by Stephen Wolf
“I swear to you, on my wife’s grave, that I will do as you ask. You have all died in this tumult. I swear it!” His voice quivered, but his eyes were sincere.
“Go.” Gabrion ushered him away to run in the darkness back toward Warringer.
“Well played,” Kitalla commended, handing Gabrion’s horse over to him. “We should get moving now, though. Those lupinoes might just be regrouping.” She turned to Dariak. “You all right to ride?”
“The feeling is coming back a little; I’ll be fine.” He struggled to climb upon the horse, but he managed.
Gabrion pulled the mage’s robe from his tunic and handed it over, then mounted his horse. “Which way are you headed?”
“We are headed to Pindington, remember?” Dariak answered.
“No,” Gabrion decided. “It’s entirely the wrong direction. Mira is to the west.”
The mage saw the determination setting into the man’s eyes. “The group that was after the minstrel also has a shard, and they’re heading east. If we intercept them—”
“Then we get closer to your absurd idea of peace!” Gabrion shouted. “Assembling the shards to earn great power to end wars? It won’t work. No, we need to secure the border between our lands and stop brigands from crossing in both directions.”
“Both directions?” Kitalla asked. “Don’t you plan on crossing over that way first? For your lady?”
“That is different. She belongs in this land.”
The thief sighed. “Everyone has their own reasons for all the things they do. They come here for one thing; you go there for another. How is your plan any better than his?”
Gabrion turned his horse around. “She needs me.”
Dariak looked at the back of Gabrion’s head. “We’ll get her back. After this detour, all roads will go toward the west.”
The warrior’s head bent down. “But north too, then maybe into the mountains, and then perhaps waggling to the south. By the time we even get there, she’ll be—” He stopped himself.
“Well, I’m not waiting around here anymore,” Kitalla announced. “I’m bleeding, and I’m tired, and I want to reach Gerrish for a proper rest before making the extended journey to Pindington.”
Gabrion said nothing, so Kitalla asked, “Are you sure? You’re really planning to go it alone?”
“Yes.” He looked back at the two of them. “You don’t need me anyway.”
“You’re wrong,” Dariak said honestly.
“Fine.” Kitalla rolled her eyes, having reached her limit. “No long good-byes then.”
Dariak couldn’t believe the warrior was about to go. He had grown fond of the lug. He walked his horse over and grasped the warrior’s hand, then cast a furious look at Kitalla to at least bid him a proper farewell.
Gabrion reached out for her hand. “Best of luck on your journey.”
“You too,” she said, reaching out with her right hand to clasp his. Then, before anyone could see, she swung her left arm out, dagger held backward in her hand, and clocked him in the side of the neck with the hilt, immediately knocking him out cold.
“What are you doing!” Dariak shouted.
“He’s coming with us.” She hopped from her saddle, unwound a rope from her waist and secured the warrior to his saddle, then remounted her horse, took the reins of both animals, and turned to the mage. “Do I have to knock you out too? Let’s move it.”
Stunned, it took a moment for Dariak to respond. Apparently, the thief had also grown attached to the man. She could have easily just let him go. Turning his horse and pressing his knees in hard, he raced after her.
“He’ll kill you for that,” Dariak called over to her.
“Let him try.”
Chapter 17
The Warrior and the Thief
Gabrion opened his eyes slowly, and the light striking them sent flashes of agony through his skull. He squinted for a while, then gradually let more light in until he could make sense of his surroundings.
He realized that he was lying down on a cot with a thin blanket pulled up to his chin. He felt weak and tired, but it seemed mostly from the pain in his neck and head. He pushed himself upright, and the blanket slipped down to reveal that he was no longer dressed as a silken jester. Several poultices were wrapped around various wounds, including a cold compress of sorts on his neck.
The room was tiny and made entirely of wood, from the walls and ceiling to the furnishings. The smell of pungent herbs wafted through the air, and light shone through a window cutout in the wall that had no covering and would allow rain to blow right in. His chain mail and tunic sat on a chair nearby, as did his sword and shield. He held his head for a while as he struggled to rise up and gather himself.
He remembered well enough what had happened. Kitalla had stunned him, and they had ridden through the night. He had only caught glimpses on the journey as he slowly recovered, but the pains had kept him well sedated. What he didn’t know was where they were, but he suspected it wasn’t Warringer.
Gabrion pulled on his pants and tunic, leaving the chain mail for later. What he needed most was food and something to alleviate the fierce pounding in his skull. Then he would deal with Kitalla and Dariak.
Stumbling through the doorway, he found himself in a larger house than he had expected, with at least eight rooms that he could see from his vantage point, including a seating area in the center, loaded with ferns and other green plants. He ignored as much of the throbbing as he could and approached a table off to the side, where an old woman sat with needle and thread.
“Ah, good, you’ve awoken,” she greeted him. “You’re a hardy one, my friend. My name’s Pionalla. I’m the village healer. Your friends went out, but they’ll be back shortly. You all looked worse for the wear when you crashed in last night. And your poor horses too. But everyone will be all right in the end, dear. You do look a bit peaked. Let me have a look at you.” She didn’t give him a chance to interrupt before pressing her hands against his temples, which hurt terribly. “Ah, you’ll be fine, son. Here, take a walk over there, and eat something. I’ll get you an elixir for that headache.”
Too achy to argue, Gabrion did as he was told. The fare wasn’t bad, but he normally wouldn’t have chosen to eat it. The bread was at least a few days old, and the stew had also been around awhile. It was grisly and had a strange tang to it. He tried to pretend it was loaded with healing herbs that would fix him up from the inside, but he doubted that was the case.
A large mug of warm tea was placed beside him, and the woman applied a cold towel to his neck on top of the poultice. “This one looks like it was for protection, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” he grumbled.
She harrumphed and sat beside him. “I made them explain why you were tied to that horse and why everyone was wounded. Made a bit of sense, bringing you with them rather than letting you run off by yourself.”
“It wasn’t their decision!” he yelled, immediately regretting it as pain surged through his head. “I would have been fine…I will be fine.” He crammed in a few more spoonfuls of stew.
“Yes, I don’t doubt that,” she agreed. “You’re a strong one. Just don’t be too rash. Think things through, and do what your heart tells you. It’s when you lose yourself that you’re truly lost.” Then she stood and walked away.
The words irritated him, for they reminded him of his father’s warning. He didn’t know what that meant anymore. At least he hadn’t killed that last guard and had given him a chance to return to his family while hopefully convincing the king to call off the search. Yet he also wanted to abandon Dariak’s quest and pursue Mira, to save her before it was too late. He had no idea how long the Hathrens would keep a hostage or why they had chosen her.
The tea soaked into the back of his throat and soothed on its way down. It calmed him, and that eased the throbbing in his skull. A
s he took the last few bites of stale bread, Dariak entered the main room, where Pionalla pointed in the warrior’s direction.
The mage was wearing his robe again with a slight alteration, perhaps due to damage during the fight with the lupinoes. Instead of completely enshrouding him, the robe was left open and looked more like a cloak now, which gave Dariak more mobility while still allowing access to his spell components. It also appeared as if he had spent the morning stocking up on supplies, for the red cloth and underlying leathers were practically bulging all over the place. “Good, you’re back with us.”
“Not like I had a choice.”
“She—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Gabrion interrupted. “Not now. I need to rest.” He pushed away his plate and bowl and then ignored the pleading look on Dariak’s face before making his way back to his room. He shut the door and stretched out on the bed, tenderly rubbing his temples and waiting for the pain to subside.
Whether it was moments or hours later, he had no idea, but Kitalla was sitting on the chair, having moved his things to the floor. She sat with her legs crossed and her hands on her knee, as if he had summoned her to hear about his latest dream.
“Get out,” he growled.
“Make me.”
He sat up quickly, then regretted it as the pain swept back in full force for a moment, but when he was still, it was much better than earlier. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“That suits me fine. I don’t want you to talk. Just listen.” She waited calmly until she read acquiescence in his expression. “You’re very strong and very noble. That makes you uncommon and a bit stupid.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved him to silence.
“You’re rash when it comes to some things, but you’re consistent with other things. I knew you weren’t going to kill that guard. We weren’t in the middle of battling him; you had no reason to. It’s the same as when you tried to leave the forest without hurting us.” To her credit, she held back a mocking laugh. “And you let that mage live even after he attacked your village. There aren’t many men like you in the world.” Her voice went oddly quiet, laced with emotion. “I couldn’t let you run off to die.”
“I wasn’t going to go die.”
She sighed. “Not in your head, no. But you forgot that Dariak stole something of value from the king’s museum, didn’t you? And I’m sure the guards were sent to retrieve it as well as us. Even if we had been killed, they would have taken that shard back.”
Gabrion thought about it for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Is no one honest in this world anymore?”
“I don’t think the guard lied to you at all, Gabrion. I believe he will do what you asked, but when the king asks about the jade and there isn’t one to return, the hunt will continue.” She cleared her throat. “He probably knows that too.”
“So the king will kill him.”
She nodded. “Or give him the option of leading the next group since he knows well enough what we look like.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
A proud smile crept over her face, and Gabrion wasn’t sure at first how to read it. “You sent him off on foot, and then he has to talk down the other guard. Then you did the best thing you could have done. You sent him to your hometown. That in itself gives us a good deal of time, both for him to get there and then to return to the king. Because I do believe he swore honestly to you, and he will carry out his errand as you specified.”
“And in the meantime, I’m just a dog following his masters.”
“You were doing so well up to that point.” She frowned. “Listen, will you? You weren’t supposed to be talking anyway. I don’t believe in promises. They’re too easy to break. I’ve seen too many of them shattered for too many reasons.” She cleared her throat. “I also know how men are, which was why it was so easy to disguise us all back at Warringer. One pretty dress, and I’m the focus. Unlikely outfits for the two of you, and we’re all strangers, not a trio of brigands.”
Gabrion was shaking his head. “Where is this going?”
“Shh.” She rolled her eyes. “Some men are just stubborn too. Where was I? Ah, yes. I don’t think the three of us have a realistic chance of entering Hathreneir and walking into the castle unscathed so you can collect Mira. But!” she exclaimed to cut off Gabrion’s retort. “I do think that we have the potential to get there. Hear me out.
“Dariak needs the shards to gain more power. He spent some time this morning helping me to recognize the energy I draw in, which will give me the abilities I need to be stronger. Your skills improve greatly with every encounter, almost like you absorb the situation into yourself and then put it to use.”
Gabrion blushed at this description of himself, as Kitalla knew he would.
“Given just a little more time,” she barreled on, “we will be strong enough to save her.”
“Do you really believe that?”
She stared at him intensely for a while before she nodded. “Absolutely. Even without all the pieces of the Red Jade, we’re all getting stronger. We’ve done so much so far. They won’t be able to stop us. And,” she said hesitantly, then stopped.
“And?”
Her eyes sank down, and she remained very still for a few moments before she spoke again, and when she did, it was as if she were letting out a part of her soul. “Your nobility is something I want to believe in. Something I lost a long time ago. But with every twist, you’ve always brought it forth. It’s a real part of you. So I want to give it a try.”
His brows furrowed deeply.
She looked into his brown eyes, and he could see tears brimming there. “I promise you that I will help you get her back.”
Gabrion’s jaw firmed, and he gave a terse nod, which she returned. They each released a deep breath, and Kitalla stood up. “Good, that’s done.”
“Kitalla?”
“Hmm?”
“If you don’t believe in promises, how can I count on you for this one?”
She smiled. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Chapter 18
Gabrion in Gerrish
The healer of Gerrish was skilled in her ways, but she had not the power of the clerics of Kaison. She couldn’t pull the energies in and seal gashes or encourage the body to fix itself properly, thus the trio remained in the town for a few days.
Dariak and Kitalla spent hours together, discussing the differences between her arts and his magic. He worked with her on meditating and visualizing the energy flowing out of her, creating the scenes she was conjuring for her victims, but she hated sitting still for any length of time. She argued that she just thought of what she wanted people to see and her body did the rest, so challenging her to analyze it was like trying to feel how the mind tells the hand to bend into a fist.
When he wasn’t coaching the thief, Dariak spent his time communing with the pieces of jade, trying to learn more about them, but his efforts with Kitalla were draining, so his progress was slow. He tried fitting the two pieces together, but none of the irregular faces seemed to match. The pieces resonated with perfect synchronicity, yet something was amiss.
With his companions busy, Gabrion walked around the village, learning where the shops were located and taking on tasks for the healer to help repay her kindness. Her practice depended solely on donations, and she never once asked them for a single gold coin, but Gabrion insisted on doing something productive for her.
The warrior was an experienced farmer, and so he put his skills to use tending the herb gardens that sprawled out the back of her establishment. She had rows of flowers and plants growing in wild patches, with weeds creeping in maliciously. A trowel, some shears, and the sun shining overhead were all the things Gabrion needed for a truly therapeutic recovery, both of his wounds and the garden.
Once he had tende
d to the soil and procured the supplies she needed from various vendors in town, Gabrion put his back into making repairs to some of the falling planks along the house. It was harsh work with his mending wounds, but he was careful enough not to reopen any of them. He couldn’t convince the others to help, as they were focused on their own goals, but at least he knew he was doing what was right. His father would be very proud.
Gabrion’s skills in the kitchen, however, were lacking. Chopping tomatoes usually resulted in a mess, and it became a bit of a sport for Kitalla to harass him during his attempts, after which she would apply her daggers in force and dice anything nearby with such precision Gabrion was always amazed. He was much better at larger, sweeping motions, but he needed to build finesse as well.
There was a training studio for wannabe warriors, and Gabrion attended a session one morning to try to learn some pointers. Warmaster Garroph refused to let the man participate against the younger lads, but he let the warrior watch from the sidelines. When Gabrion asked if he could spar against the warmaster himself, the man eyed the remaining poultices and shook his head, not willing to inflict any more damage until Gabrion was fully healed.
Among his rounds, Gabrion visited the village elder, but he was not permitted entrance until his fourth attempt. Something about routine and rituals not being followed, yet when he would ask around, no one would clarify for him. He tried bringing a gift of herbs on his third visit, but he was sent away, told the infirm needed them more.
Five days after arriving in town, Gabrion’s wish to meet with the elder was granted. He was given a large smock to wear in homage to the town, and he walked barefoot into a wide room, where sand and stones etched a circuitous path toward the center of the room. Though it would have been much faster to take ten steps straight ahead to the old man kneeling at a table, he understood that he needed to traverse the longer path, and so he did.
At first, the steps were easy. The sand was perhaps an inch thick, and the river rocks along the side easily marked the path. He wound around to the left and followed the wall all the way toward the back, where the path turned back around and led halfway down along the wall. As he went, the sand went deeper and deeper, until it was like walking along a beach, which Gabrion had done only once before, as a young child, when his family had ventured south to Benningor. He worked hard to maintain his balance in the sand, and when the path swirled around to the left and the right, the sand changed again.
