by M. S. Verish
“Or is it William who needs our assistance? One spirit should know another. State your business here, Stormbringer, or you will be banished from our forest.”
“No, please.” Kariayla took a breath. “William sent me to warn you. The Priagent of Lornabaez has found the Ravenstone. My friends have gone to retrieve it, and they hope to bring it here, where it will be safe.”
“We have no use for the Ravenstone. Its darkness can remain beyond our home.”
She blinked. “You won’t help us?”
“Yours is not a warning. William should not concern himself with mortal conflicts. We cannot help you.”
“But…” William had said the Ilangiel would not be happy to be involved, but he never would have sent her if he had known they would refuse to help. These could not be the benevolent beings steeped in folklore—the same beings that had shaped their world and gave life to all within it. William had been wrong, and now she was lost in a forest, her friends were still in peril, and there would be no deliverance once their role was through. Worst of all, she had failed yet again. Her one, minor role was useless now. But there was more. The horror of the attack last night, knowing that something was wrong with her, having lost Ruby… The tears were quick to well. Nothing was going right, and in fact, the situation had just worsened. Would the immortals come and drag her from the forest, or would they send some other creature to come and devour her? Her head throbbed, and her heart was empty. Kariayla did not try to restrain herself; crying was the only sensible thing to do.
She drew her knees to her chest and gasped when her wing grazed something solid behind her. She froze and blinked, trying to clear the tears from her eyes so that she could see.
“I mean you no harm,” said a gentle voice.
Kariayla twisted to see Light—Light in the shape of a man. He was radiant and flawless—Jinx’s age by appearance. He was fair-skinned, with golden hair braided over his shoulder, and his eyes… Blue-green and sparkling, holding her own regard like flame in the night. She could see beyond their color to the forest they reflected. No, it was more than a reflection, for she was not present amongst the trees. This was like a window to another world, and in that world were shifting colors and auras surrounding the trees and the earth, and….
“Gaze not too closely, lest you become entranced by the Ilán,” he warned. His voice was not the one that had been in her mind. It was softer, his accent thicker. He took hold of her hand, and warmth traveled up her arm, flooded her body and eased the pain in her head. She could feel her breathing slow, her heart calm.
“I know naught of weeping, but I know sorrow,” he said. “I am Atrion of Celaedrion.” He let her fingers slowly slide from his. “You are Nemelorean? I have never seen your kind before, but I know of them.”
Kariayla nodded, and she heard her name fall from her lips. Her senses were slowly returning to her, but her awe had not diminished in the slightest.
“Forgive me, Lady Kariayla, but I had intended to be present when you woke. I brought you here from the edge of the forest, where there was no protection from the Wild. You are safe now.”
She believed him, all her doubt now vanished, like rain chased away by the sun. But there was still one pressing thought. “I had a friend—Ruby.” Kariayla raised her hand to the imp’s height and blushed at her loss of words.
“Aye,” Atrion said, lifting his gaze to their surroundings. “She followed willingly but has since chosen to remain hidden.” He nodded toward the thick trunk of a nearby tree. “Now that you are awake, I am certain she will grow braver.”
“This place is beautiful,” Kariayla marveled.
Atrion smiled. “This is Veloria.” His smile faded as he lifted an object from the ground. He turned the stone in his hand and offered it to her. “Where have you encountered such an item?”
Kariayla took it, feeling its warmth in her hand, though it no longer emitted any light. The color had shifted to a pale blue with white, wispy swirls of clouds. She thought of her companions, and her forgotten grief returned. “A friend gave it to me. He said it would bring me light when I needed it, and it did. I can’t help him the way he has helped me.” Her fingers closed around the stone, and she tucked it away. “I was sent here to help them, and I failed.”
“Tell me your tale, Lady Kariayla. What brings you such sorrow? Who are your friends who depend upon your presence here?”
She took a breath. “Arcturus, Jinx, and Hawkwing. William—I suppose he is a wizard of sorts—”
“I know William,” Atrion said. “And Master Hawkwing.”
“He sent them to retrieve the Ravenstone. The Priagent of Lornabaez uncovered it, and William is afraid of what he will do with it. He asked the others to bring it here for safekeeping.” Her tone hardened. “But the voice told me you cannot help us; you won’t take the stone.” She looked at him. “Why?”
Atrion seemed surprised by her pointed question, and Kariayla surprised herself at her boldness.
“A voice spoke to you,” he said. “But I am speaking with you now. I will help you and your companions as best I may. You must understand that we know little beyond Veloria. My people have relinquished their role in your world, and what is of significance to you may have no bearing upon us.”
“I admit that I don’t truly understand all of what William said,” Kariayla told him, “but if William is worried, then I think that gives us all cause to worry.”
“That is a fair assessment.” Atrion stood and offered his hand. “See now that your small companion has ventured beyond her sanctuary.”
Kariayla turned to the tree to find the imp standing sheepishly before it. “We’re safe now,” she urged. “Come and meet Atrion. He is one of the Ilangiel William sent us to find.”
Ruby padded toward them and came to stand behind Kariayla, her little face rosy as she peered at the glowing immortal.
Atrion bowed. “I would imagine you are in need of sustenance. Allow me to tend to this small matter before we speak of magic stones and intrusive spirits. Come.”
Kariayla and Ruby exchanged a glance as they followed behind their host. The emerald curtains of the forest parted as they trod upon an earthy path that had not been present before. The light of the vast and radiant tree rode upon their backs until they were beyond sight of it, and though this part of the forest felt safe and inviting, Kariayla still sensed the presence of the Unseen. “It’s like the trees are watching us,” she murmured to Ruby.
“Aye, they do,” Atrion said. “Veloria is alive.”
Kariayla paused and reached toward a low branch with glistening leaves, her fingers just shy of grazing them. Were not all forests alive? A passing breeze must have nudged the branch in her direction, for the leaves slid along her skin, tentative and feathery, and breathing….
Her own breath caught in her throat as she quickened her pace to match the longer strides of her tall host.
20
Instigators and Imposters
Rourke had tried his best to sleep. He had been tired—right until the moment he lay down and closed his eyes. The old manor had its share of creaks and groans, and he had slept in his fair share of hovels without a nice bed or a solid roof, but it was the idea of the company he kept that staved off his slumber. Somewhere in that same manor was a demon—the Demon—and perhaps the most infamous thief alive, the Prophet. He could recite the stories from the streets—with a little embellishment, of course—by heart. Each tale was a testament to their greatness, another victory in the war of true justice between impoverished thief and greedy merchant.
There were thieves, and there were thieves. Some were poor like him, without a home or family, stealing to survive. Others were rotten scoundrels as greedy as the rich from whom they stole. The truly great ones, however, stole because it was right. They evened the odds between those with everything and those with nothing, and they made life a little fairer. And they did so with style.
Great thieves had great names, and great thie
ves were clever, mysterious, and had special powers. The Prophet could see the future, and he had summoned a magical demon to serve him. They were like gods—maybe even servants of Jedinom himself—untouchable and infallible. It bothered Rourke to no end that both the Prophet and his White Demon had been apprehended. There was a decided flaw to this story, and he felt personally responsible for learning the truth. Did the Priagent have magic of his own that he used to catch them? Was it some sort of spell or special trap that caught his heroes by surprise?
He turned over in his bed, his eyes wide. What if they needed him to help them escape? Of course, he would have to be careful not to jeopardize the mission to retrieve the Ravenstone. The idea was so wonderfully incredible, that he—Jameson Tyegus, the jinxed thief—could rescue the Prophet and the White Demon and help save Secramore from the Priagent. His old thieving buddies would never believe him, but then again, why would he return to the streets? His reward would be riches, and he would buy himself a big stretch of land in the Freelands, build a huge barn and his own private manor, and he would have the best farm for miles around. He would find himself a pretty girl, and they would get married and have lots of children.
Rourke sat up and looked out the window. Dawn’s sleepy eyes had paled the horizon; there was no point in lying in bed awake. He hastily dressed and thought he might go for a walk before anyone else stirred. He might even find a clue or two as to where the Prophet and the Demon were being kept. And what if he did find them? What would he say? Could the Demon speak? Maybe the Prophet knew he was coming, and they were waiting for him now.
Excited by the thought, Rourke pulled his cloak over his shoulders and did a quick check in the mirror. He straightened his broad shoulders and donned his best serious frown. He was far more impressive under this illusion: huge muscles, thick beard, fierce eyes. He was a true warrior. A warrior about to leave without his sword.
He smacked his hand upon his forehead and fastened his belt with the scabbard. Already he felt a surge in confidence. He gave a grunt for good measure and headed for the door. The corridor was dark and silent, and it took a moment for him to get his bearings. His boots echoed with his heavy footfalls; noisy thieves did not make good thieves. Fortunately, he was Rourke—Freeland Enforcer…or whatever Hale had called him.
He wound up in the great hall where Rashir and his brothers had gathered with Argamus, Hale, and him. It was empty now, though the remains of a fire still hissed and smoked in the hearth. Rourke stood there a moment, uncertain which way to go. Would he be able to find the cellar if he tried? Hale thought it would be the ideal place to keep prisoners. Cellars were usually near kitchens… He sniffed the air, but all he could scent was the spent hearth and traces of the evening’s incense.
He continued on, spying the foyer into which they had first come. Just past the entrance, he detected a savory aroma—the smell of breakfast. The alluring scent guided him down a set of stairs and to the smoky kitchen, where one of Rashir’s brothers was stoking the coals beneath a grand fire. The young Jornoan looked up, and their eyes met. For a second, Rourke thought he had been caught.
The Jornoan smiled and straightened. “Freeland Enforcer,” he greeted. “You are the first to rise.”
“Really?” Rourke bit his tongue and corrected himself with a grunt.
“Rashir and the others will waken soon. I am in charge of the morning meal.” He waved Rourke in. “Please, join me. It is a lonely duty.”
Rourke hesitated before approaching the young man and taking a seat on a stool.
“Do you have a title by which I should call you?” the Jornoan asked.
“Just Rourke,” he said. “You….”
“Arshod. There are seven of us, Rourke. I take no insult that you do not recall my name.” He began pulling herbs from an assortment of small bags on the counter. “Do you drink tea?”
“Yeah.” Short answers. That was what Hale told him.
“I will make you some, then. We brought these from our homeland,” Arshod said, holding up a bag. “It is, at times, a comfort to have a familiarity here. You are not so far from your home, no? Though I suppose distance is relative.”
Rourke nodded.
“You do not say much, but every man has a key. Every man has something to say, but you must find what it is to get him to speak.” Arshod tied the herbs in a cloth bag and dropped it into a pot of steaming water. “You must have many stories as an Enforcer. You have apprehended many criminals, no?”
“A lot, yeah.” Rourke rubbed his beard, trying to seem indifferent.
“It is difficult job, I am certain. But it must also be quite exciting. Tell me of the most dangerous criminal you apprehended.” Arshod stopped what he had been doing to stare at Rourke with expectant, dark eyes.
Rourke’s mouth opened, and a word fell out. “Jack.”
Arshod raised an eyebrow.
“Jack the Knife. Heard of ‘im?”
Arshod shook his head.
“Well, he was the most dangerous guy in the Freelands. He was a killer. Killed lots o’ folks.” Tell a story like Hawkwing would tell, Rourke thought, struggling to make a start.
“I assume he was adept at using his weapon,” Arshod said, awaiting more.
“He was good at knives,” Rourke confirmed, “but he also had a club. A club with spikes at the end. It was how he killed people.” He pretended to slam a heavy club against the table. “Wham!”
“How did you apprehend him?”
“Ya mean, how’d I catch ‘im?”
Arshod nodded.
“By surprise. Waited outside his favorite tavern, in the dark. Waited ‘til he came out, and then I took my sword, and sliiik!” Rourke made a low swipe with his imaginary sword.
Arshod’s eyes had rounded. “You cut off his legs?”
Rourke settled back on his stool with a satisfied smile. “Yeah.”
“That was not much of a fight.”
Rourke frowned; his audience was clearly disappointed. “He still fought back.”
“With both his legs severed?”
“Yeah. His arms still worked. He had his club, and he swung it at my legs.”
“And?”
“I moved and cut off his arm.”
Arshod exclaimed a phrase in his own tongue, and Rourke nodded. “With the killers, you can’t think. You just gotta act. You don’t get a second chance.” That sounded good—real good. Gotta remember that one later.
“I, too, have had experience with a criminal,” Arshod said, growing a smile of his own. “Asmat and I, we are responsible for detaining the White Demon.”
“You?”
Arshod nodded and set back to his task. “It was not as difficult as one might believe.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The Jornoan froze. “Why would you doubt me?”
“That’s what guys do. Try to make a better story,” Rourke said. “What would you want the White Demon for anyway?”
“For its power, of course,” Arshod said, insulted. “It is a creature of magic. Rashir can control it.”
“You mean you didn’t turn it in for money?”
“Money.” Arshod snorted and shook his head. “Money is such a short-sighted ambition. You will see. When the time is right, Rashir will show you.”
“So the Demon is here?” Rourke tried not to sound too eager.
“Of course. It was responsible for the storm you endured.”
Rourke held up his hands. “Sorry, but this is all a little hard to believe.”
“No more than Jack the Knife,” Arshod protested. “I have no cause to doubt you; I would think you would grant me the same faith.”
“Just the way I am,” Rourke said. “I ain’t so trusting. ‘S how I got to where I am. Don’t trust nobody.”
Arshod mumbled in his language.
“So show ‘im to me, then.”
The Jornoan looked up.
“Lemme see the Demon.”
Arshod shook his head.
>
“You said yourself we’re gonna see him. Lemme have a peek; I won’t tell no one.”
“I cannot.”
“Who’s gonna know?” Rourke pushed. “You were brave enough to catch it, so why’re you scared to show it to me?”
“I am not afraid,” Arshod said, folding his arms. They stared at each other, and at last the Jornoan relaxed. “You must maintain our secret.”
“I swear it.”
Arshod frowned but waved him through the kitchen. “Follow me.” He paused to look over his shoulder. “There is a price.”
“What?”
“We must fight. I want to say I have fought an Enforcer.”
“To the death?” Rourke asked, taken aback.
“Certainly not!”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He shrugged, and they went down another flight of stairs, Rourke’s heart slamming against his chest. Arshod grabbed a torch and approached the door. Rourke was surprised to find that it was unlocked. The darkness beyond was shattered by the torchlight as Arshod held it high.
“You see, Rourke? I do not lie.”
Rourke nodded, his regard alternating between the two huddled forms at opposite corners of the small cellar. One was an old man bound in rope and chains; he glared into the light but said nothing. The other was obscured by the shredded hood and cloak it wore. It glanced at them, a glint of violet eyeshine confirming the identity of the prisoner before it turned away.
Not really how I imagined them, Rourke thought. But they’re here, in the dark, tied up. Guess I wouldn’t look much different, if I was them. He took a step forward, wanting a closer look, but a hand restrained him.
“Now we go,” Arshod said quietly. He nodded for the door, and reluctantly, Rourke turned away.
“Cowards.”
Both Arshod and Rourke froze.
“Y’are cowards,” rasped the old man. “Turn y’r backs, but I know what awaits y’. Y’r blackened ‘earts will rot inside y’. I ‘ave seen it,” the Prophet promised. “I ‘ave seen it!”
