"My men have wasted enough time here. Now get on your horse!" The captain kicked at the mage, with no effect.
"Your men can ride on. I can do my own search, but I assure you he's still here."
The captain scowled. "All right, mage. I'll give you a few minutes. You told us of his departure. We owe you this as least."
Cree shook. The temptation to walk into the open and turn himself over to the captain was great; better the Reapers, than Sarana. He slunk a little lower, ignoring the cramps in his legs and the damp seeping into his boots and chilling his toes. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, but his thoughts refused to leave him. He kept seeing his father tied to a stone slab and hearing Mirayla cursing his name. Better they have me. Than those I care about.
Around Cree, the air hummed with power. His skin tingled. Sparks danced through his vision. His head began to throb in time to the song of the magic. He ground his teeth and thought of Mirayla, of the keep, of anything but the energy weaving temptation about him. The song grew louder; the power pulled at his limbs, urging him to stand to walk into the open. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into the flesh of his hand, drawing blood. The call grew stronger. His feet slipped an inch. He dug his toes deeper into the soggy ground and fought against the call. The song grew to a deafening roar, and his feet were wrenched from under him. He slid along the ground. Rocks nicked his flesh; brambles tore at his clothing and ripped his skin. He sank his fingers into the dirt, but nothing stopped the unseen force pulling him along. He stopped and cracked open an eye.
At first, he saw only a dirty pair of boots, but then Sarana knelt. "So, Ellery, I've found you. Did you think I had forgotten your childish games? I remember how you hid from me then, and you haven't changed."
Blood dripped into Cree's eyes from the cuts on his face. He breathed deeply and reached within himself. He was not defeated yet. He still had one slim chance of escape. Slowly, he stood, trying not to wince at the pain motion caused him. "Let me go." His voice was hardly more than a whisper.
The captain laughed. "Let you go! For 2500 gold, I'd turn my own mother in."
Sarana ignored the man and stepped towards Cree. "Your fate was sealed eight years ago, Ellery. Razad Di Muired vowed to reclaim the land your stunt wrested from him. He's been patient, waiting until you came back searching for a release from your nightmares. Amazing isn't it. You might never have returned if not for the dreams. Clever of me to remember how your dreams affected you, wasn't it?"
"What did you have to do with my dreams?"
"I sent them to you, of course. Your guilt was so easy to exploit, and your own self-loathing, that was even easier." Sarana chuckled. "You should have remembered your lessons, Ellery. Empathy is a weakness in a mage."
Cold anger surged from deep within Cree. He wove it into a lance, filled it with his own outrage, his guilt, and his hate. He held it poised, ready to strike. "Why, Sarana?"
The mage laughed. "For power."
Cree's skin crawled. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Sarana's fingers moved imperceptively. Cree swallowed his fear and wove more of himself into the lance. It glowed in his mind, sharp with fear and anger. He hefted it with mental fingers. "You're wrong, Sarana. The empathy was my greatest strength. I know that now." He flung the lance straight at the mage and dropped to his knees at the sudden loss of energy. The woods faded in and out until at last his vision grew dark. Someone shouted and drew a blade with a hiss of steel. A horse cried in pain. Cree collapsed, the last of his strength drained as the lance exploded.
The air still throbbed with the magic's song, and Cree was barely aware of the blinding pain in his head. His world had narrowed to little things: the cool earth beneath his cheek, the damp seeping into his clothes. Distantly, his body ached, but the pain was already fading. Silence surrounded him. The black emptiness of unconsciousness beckoned. He struggled a moment and tried to crawl to awareness, but finally, he stopped fighting. The darkness claimed him.
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Chapter Sixteen
Cool hands touched his cheeks and soothed the growing ache in his skull. Slowly, he swam toward awareness. The ground beneath him was cold and damp. The smell of rotting leaves and fresh loam filled his senses. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted. Voices chattered, but none clear enough he could understand them. He opened his eyes and regretted the action. His vision blurred, and his stomach rolled in nauseous waves. He groaned. The touch came again, and the nausea eased.
"Cree?" The voice was distant, as though he were listening through a door. "Cree?" It came again, and he turned his head a little.
"Wh-" His throat felt raw, and his question turned into a thin whine. Needles of pain pricked every inch of his skin. He wanted to weep, but even the smallest action hurt.
"Shh." A hand brushed hair from his eyes, and the pain receded.
His vision focused. Dead bodies lay around him. The stench of death nauseated him, until bile rushed to his throat, and he retched until nothing more would come up. He rolled onto his knees and laid his cheek against the cool earth.
"Cree?" The voice was closer now, and he raised his head just enough to see who spoke. Mirayla knelt on the ground next to him.
"Mirayla?" He swallowed. "Am I dreaming? I must be."
"No, not dreaming. I'm here." She smiled. "This is becoming a habit with you."
"Habit?" He head began to ache again. "What happened?" He struggled to a sitting position. He looked at the bodies around him, and his eyes grew wide. "I didn't-"
"No, Mac Torol, you didn't." Benjamin stepped over one of the fallen men and knelt next to Mirayla. "You don't think either."
"You look different." Cree's brows knitted together as he studied the blacksmith. His comic air was gone, replaced with a colder, more deadly stance. Even the piggish eyes, usually so merry, seemed dark and distant. The stained shirt and leather breeches had been exchanged for leather armor. Cree's eyes fell on Benjamin's hands and what he held, a curving sword crowned with a wolf's head. He tried to back away, but he was too weak.
"Relax, Mac Torol, the sword isn't mine. I borrowed it. I might keep it, though. It has a nice balance." He hefted the blade and jabbed at the air a few times before grinning.
"But, I didn't know-"
"I never gave up my training, completely. The village was thrilled when I came back to stay. They had never had anyone who could offer protection before."
Cree tried to understand the blacksmith's words, but he was too tired and sick to make sense of them. He swayed as his vision went black. Hands grasped his shoulders. When his vision cleared, his head was lying against Mirayla's chest. "Where did you come from? How did you find me?"
"Finding you was easy." Mirayla uncapped a water bottle and pressed it to his lips. "Benjamin told me you wanted to leave, and since there is only one road, catching up to you wasn't hard."
"But why? And how did you overcome the Reapers? And-"
Mirayla laughed. "We can answer all that back at the keep. The Reapers aren't all gone."
"Do you think you can ride, Mac Torol?"
He nodded. "I think so. But I don't know where the horse is." He reached for the horse's mind, but a sudden rush of pain stopped him. His hands went to his temples, and he moaned.
"Don't try that, Cree." Mirayla touched his forehead and a warm rush of energy washed the pain away. "I'm not sure what you did to yourself, but the magic's left your mind raw and sore. It's best to rest now. Can you stand?"
He nodded carefully, and let Mirayla help him to his feet. His vision went black, and he fought nausea and dizziness. His knees buckled, and he sank back to the ground, pulling Mirayla down with him. "I don't think I can stand," he whispered. His body was on fire, and he could feel the beginnings of a sweat. He started shaking.
Mirayla brushed her hand against his cheeks and forehead. "You're fevered. Benjamin, get my horse. He can ride with me. As weak as he is-"
Mirayl
a's words faded away. Cree fought to hold onto consciousness, but he was too weak, too tired, and the darkness swallowed him.
~*~
When he opened his eyes again, he was certain he had dreamed Mirayla, Benjamin, the bodies of the Reapers, but then he realized he was lying in a bed. He was warm, and the pain had faded to a faint twinge. He turned his head a little. He was in his room at Socorrow's Rest. He rolled onto his side and winced when his body protested. Someone sat down next to him.
"You're awake." A lamp flared to life on the bedside table. Soft hands caressed his face. "And no fever. That's good."
He strained to see who was with him, and recognized Cali's face. "How did I get here?"
"Benjamin and Mirayla brought you back."
"Where are they now? And-"
Cali laid a finger against her lips and pointed to a cot that had been set up a few paces from his bed. Mirayla was curled on her side, asleep. "She hasn't left your side for five days. After the second day, I had a cot set up, so she could rest."
"Five days?"
Cali nodded and poured water from a pitcher into a cup. "Drink slowly. You've been sick. Very sick. I wasn't sure you were going to pull through."
"I don't remember-"
"I wouldn't expect you to remember anything, Cree. You channeled enough power to kill three men. And that doesn't count what you drained when you-"
"Channel?"
Cali sighed. "Do you remember the fight?"
He struggled to remember. He had been hiding and then . . . "Sarana! Sarana was there, and he-"
"He attacked you, yes. You diverted his attack, but only after you attacked him. You were barely conscious when you pulled his power through yourself and into the ground. Your body couldn't take anymore."
"Did I...is Sarana -- -"
"There was no sign of him. I suspect he fled. He may have transported himself magically. I don't know."
Fear gripped him. If Sarana wasn't dead, then he would know where he was, and know how to find him. And if he sent the dreams again . . .Cree fought against his covers and tried to sit up.
"Where do you think you're going?" Cali eased him back to his pillows. "You aren't well."
"I have to leave. I can't stay here. No one's safe with me here. If the dreams start -- -"
"Shh." Cali's hand brushed across his face. "No one is going to hurt you here, Cree. And we won't let anyone in to hurt you. And I think you can stop your dreams, if you try hard enough."
He lay against the pillows, heart pounding so hard he was certain it could be heard across the room. "Sarana sent them. He said -- -"
"Then we'll give you protections of another kind." She laid her fingers against his temples. There was pressure, then nothing. A wall had formed around his mind. He reached for it with mental fingers. "You can still use your empathy, but you'll be protected from someone like Sarana."
"You know about-"
"I've known since you were brought to me the first time. Enough of that, there's time for such talk later. Do you think you could eat something? Or perhaps you'd like a bath? I can help you to the bathing room."
"Both."
Cali smiled. "The bath first then, and while you're there, I'll find you food."
Cree nodded and let her wrap a robe around his shoulders and help him from the bed. He glanced at Mirayla before he left. She shifted a little and smiled. His stomach fluttered, and he smiled, too.
~*~
Bathing and eating left him tired and drained, and he slept again after returning to his room. When he woke, he was alone. The cot had been taken from the room, and any sign of Mirayla or Cali was gone. Disappointment gnawed at him. He rolled from the bed and padded over to his chair. The sun was high in the sky, and he pulled the chair a little closer to the window to watch the activity below. People hustled back and forth with carts. Dogs ran loose in the street and stopped to beg for scraps from small children. Beyond the city walls he could see the Reapers' camp. It had grown. Thick smoke rose from a fire in the center of the camp. They hadn't given up. He shivered and laid his head against the back of the chair.
He almost fell asleep, but a knock on the door startled him back to awareness. He smiled and stumbled to the door. "Benjamin?"
"The very same." The blacksmith's armor was gone, and he was dressed again in the stained, gray shirt and worn, leather pants. "I heard you were finally awake. Thought I'd drop by." He grinned.
Cree returned the grin and motioned Benjamin inside. "It's good to see you."
Benjamin snorted. "I'm just glad to see you resembling something alive. You've been here almost two weeks and spent most of it unconscious."
Cree looked down at the floor. "It couldn't have been helped."
"I might disagree with that. I don't suppose you'd feel like a walk or perhaps a trip down to the dining hall. I'm starved, and it's lunchtime."
Cree looked down at his robe. "I need to get dressed for that." He grinned at the blacksmith.
"Do I need to leave?"
Cree laughed. "No, you don't have to." He pulled breeches on under his robe, and then shrugged out of the robe to put his shirt on. Benjamin hissed. "What's the matter?" Cree noticed the direction of the blacksmith's stare. The scars were revealed to their fullest extent. The smooth, mottled skin glistened as the light hit it. He pulled the shirt on.
"How did you ever survive that?"
Cree bit his lip and hastily buttoned it. "I don't know." He swiftly changed the subject. "Are you going to tell me about the Reapers?"
"I wondered when you were going to ask. They're still out there, you know. They want you bad. In fact, the price for your head is now 3500 gold." He sat down at the desk.
Cree slipped his feet into a pair of beaded moccasins and sat on the bed. "That's not what I asked. How did you overcome so many with only the two of you? Surely, Mirayla didn't -- -"
"Mirayla did some sort of magic and some of them fled. Those who didn't flee, I cut down. I busted my sword on one of them, and had to borrow another. It wasn't so difficult." Benjamin shrugged. "That's the story. There's no secret."
Cree was silent. He pursed his lips, ran a hand over his chin, and remembered all Benjamin had told him. "But you were one of them once."
"We've been through that once, Mac Torol. I told you then, and I'll tell you now, that I'm not one of them. I'm not going to turn you in. I'm not going to try and hurt you. You can trust me."
Cree was not convinced. "But -- "
"Listen to me!" Benjamin stood and paced across the room. "I'm not one of them! I don't want any part of them. Do you want the whole story?"
Cree nodded. "Please."
Benjamin sighed and sat back down. He stared his hands, rubbed them together, and at last spoke. "I went through the training and was sent out on my first assignment. We were to hunt down a woman reported to be witch. I was young and thought nothing of it. But when we found the woman, she was old, blind, barely able to walk, and no more a witch than I. The rest of my troop went after her. I watched them rape her, then tear her apart. When they were done, they laughed about it." Benjamin shook his head. "They laughed, Mac Torol, like they were men because they could overpower one old woman. I was disgusted."
Benjamin's pain and disgust leaked through Cree's carefully constructed walls. "So what did you do?"
The blacksmith shrugged. "I complained to the commanding officer when we returned to Tir-Gan-Nor. He laughed at me. I can still remember the look in his eyes, insane, murderous. He said, 'Son, if you can't stomach that, then you've no place here. I suggest you go back to whatever goat farm you came from.' I packed my things that day and went home. That's the story."
Cree raised an eyebrow. "I think there's more."
"No more that I'll talk about. Now shall we get something to eat? I might waste away before we get there."
Cree smiled. "You? Waste away? It'll take more than one missed meal for that. Let's go."
The dining hall was full of people. He followed Benjam
in through the maze of tables, not paying attention to anyone. When the blacksmith stopped, he stopped, too, and dutifully sat at the nearest table. A plate of food appeared in front of him, and he looked up to see Mirayla grinning.
"I'm glad to see you up." She sat down across from him.
"What happened to Benjamin?"
"I think he's sweet on the cook. He slips into the kitchen every chance he gets, and she heaps piles of food on him."
Cree picked at his food. "Serves him right."
"How do you feel? You still look pale and tired."
"I still feel tired. I've slept all this time, and I think I could sleep more."
She bit into a chicken leg. "And you should. You haven't exactly been resting. You've tossed, turned, and talked in your sleep mostly. I'd be tired, too."
He swallowed hard. "What did I say?"
"Lots of things." She licked grease from her fingers.
He sighed. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"
"I might." She smiled. "On one condition."
He smiled back. "What's that?"
Her eyes twinkled. "That you walk up to the tower with me."
"I'd love to, but -- -"
The smile vanished, and the chicken leg fell from her fingers. "Oh, you're going to refuse. It was only a thought. I'll go myself then."
He reached across the table to take Mirayla's hand. "You didn't let me finish. I'd love to, but I don't think I could climb the stairs. Now the garden..." he smiled when her eyes grew bright. "That I could manage."
"Oh, the garden it is then." She laughed. "I could walk you through the maze this time, as long as you promise not to get any more ideas about leaving."
He shook his head with a rueful smile. "I won't say that was one of my more brilliant ideas."
Mirayla laughed and nearly choked on her food. "Brilliant?" She coughed. "Idiotic would be a better word. What were you thinking anyway?"
He picked at the food on his plate. "I was confused and scared. I didn't think, or rather, I did think. I thought leaving was terribly easy. Why didn't anyone try to stop me?"
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