The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One

by Kim Wedlock

  Immediately his hunt surged forwards, and he was dragged along with it like a carriage by a maddened horse, and hope lurched in his heart with the sudden momentum. His consciousness hurtled through a foggy haze, one permeated by a distant familiarity which he couldn't place. But he gave it no thought, allowing himself to be guided by whatever part of him knew this place best, and he moved steadily deeper and deeper into the haze. Flashes began shooting by, non-images he thought for a moment that he recognised, but before he could get any kind of grasp on them, they were gone. They were sparse at first and easily forgotten once they were behind him, but they gradually began to multiply, whizzing by faster and more frequently, and every one of them drew closer than the last. There were soon so many that he began to catch snatches of comprehension; the first seemed to be something akin to amusement, the next he thought to be mild fascination. They were strange, curious sensations, but though he knew without a doubt that they belonged to him, there was something interlaced within them that made them unwelcome. Something dark and forbidden urged him to turn away as quickly as he could, but the moment his attention mercifully shifted, he was assaulted by more. A trickle of panic began to run through his spine as the sensations turned darker in nature, when loneliness, fret and fear began to leak into the subconscious landscape and quickly swell to dominate it.

  He suddenly pulled back as his eyes tore open, fleeing the cryptic turmoil and returning to his tense and rigid body to find the world around him cold, dark and still, yet curiously safe. But even before he recovered his bearings, he found the mage looking quietly back at him through the shadows. His eyes were knowing, as if he could see into Salus's mind and observe exactly what he was thinking and feeling. His body seized up tighter at the thought.

  But then Denek nodded. It was a slight twitch but certainly intentional, and Salus knew from that alone that, somehow, he could see into his mind, and that he had been doing everything right.

  He straightened where he sat, an air of confidence suddenly gathering around him. No one had said that this would be easy, and if a tangled swamp of what could only be his eternally stifled emotions would create the scenery of his hunt, so be it. As soon as he found his quarry, he could regain control. He would regain control.

  Spurred on, he took another deep breath, closed his eyes and returned deep within himself, refusing to be beaten by the shade he had suppressed for so long. He lent more trust to his instincts and found the place easier than the first time, then he continued to wade through the dark mess all while doing his utmost to squeeze his eyes shut tight and stick his fingers in his ears against the emotional assault. The joy, the terror, the passion, the hate - they were not relevant, neither wanted nor needed. What he sought was among them, but he needn't look too close. It would be different. This he was certain of; like a pebble among sand, it might be buried but he would know it when he found it.

  His instinct continued to force its way through the converging sentiments and he followed resolutely behind it, giving nothing that tried to elbow its way into his sight any kind of attention. He took not even a moment to register the auras. He ignored the wisps of delight, the shadows of ever-present loneliness, the heart-skipping yet compelling mist of love, the beckoning fingers of sheer terror that sent a cold sweat over his skin from even the slightest glimpse.

  He stumbled in his distraction and his own momentum faltered, throwing him right back into being dragged along while his oh so brief control collapsed around him. In an instant he was swarmed by the non-images, as if they'd just been waiting for his paper walls to crumple, the coalescing emotions that took on ever more ethereal shapes and sought to overwhelm him to gain the attention they'd been refused for so long. His heart suddenly ached so much with denied love that he felt it would explode, his jaw tightened with such jealousy that it threatened to crack his teeth, his sides squeezed against laughing out with the purest of joy, all while a dark fear and unsilencable inadequacy wriggled their way into his skin.

  His world was permeated with voices, some soft, some screaming, but all together forming a garble of words so distorted they could have been another language, while images and faces began flashing past at speed. But as brief as they were, he recognised them all, and behind each trailed a myriad of precise yet incohesive ideas which further added to the chaos as he tried in spite of himself to make sense of them.

  Fear, insult, passion and fury pierced through his chest.

  'You're not supposed to lead the Arana.'

  Taliel's face, Teagan's, one of someone he barely remembered and yet knew without a doubt was his sister.

  'You lack the compassion needed to make the right decisions.'

  A figure dropped lightly out from the trees, narrow hips swayed from left to right, candles flickered tiresomely on an old and worn down desk top.

  'You would lead this country to ruin.'

  The sound of a neck snapping, softly spoken words of advice, the flutter of a moth's wings heralding new orders.

  He felt himself shake uncontrollably, his inner voice screaming as either rage, confusion, affection or desperation racked through his bones. Sweat ran all over him, soaking his clothes and drenching his skin. His hair stood up as a chill swept along his spine. He felt his mind begin to unhinge as the internal campaign against him swelled.

  But as he lost himself to his panic, some other part of his mind abruptly took over, launching him through a nearby cloud and knocking him off-track for only a single moment. It then handed the lead back over to his primal instinct and suddenly he was chasing after it on his own feet again with a heart of the strongest steel, his resolve returned and strengthened by the cluster of determination he'd been driven through, and he allowed it to enshroud him.

  He quickly noticed that his surroundings had become distant and muffled from within the armour; the voices had been silenced, the faces had vanished and his sight was set pointedly on his heading. And then, only a moment later, like the vaguest torchlight in the night, he saw it.

  Victory pummelled him.

  Lured by certainty and familiarity, like a promise of absolute safety, he rushed carelessly towards it as his excitement built up in his chest. He felt hope flutter in his throat, his desperation grow, injected by longing, by desire. His ordeal and everything around him was forgotten.

  Until his imagined footing slipped yet again in his haste.

  His concentration shattered; his walls fell and the awaiting fog swarmed over him with a vengeance. The light was lost.

  Salus ripped his eyes open, sweating, panting, while terror lay just beneath his surface like a pack of wolves in the shadows. He was haggard, exhausted, physically and emotionally. He had seen it and it had escaped him.

  But to his surprise, he was not resentful of his failure, nor even disappointed. Because he'd seen what he'd needed to. It was there.

  Magic lay within him.

  A smile spread over his lips as he absorbed that simple, impossible fact, and in his elation he didn't notice Denek looking back at him in relief and satisfaction, nor the contrasting fact that his eyes expressed little pleasure for his near triumph.

  Chapter 37

  No one really knew for certain if they had risen at dawn or at some obscure hour in the middle of the night. It was still dark, and aside from their campfire, which still felt wrong in the desert, the only light came from the thin sliver of the dusty, orange moon and its company of stars. If the sun had begun its western ascent, the evidence was concealed by the distant yet still imposing mountains behind them.

  In fact, their uncertainty of the time was so frustrating that, when their attention wasn't snatched by the shadows of small, barely-seen creatures going about their night time forage, it was the topic of choice over breakfast. But that meagre meal did little to encourage them into wakefulness, either, consisting of only a tough piece of bread and some kind of soft, white cheese the tribal girl had brought along. None were too sure of that, either, but though they ate it dubiously, at
least they were confident that it wasn't of human origin. But just as Eyila shared no hint as to its source, neither was she contributing to the discussion. She merely sat and listened to the debate with a small and knowing smile of amusement.

  They wasted little time once they'd finished eating. There was nowhere to bathe, no animals to see to and no routes that needed planning, so they tidied away their camp, slung everything over their shoulders with quiet grumbles and headed out behind Eyila's lead.

  Anthis watched her as they began their trudge through the sand, his expression the same conflicting mixture of caution, open curiosity and unwavering unease he'd worn since they'd found her. This time, however, his attention was pointedly fixed upon the sash of leaves, phials and pouches she'd draped over her scarcely clad torso.

  "What do you suppose she wears that for?" He wondered aloud as he walked alongside Petra, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  "Because it gets hot out here, I'd think..."

  "What--no, not...not that," he pulled his eyes back to the sash. "All the...foliage."

  "Maybe she thinks it's pretty. There's not much out here that's green..." She pursed her lips in thought. "It makes me kind of happy to look at, if I'm honest."

  "I suppose..."

  "You could always just go and ask her yourself, you know, she doesn't bite."

  "I know," he replied defensively, "I just...don't think it's my place to go nosing around into another culture."

  Petra blinked at him.

  "Why do you carry all those plants?"

  Anthis stumbled, his eyes widening in panic as the little voice chirped loudly up ahead of them. Aria had skipped up beside the white-haired girl, though her hand was still firmly entrenched in her father's, and she peered up at her with interest plain in her sparkling eyes, so certain that she was being both helpful and discreet.

  Eyila glanced back towards Anthis, prompting his cheeks to burn, before smiling warmly down at the little girl. "They're my ingredients," she replied loudly enough for both to hear. "I use them to make medicines and salves."

  Aria pursed her heart-shaped lips. "Whyyy?"

  "Because I need them to heal people," she chuckled.

  "But my daddy doesn't carry anything like that."

  Her eyes flashed in astonishment as she spun towards the mage. "Your father is a healer?"

  "N-no," he stammered, startled by her enthusiasm, "but I am trained in first aid..."

  Her eyes shifted beyond him towards Garon's sling and her surprise promptly faded, while Rathen similarly noted again her lack of wounds and wondered what kind of salve, if any, could heal cuts so quickly and absolutely. His eyes narrowed the slightest in suspicion, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  "Of course," she chuckled self-deprecatingly, realising her mistake, then turned back to their heading as Aria moved back beside her father, still eyeing the verdant braid in enchantment.

  But a sudden curse grunted from the back of the group startled them to a halt, and they spun just in time to see Garon's knee heavily strike the sand, and the bag and jug he'd been carrying land beside him with a muffled thump.

  The inquisitor growled in frustration as he steadied himself on his hands, his face darkened by a scowl of self-reproach under the absently tired gazes of the others, and he immediately moved to push himself back to his feet.

  "Let me help," Petra said, suddenly beside him, but as she took a firm yet careful hold of his free arm, he quickly shook her off.

  "I'm fine."

  She frowned doubtfully at his waspishness but took a step back anyway, leaving him to rise the rest of the way against the shifting of the sand on his own. Truthfully, she'd expected such a reaction. Even had he needed it, she knew he wasn't about to accept help.

  "The water," Anthis warned, and through the darkness they noticed the deeper shadow creeping over the ground as the already sparse water leaked from the conjured jug and into the thirsty sand. Petra immediately shoved the stopper back into its place with the heel of her foot while Garon loosed another rueful curse.

  Rathen didn't look at the inquisitor, despite the fact that the fire burning in his eyes was certainly directed towards him. "How much was lost?"

  "Not much," Petra replied, lifting it back up and ignoring the curt manner in which Garon reclaimed it. "It didn't break, the cork just came loose."

  Eyila, however, didn't seem to share in their concern. "I respect your vigilance," she said as courteously as she could, "but you really don't need to carry all of that with you..."

  "We're in a desert..."

  But Eyila only smiled, and once Garon had slung his burden back over one shoulder, she turned and continued to lead them along their featureless path, the brooding inquisitor remaining at the rear and continuing to struggle in silence.

  Not a word passed them as they trudged along through the sand, each taking their own time to wake and settle into the hourless day, but once they'd collected as many of their bearings as they could, that silence began to press, and Rathen soon found himself breathing as tightly and quietly as he could to avoid shattering it.

  "Your people," he said at last to Eyila, the words all but bursting from him as he decided to chase the imposing atmosphere away and voice at least one of the thoughts that had been swirling through his mind, "they don't seem to fear you for your magic."

  She cast him a bemused look. "Of course not. Why ever would they?"

  "Well, because it makes you...different..."

  "And that is a crime?"

  His eyebrow twitched in jealousy. "It seems to be."

  A small chuckle slipped past her lips as they curved into a pitying smile, then her gaze swept out across the sands as the sun finally climbed over the distant mountain peaks and cast its rich, golden rays over the landscape, turning the desert still in its wake. "Magic can be used for awful things," she mused, "but it can be used for good things, too." She looked back to him with surprising wisdom in her young eyes, but whatever romance had been hinted in her voice was nowhere to be seen within them. Instead they bore a hardness, one grown from an unwelcome reality that Rathen found himself strangely unable to appreciate. "Very few of my people possess magic. One in every six generations may be born with it, and as our villages are so small, it's considered a...gift that we should cultivate and master."

  Rathen didn't miss how unconvinced she sounded of that last detail. "But you don't."

  Her head snapped towards him. "I never said that."

  "No," he replied politely, urging away the confused frown that tried to pull at his brow, "you didn't. I apologise."

  Slowly, she turned away again. "I use my magic to serve my people. They don't resent me or my abilities, and neither have they any other."

  "Do many other tribes have mages, then?" Petra asked, walking closer.

  "Like I said, we are rare in such small communities, but most tribes do have one mage. If a village is without, a village fortunate enough to have two may trade one to the other regardless of their fealty."

  "Wait, they sell you?" Anthis couldn't help chiming in from further back.

  "Not 'sell' as you cityfolk know it," she replied wearily, as though she had expected such a conclusion but was still disappointed to see it arise. "We are not possessions, but we are valuable. The exchange is always suitable."

  "So does that mean you're...?"

  "No. The Ikaheka are my own people, as was Liaha, the mage who came before me and was my teacher."

  "And what happened to her? Was she traded?"

  "No." Her young lips pulled downwards. "She died six moons ago. She's on the Winds now..."

  As her gaze shifted mournfully beyond the horizon, all eyes fell disapprovingly onto Anthis who clearly regretted asking the question. No one pushed the subject further. Suffice it to say that she was her tribe's only mage and that she was respected rather than feared. Whatever lay beyond that, though it stoked Rathen's curiosity, was none of their business.

  But Aria was d
isinclined to leave her be, and he couldn't tell if it was because she sought to shake away her sadness or if it was because of her own fascination. She spent much of her time staring at the young woman, considering her clothes, her hair, her skin, her paint, as well as the curiosities she carried. She'd already began emulating Petra, carrying a 'sword' at her side which was a branch she had honed into a frighteningly sharp edge, and he wondered how long it would be before she started intentionally smearing mud onto her face.

  But he saw little true harm in it - as long as she didn't grow up to be a duelist or decide to live in harsh desert lands and turn to cannibalism.

  "Why are you with us?" She asked quite bluntly, though her voice was musical with interest.

  Eyila turned another warm smile towards the little girl, a fond expression that Rathen had seen countless times on the faces of the others. "Because I want to fix the shrine. All of my people do, we just don't have the means - but we believe that you might, and I'm the best person to provide you with guidance while protecting the interests of my people."

  Aria blinked. "We don't want to hurt your people's interests..."

  "She means she's going to make sure we don't damage the ruins," Rathen whispered.

  Aria nodded as her eyes widened in understanding, but another frown soon touched her young face. "We aren't going to break the ruin - but actually, a lot of broken places I've been to are really pretty." She cocked her head. "Is this place pretty?"

  Eyila smiled wistfully back into the distance. "It was beautiful."

  The desert was soon awash in morning light, but spirits remained low. The illumination only accentuated the idea that they'd covered no distance at all, and the heat that came with it was surely impossible. Spring may have been early that year, but it couldn't be beyond mid-morning and yet the warmth was more suited to a late afternoon in the depths of summer. The path across the edge of Turunda that carried them towards the tribe had been protected by the air that swept down from the snowcapped peaks, but that previous afternoon they had turned away from the sands' borders to head north-east, directly towards the burning centre, and no one could truly believe that ten or twelve hours of travel could have carried them into so hostile a land. Thirst and flinty tempers gripped them, but the water remained on ration despite Eyila's assurances and the sand they trekked over shifted relentlessly beneath their feet, making the going even tougher.