”

  Hagan poured himself a cup of wine. “Of course not, but if they no longer wish to be here, who be we to stop them?”

  “We’re a free people, that’s who. Beholden to no one. Free to worship which gods we please, when we please. Free to fight whoever threatens us. Free to live out here away from the grip and poison of other peoples.”

  “Funny thing this freedom of yours be,” Hagan said, knocking the contents of his pipe into an ashtray. “It seems to ignore our choice to come and go as we please.” When Bertram only glowered in response Hagan added, “That be what I thought,” and took a sip from his cup.

  Bertram snatched up the flagon of wine. His jaw clenched while he filled the last remaining cup, and the flesh from his burn scar tugged at his lips as he muttered to himself. With another glare at Hagan, who raised his own cup as a toast, Bertram downed the drink. He glanced at Ryne and took a deep breath. “We may be doomed anyway. If those Alzari in the woods were sent for you then the Tribunal knows you’re still alive. And that means Mariel already sent word.”

  Ryne scowled. He’d known this was coming. “And yet I haven’t killed her or suggested you do. Concern yourself with your people, Bertram. Convene your elders as you will. I’ve had my say. Tell them what I found. Then decide what’s best.” He stood, picked up his sword, and headed toward the door.

  “Where will you be? It may be best if you tell them yourself.” Hagan’s voice pleaded for Ryne to accept the offer.

  Pulling the door open, Ryne paused and turned to meet Hagan’s gaze. “I have a summons to prepare for. It cannot be avoided if I’m to help you regardless of what decision the elders make.” He stepped out into the night.

  CHAPTER 9

  Irmina’s hand fidgeted close to her sword. Cloudless, dark skies sprinkled with stars stretched as far as she could see beyond Silvereyes. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her shirt clung to her back as she fixed her gaze on the Ostanian who was watching her from atop a small slope, not making any attempt to hide himself.

  Rolling her shoulders, she stretched her neck to one side to work out the tightness from maintaining her vigilance. The throbbing pain along her shoulders eased ever so slightly, but the unbidden urge to nod off gnawed at her. Occasionally, she pricked herself with her Devout pin, the carving of the moons and sun etched into its shiny surface reflecting what little light existed.

  She needed to stay awake. The one moment since coming to Carnas that she’d allowed her attention to lapse, she’d almost paid the price. That time, Silvereyes snuck close in the minutes her concentration wavered, and forced her to use every trick she knew to escape him. Since then, she made certain to keep her campsites out in the open on the Orchid Plains. The events in the woods when he’d touched her mind, changed his eye color, and somehow repaired his armor without the use of any materials, only made her more wary.

  The humid night stoked her anxiety. Shadows stretched across the sparse trees and layered fescue, making Silvereyes become little more than a silhouette. A flash of memory brought those obsidian eyes screaming back, and she shivered. She touched her sword hilt for its reassuring comfort. Even home in Eldanhill, she’d kept her sword close at all times. Ancel used to say her sword received more love than he did. She squeezed the hilt with the thought.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the commotion still bubbling within Carnas. They must be in an uproar over the boy. She blew out a breath, still wishing she could have helped Kahkon. But at least the giant man had found him. Whatever he had done, she knew he used Mater. She hadn’t needed to open herself to her Matersense to be able to tell. The sheer power he used resonated to her core. A feeling she’d never experienced before. Not even in her master’s presence.

  Jerem’s words and his grave expression returned to her.

  “Irmina,” Jerem said. “This man is the deadliest person you will ever meet. If he discovers you are a Matus, he will become hostile. If he learns you are a Matus powerful enough to be an Ashishin, he will most certainly kill you without hesitation. Until you learn a way to approach him, you must maintain a distance where he cannot read your aura. Under no circumstances must you use Mater in his presence.”

  “My aura?”

  “Yes.” Jerem stroked his wispy beard. “His kind has a unique ability to see essences around any living thing without engaging their Matersense.”

  “What is his kind? And what is he called? His name? I’d like to know what or who I’m facing.”

  “Knowing that part would make no difference. He’s had too many names to count. What he calls himself now,” he shrugged, “I have no idea. Suffice it to say, if he doesn’t wish to accompany you then you will not be able to force him.”

  “So how am I to bring him back with me?” she asked.

  “That, dear one, is a problem for which you must find a solution. One thing is certain. You must not fail,” High Ashishin Jerem said, his raspy voice harder and more grave than she had ever heard.

  A quick movement from Silvereyes broke Irmina from her memories. He darted away toward Carnas.

  Irmina’s stomach writhed. She didn’t wish to follow, but what other choices were there? If she needed this to complete her training, to secure her revenge, then so be it. Hand on her sword hilt, she jogged after Silvereyes.

  Ancel stumbled through the side door of his parents’ winery with Mirza and Charra on his heels. “Da! Ma!” He rushed down the hall past hanging paintings and startled servants toward the study. He banged the door open.

  Ancel’s father looked up from poring over his books, his black hair streaked with white spilling about his face. Stefan’s expression darkened as he straightened in his chair. “What’s all this fuss about? Shouldn’t you two be out picking kinai?”

  Ancel and Mirza’s words tumbled over each other at the same time, their recount of the night’s events spilling out in a jumble.

  His father’s hard slap rang off the tabletop. “One at a time.”

  “Stefan, sir,” Mirza began, wringing his hands.

  Stefan stroked his pointed beard and arched an eyebrow at him.

  “S-sorry,” Mirza stammered, his cheeks flushing red, “I mean, Master Dorn. Sir, we were just chased by…by…”

  “Spit it out, boy.”

  The heavy oak door creaked open. Ancel’s mother peeked in, her gray hair wrapped in a bun. Her steady, silvery blue eyes took in both their disheveled appearances before she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Why do you two look as if you were dragged through a field? And what’s this mess you brought in with you?” She pointed at the red trail their boots and Charra’s paws left on the carpet. Her nose wrinkled “And what’s that awful smell?” She leaned back outside the door and called for one of the servants, barking instructions before turning her gaze back to the boys. “Well?”

  Their replies burst forth again, a jumbled roll of both voices at once.

  “Both of you calm down,” his mother ordered, her voice a melodic chime that still carried authority. “Take a seat.” She pointed to the soft, cushioned armchairs as she glided across the room. Her dark blue dress brought out her eyes as it flowed around her. “Give yourselves a few moments to breathe and then begin again. From the start this time.” She nodded to Stefan and then to the large room’s opposite side.

  Stefan pushed back his chair from the table and stood. His white silk shirt and biege trousers showed stains from
his last meal. Muttering under his breath, he strode past the many bookcases to the second entrance into the room, peered outside, then pulled the door shut.

  Ancel and Mirza made their way to the chairs near the table and sat. Books littered the oak surface, many of them open or containing a marker. Charra trotted over and stretched on the rug next to them.

  The thick rug under his feet soothed Ancel as he suddenly realized that his legs were watery weak. Taking a deep breath, he stretched them out, savoring the smell of old books and the flowery scented oil his mother favored in the lamps along the walls. This was the only room in the house without a window, and the lamplight played across the wall hangings depicting the history of the Ostanian tribes. Considering how his father often boasted about their ancestors’ bravery, Ancel wondered what they would have thought about how he fled the Greenleaf.

  “Well, which one of you is ready?” His father once again took his seat at the table. Mother stood next to him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “I am,” Ancel answered. He sucked in a great breath and relayed all that had happened, from the missing wolves to the rotten kinai in their secret glen, to the two wolf-like creatures that had followed them.

  His father’s brow rose and lowered with the telling until his eyes became slits when Ancel mentioned the two beasts. His mother’s face remained impassive until he mentioned the kinai. A slight hiss escaped her lips then.

  “Have you told this to anyone?” Stefan’s stern expression took in both Mirza and Ancel.

  “No, Da.”

  “No, Master Dorn.”

  “Good. Keep it that way until I say otherwise.” A thoughtful look crossed his father’s face.

  “I know that look, Stefan Dorn,” Mother said. “Don’t think of running off and doing anything foolish.”

  “I’m not, Thania, dear, but this needs to be investigated.”

  “Tell the Council. Let them have this task for once.”

  His father sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”