Wayfarer (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  Danica sprinted to Lar. Gasping, she fell against him. “They told me you were dead.”

  Lar patted her awkwardly on the back. “Wouldn’t dare. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  Danica recovered momentarily and pushed herself out of his embrace. “Well don’t just stand there! Give me your hanky, can’t you see I’m soaking wet.”

  Lar complied without a word. He could always count on Danica to act normally, despite the circumstances. He offered her and Bryn the short version of his report to Ogden.

  “Huh,” said Danica. “It’s lucky that we left for Arcalum so early, otherwise you wouldn’t have been here to save everyone from certain doom. Once the girls back home catch wind of this, you’ll never spend another night with a cold bed.”

  “What were you doing at Arcalum?” asked Ogden with a raised eyebrow.

  Danica exchanged a look with Bryn and the two women delivered a truncated version of their research and its impetus. Danica took one look at Ogden’s expression and said, “What are you giving me that look for?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, “I just want to make sure you’re being careful.”

  Danica stood back on her heels. “Oh, no you’re not. I remember that look—it’s the same one you gave me when I told you Elias was alive in the Renwood. Guess what, wizard? I’m right again.”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” said Phinneas, not unkindly.

  “Fine,” said Danica. “We should examine the body, see if we can find any clues. I’m willing to bet this portal goes both ways, and we’re going to find out how.”

  Ogden held up a hand. “I appreciate that you’re eager, but we have to tread carefully here lest we make the problem worse, or else end up floating in limbo.”

  “Fine,” said Danica, letting the matter drop, deciding to keep her thoughts to herself.

  “What about our fallen?” asked Lar.

  Ogden blinked. “Don’t worry, son. They’ll receive proper burial and honor.”

  “Did anyone know the Marshal Initiate?” Lar asked.

  “I did, as it were,” said Blackwell. “His name is Jones.”

  “What do you know of him?” asked Lar, his eyes resting on Jones’ mangled body. “Does he have family in Peidra?”

  Blackwell studied the nascent Marshal. He knew that Lar hadn’t seen much of battle and the sight of the fallen was yet new to him. “Jonesy was an orphan of the war. He grew up at the boy’s home down in the narrows.”

  Lar turned to Blackwell. “How did you know him so well?”

  Blackwell hesitated. “It was Jonesy’s dream to become a Redshield, and eventually a Whiteshield, but he was a man of...small stature, his growth stunted by the consumption in his youth. Even though he failed every year, he kept on coming back to try to pass the recruitment test for the Redshields. Instead, he served in the Blackshields in the Merchant Quarter. It was the best I could do for him.”

  “He’s not wearing a Blackshield,” Lar observed.

  “No,” said Blackwell. “In one discipline Jonesy excelled—riding. Given his skill as a rider, when the queen announced the return of the Marshal Corps, I thought it would be a perfect fit for him. It would finally get him on palace grounds, as he had dreamed, and his skills would benefit the Marshals, who favor speed and cunning. How he came to be here, I don’t know. I’m sorry Lar.”

  Lar approached Jonesy. He swallowed the bile that rose in the back of his throat, and ignored the dead man’s grievous wound. He reached a hand into the interior pocket of his duster, for he saw the white of a scroll peeking out. He withdrew the scroll and stiffened.

  “What is it?” asked Danica, strangely touched to see the hulking Lar paying honor to a fallen comrade.

  “It’s addressed to me,” Lar replied. He broke the seal and scanned the contents of the letter. “It says that the Marshal Barracks are incomplete, but the expansion to the stables are finished, as well as the training hall. It’s an invitation for me to tour the new outbuildings, as I’m acting First Marshal.”

  “He must have been on his way to deliver the message when he heard the cry for help,” Danica said.

  Lar crumpled the missive in his hand. “He was a brave man. A hero. And he’ll have a hero’s honor.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Blackwell.

  “Mr. Duana was the last Marshal to die in service to the crown. A spell cremated him. It was the Marshal’s way to honor their dead, like the kings of old.” Lar buttoned up Jones’s duster. “He has no family to receive him, so he’ll receive the honor of his chosen family.”

  With a grunt Lar lifted the slight man and carried him toward the hall. When he reached the door, his back to his fellows, Danica said, “Lar, you know this wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know,” said Lar his voice quavering with ill concealed wrath. “But I’m going to find out whose fault it is, and they and I are going to have words.”

  Chapter 25

  The Chains that Bind

  Nyla peered up at the townhouse from her hiding place beneath the bridge, wreathed in shadow. She had spent days practicing the Arcanum her father had taught her, and now wore the obfuscating shield about her like a second skin. So accustomed to operating within its cocoon had she become that she no longer needed to focus her attention on it, but rather some fragment of herself, buried deep within her slumbering mind, held the spell in place, drawing on a fathomless well of primordial instinct.

  More than a little afraid, she crept from beneath the bridge and onto open ground. Though it neared midnight the street lamps burned bright, and because of the trial all of Illedium was on high alert. Guards were posted before all three entrances to the Arbiter’s town house and on the roof as well. Fortunately for Nyla, that left one side unobserved, at least from the ground. Despite the cloak of magic she hid within, with a little focus any arcanist worth their salt could detect the magical signature of her spell. Her success relied entirely upon stealth. Any sound or disturbance that would cause the lookouts to summon their second sight would mark her end.

  Nyla stood on the street listening to the drumming of her galloping heart. She adjusted the bundle she wore on her back and surveyed her immediate vicinity. No warning bells chimed. No one called out. No wards lit the night as she called upon her second sight. No reason to hesitate any longer.

  She stole across the open ground, rolling from her outstep to her toes, as Elias had taught her. She stopped with her back to the unguarded townhouse wall, but it faced the central avenue that housed the courthouse and assembly hall, which presented a different problem. If anyone were to espy her acrobatics it would likely be from this main thoroughfare, yet it remained empty at the moment, and she prayed it would stay that way. Father, be with me now, she prayed, and then followed up with an invocation to the spirits of the elder fey, for good measure.

  She turned to the wall and with practiced care opened the pouch she wore at her waist. She took a generous pinch of the powdered chalk she carried for drawing spellforms and rubbed a thick coating over her hands, then her bare feet. She buckled the pouch tightly and set out.

  She cleared the wall easily, for it stood but fifteen feet high and the creases between the bricks offered ample enough purchase for her small fingers. The main challenge lay in clearing the wall quickly and quietly, lest anyone notice her. To that end she believed she succeeded, for as she dropped over the wall and landed in a deep crouch she heard only the beating of her own heart. With her back pressed against the wall she waited, scanning the courtyard and the roof alike.

  No sounds of pursuit broke the silence and the way to the townhouse was clear. Nyla rose up onto the balls of her feet and stole across the open ground.

  She reached the townhouse without incident, but paused and scanned the vicinity with her second sight to ensure that no one was nearby to catch her unawares. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the townhouse, which loomed taller than ever from her current vantage. She took a breath and began to climb.


  She began on the windowsills, because they afforded a flat plane almost wide enough for her entire foot, and she was afraid that the drainage pipe or the fledgling elm would create too much noise. She was unable to reach the second floor windowsill by standing on her toes, which is what she had feared when she drew up a plan from beneath the bridge. Nyla took a breath and bent her knees as much as she dared and jumped straight up.

  She caught the second floor window sill with the fingers of her right hand, barely succeeding in biting off an involuntary yelp. Though her grip failed almost at once, she knew that stealth was paramount, so with deliberate, agonizing precision, she braced a foot flat against the brick façade for leverage and reached up with her left hand, before jockeying for a better grip. She pressed her toes into the mortar seam between two rows of bricks and with supreme effort pulled herself up until her chin was parallel with the window ledge before throwing her forearms onto the sill. Hanging in this precarious position, she shimmied to one side of the sill, and then threw a leg up onto the other end and heaved herself up onto the narrow ledge.

  She clasped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasping breath. She crouched on the edge of the sill, resting her cramping muscles. The spirit of the great wytchwood, Atya, who could see the happenings of the world far and wide, had told her that Elias and her mother were held on the top floor, which by Nyla’s count meant she had three floors to go. The problem was that the window on the third floor was not as large as the ones on the first and second, which meant she had no hope of reaching it. Her only option was to scale the drainage pipe.

  Gaining it would prove a challenge for it was situated a few feet to one side of the window. It was too far to reach, but jumping the distance seemed a poor choice. Fortunately she had an alternative solution. She had brought a short length of rope which she had tied into a loop at one end with a slipknot. The window on the second floor featured a sculpture in low relief of a sparhawk, which she thought to anchor the lasso to. After a few tosses she managed to lasso the sparhawk and prayed that it was sturdy enough to bear her weight. She wrapped the rope around her hands and shimmied to the far end of the windowsill. She made an awkward sprint across the narrow ledge and leapt toward the drainage pipe.

  The rope held as she swung toward the pipe, but she lacked sufficient momentum to reach it. She skidded on the bricks of the townhouse façade and swallowed a squeal, lest she give herself away. She bounced off the wall and began to swing back toward the windowsill, but she twisted herself in midair and pressed her feet against the wall in an awkward vertical crouch. With a mighty thrust she pushed herself off the wall and back toward the drainage pipe.

  She reached out and grasped the pipe with a single hand, thankful that it didn’t squeak in protest. Closer now, she saw that the drainage pipe was carved from granite and was a feature of the façade itself rather than being affixed by mortar and ore brackets. This left blessed creases between the large cornerstones, where her fingers could find purchase, albeit scant. She hugged the granite pipe, pressing her forearms, feet, and calves against the cool stone. She let go the rope, hoping that no one would notice it hanging loose on the façade.

  It’s just like climbing a tree, she told herself and began to scale the pipe. First her fingers and toes burned, screaming in protest, and then they grew numb, which was welcome in a way, but it left her not knowing how hard the press for purchase. So onward she climbed, whispering invocations to the good spirits in her mind over and again, like a mantra. She didn’t trust herself to leap from the drainpipe to a window ledge or frieze, for her muscles had weakened too much. Despite the dangers, she decided her only chance was in climbing all the way up, to the cornice that ran directly under the roof.

  She reached the cornice just as the muscles of her legs and arms began to spasm uncontrollably and hot tears pooled in her eyes. She reached up first with one hand then the other to grip the decorative but sturdy ledge. She tried to pull herself up, but her arms would not obey her will. Nyla swallowed a sob. Climbing down from her perch was not an option. If she couldn’t pull herself up onto the cornice, she would fall to her death.

  Please, Father, if you’re there, help me! Lend me your strength!

  She screamed the silent appeal in her mind as her fingers began to fail, burning as if lit from the inside by liquid fire. Not a breath later, an intense warmth like the hot fury of an August sun blossomed in her bosom. An arcane strength and calm surged through her every vein, every muscle fiber, every fine hair that peppered her body. In the light of this pristine power, every doubt, every fear, every weakness was banished and all that remained was her task and the knowledge that she must not fail.

  With fluid grace she pulled herself to the cornice, and crouched upon it. Not wishing to squander this gift from across the veil, which was surely the blessing of her ancestors, she crabbed across the narrow ledge, her toes gripping the cold marble, even as her heels hung over the open air. When she was about halfway across the façade she looked down and counted the windows. If Atya was correct, and her own observations from scouting the townhouse for the last day, the window below would lead to Elias’s room.

  She secured her bundle across her shoulders and gripped the cornice tightly, and then dangled down toward the window below. As fortune would have it, the top windows were adorned with dripstones to keep the windows free from rain. Though she couldn’t quite reach it by hanging, she trusted in providence and the elder spirits watchful eyes and dropped into the open air.

  The fall took naught but a few beats of her heart, but felt ten times longer. Intuition moved her to curl her toes and present the balls of her feet to the window ledge. As soon as she felt contact, she crumbled into a crouch and threw her arms wide to grip the outer molding of the window frame. Her knees jarred against the window frame, but she held, and a small squeal of elation escaped her lips.

  Instinct moved her to call upon her second sight. The window was awash with red arcane energies. Someone had placed a powerful ward upon the portal, bearing a significant kinetic Arcanum. She bit her bottom lip as her heart sank. She daren’t attempt to dispel the ward, lest someone sense the discharge of arcane energies. She pondered but a beat, before the solution rose from deep within her mind, where the seed of intuition flowered to bloom, for Atya had hinted at the function of the ancient artifact.

  She brought the parcel she carried to bear, and peeled back the sleeping roll to free the glint of metal. She touched the relic to the glass of the window, and like a candle in the wind the ward winked out without so much as a flicker or a mote of discharge.

  She pressed the bundle quietly against the window, delighted to find it unlocked. With painstaking care she slid it open and poked her head in. “Elias?” she whispered into the darkened room.

  An involuntary cry escaped her lips as someone grasped her by the shoulders and hauled her into the room. Fortunately, they also clamped a hand over her mouth so that no one would hear her undignified screech. She feared that her instincts had led her astray, when a familiar voice whispered, “Nyla?!”

  The hand left her mouth and Nyla sucked in a lungful of air before saying, “Yes, it’s me. Quickly, close the window, there’re guards on the roof.”

  Elias complied and drew the shades. “How in Agia did you get in here?”

  Nyla shrugged. “I climbed the wall.”

  Elias took her by the shoulders and peered down at her with a wide, easy grin. “You did what?”

  What a shame Enkilder never smiled like that Nyla thought, at ease for the first time in days. “It was simple, really,” she lied.

  Elias shook his head. “And the ward?”

  “Even simpler. Look, I’ve brought you a present.” Nyla opened her sleeping roll, with no small measure of satisfaction.

  Elias fell to his knees. “My sword.” He closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around the familiar hilt, cherishing the feel of the leather braiding pressing into his palm. The scabbard warmed in his other hand, as bot
h the flowing runic language embossed into the enchanted steel and the runes branded into his forearm emitted a rich indigo light. “God above,” he whispered. “How?”

  It was Nyla’s turn to succumb to an ear-splitting grin. “A new friend, Atya, the wytchwood.”

  “You spoke with the spirit of the tree?” asked Elias, all but dumbstruck. “She told you how to find this?”

  “Better yet she gave it to me,” returned Nyla, coyly, relishing in Elias’s elation and mystification.

  Nyla remembered well when she had taken Elias’s sword from the great wytchwood Atya, and remember it she would until her last day on earth. An elliptical fissure had opened in the heart of the tree and she had reached her hand right into it. Emerald light had bathed her and the stone garden beyond. Her arm sank into the opening up to her shoulder. She felt the pommel with her fingertips but the hilt was just beyond her grasp. But then the great tree shuddered and the sword inched toward her open hand.

  She wrapped her hand around the hilt and with great effort drew out the sword as if she was pulling it free from a place between worlds.

  “The wytchwood gave it to you? But how?”

  “She said that a great arcanist came to her centuries ago, a woman you call sister.”

  “Danica,” said Elias, his voice breaking.

  “Yes. Atya said that she knew you would need this. She had figured out that you had been sent to the future. She asked Atya for permission to cast a spell and push the sword into her heart, all the way into her trunk, so as to hide it and keep it safe. She knew that one day the sword would draw you to the tree and you would reclaim it.”

  “Brilliant. Danica, you’re a genius.” Elias rubbed his eyes. “That’s why I gated out by the tree. The magic of the spell, of my sword, drew me there.”

  Elias shook his head and cradled his father’s sword to his breast like it were an errant child come home. “All these long years.”

  “She said that the magic of the sword is what sustained her through the centuries, even as the curse of the dark took all of her sisters from this land, she endured. She survived for you.”