The Strength to Serve (Echoes of Imara Book 3)

by Claire Frank

  “He has the arrow,” she said, raising her voice over the sound of the air rushing by as Daro kept running. “Drop me and go after him.”

  As Daro slowed, a rush of energy poured through her, making her feel as if she could jump off his back and fly. She let go, stumbling as she hit the ground, but Daro hesitated.

  “Go,” she said and he nodded, taking off after the rider at a run.

  Two of the horsemen charged after Daro, and Cecily threw her Reach at them, ripping them from their saddles. They hit the ground, and she turned to face the three bearing down on her.

  With Daro’s power pouring through her, she struck with her Reach, using a wide swath of Pressure to smash into the horses. Aiming low, she swept across their legs, and the horses stumbled and fell, throwing their riders to the ground. As they rose, their horses struggled to their feet and bolted in all directions and the two riders pursuing Daro turned to face her.

  Cecily opened her Awareness as she backed up, focusing on the men. Two pulled small knives from their belts, and she deflected them with a Push as they raced toward her. A tiny dart hurtled forward and she swept it out of the way, then targeted the one with the blower. No doubt those darts were poisoned, so she needed to immobilize him first. She struck out with her Reach, coiling it around his neck while she deflected two more knives with a Push from her other hand. Squeezing, she felt his throat collapse under her grip and she let go in time to Push aside another dart as it whizzed through the air.

  Targeting the second dart blower, she gripped his neck with her Reach. He clutched his throat, clawing at it as he choked for breath, as she deflected more knives. She looked out at her attackers as the man collapsed and she let go. Why weren’t they coming closer? They could easily rush forward and overwhelm her, and all had short swords at their sides, but they maintained a distance.

  They yelled something to each other. The words sounding familiar but heavily accented, and all three produced dart blowers. Cecily didn’t know if she had the strength for another massive Push, like she’d done to the horses. Her rush of energy from Daro was quickly depleting. Striking out at one man, she Pushed him backward and he hit the ground as the other two launched their projectiles. With her other hand, she knocked them aside, but they reloaded and sent more darts flying.

  She deflected the darts, then grabbed the blowers with thin slices of Pressure, ripping them from the men’s grasps. They reacted quickly, reaching into their belts to grab more small knives, and hurled them toward her. She swept them aside and threw a Push at one man, knocking him backward with a heavy thump as he hit the dirt.

  Wrapping a coil of energy around the final man standing, she squeezed, but the other two got quickly to their feet. With a glance at each other, they drew their swords and charged, running toward her. She snaked her Reach around one, ripping his legs from under him as the other two bore down on her.

  Daro burst in on her Awareness, running at full speed. He barreled through the men, swinging his fists as he passed. One man took a blow to the face and flew backward, landing on the ground with a loud thump. Daro’s fist seemed to pass through the other man’s head, his skull exploding with a sickening crunch as Daro rushed by.

  Cecily stopped, gaping, but Daro closed the distance in a rush, flinging blood from his hands.

  “We have to go,” he said, sweeping her up in his arms.

  “Did you get the arrow?” she asked as he started running, carrying her like a child. She threw her arms around his neck and realized with horror he had an arrow sticking out the back of his shoulder. “You’re hit!”

  “I didn’t get the arrow,” he said as he ran, and the thunder of hooves rose in the distance. “They were shooting at me and more are coming.” He raced alongside the edge of the chasm, making for the bridge.

  “How are we going to get back in?” Cecily asked over the rush of the wind.

  Daro didn’t answer, but kept running, and another surge of energy flowed through Cecily. Arrows whizzed by, slicing through the air dangerously close. The bridge loomed ahead and Daro turned, his feet pounding while more arrows clattered off the stone surface. Cecily felt as if she might burst as he poured more power into her, her body on fire with the white hot energy.

  “Reach for the top of the wall and pull us up,” Daro said. They were almost to the other side. “I’ll hold onto you.”

  Cecily had no idea if she could do it, but she hurled her Reach straight up to the edge of the wall, coiling it around two parapets, and Pulled. Daro wrapped his arms around her waist and vaulted with his powerful legs as she hauled them upward with the force of her Pull. Surging to the top, she grabbed onto the edge with her left arm and flung her Reach across to another parapet with her right. Daro clung to her as she let go of the wall with her arm, bracing herself with the Reach of her right hand, and wrapped a coil of energy around Daro.

  “Let go,” she called. He dropped his grip and, marveling at her strength, she hurled him over the top of the wall. He rolled to his feet and dashed to the edge, helping her over the side as arrows clattered down around them.

  More arrows pinged against the stone, and they ducked behind the wall. Halthian archers answered back and a scream sounded from the bridge, followed by the pounding of hooves as the Attalonians retreated back the way they had come.

  Cecily sat next to Daro, their backs against the wall, and tried to catch her breath. Glancing down, she realized another arrow stuck from Daro’s calf. Her mouth dropped open as she looked him over. He’d been pierced by three arrows: the ones in his shoulder and calf, and another in his thigh.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, quickly taking stock of his wounds. Blood trickled down his leg, but none of the arrows had penetrated very deep.

  “They’ll hurt later, but I don’t think they’re too bad,” he said.

  “You’re lucky these didn’t go in deep,” she said. “These should have gone straight through your leg.”

  “I don’t think it was luck,” he said, glancing over his back to the arrow poking from his shoulder. “I think I Augmented myself to keep them from penetrating.”

  Cecily’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “Neither did I,” he said with a half-smile. “It was nothing but instinct. I’m not even sure how I did it.”

  They both got to their feet as a few Halthian soldiers ran by. “Let’s get back to our room, so I can take these out,” Cecily said.

  Daro nodded, and they made their way into the interior of the stronghold. A few more soldiers passed as they walked, giving them cursory glances before moving on.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t get that arrow,” Daro said with a shake of his head, as they walked down a wide stone hallway.

  “Hopefully Nora and the others found the archer who sent it,” she said. “There must have been a communication attached to it. Nothing else makes sense.” It was deeply troubling that someone in their camp was corresponding with the enemy. She wondered if it had anything to do with the Arcstone.

  Hushed voices carried from around a corner, and as she and Daro passed the opening, Cecily looked down the passageway. Nora, Owen, and Semnal stood down the hall, clustered together and talking in low voices. Cecily stopped and, with a quick glance at Daro, strode down the hallway toward them.

  “Did you find the archer?” Cecily asked.

  Nora shook her head. “He ran and disappeared into the stronghold. We couldn’t find him.”

  Cecily let out a breath in frustration. “We didn’t get the arrow either. I can’t say for sure if the archer was sending a message about the … artifact. It’s only one of several possibilities. They could have been warning them of our plans or pointing out places to attack. I don’t know. Regardless, we’ll have to warn General Coryn that we have a traitor in the camp.”

  “We already spoke to General Coryn,” Nora said. “She’s aware of the situation.”

  Cecily narrowed her eyes at Nora. Technically there was nothi
ng wrong with her going to the general directly, but it irked Cecily nonetheless. “Good. We’ll reconvene in the morning. I have to go pull arrows out of my husband.”

  She turned and walked back to their room with Daro in silence. Despite his insistence that his injuries were minor, he was limping, and Cecily glanced at him with worry. Distress caught up with her in a rush as she realized what they had just done, and how close Daro had come to not returning. Swallowing hard, she put a hand on his arm and wondered what to do about the traitor in their midst.

  39. RETURN OF THE PRINCE

  Raed steered the boat as they approached the dock on the south side of the river in Halthas. A few other Imaran vessels were already tied up, and they maneuvered into an open spot between them. Pathius hoisted his pack and climbed out of the boat, grateful that the journey was finally over. The trip had been uneventful, but it was good to be back on land.

  When Pathius had told Raed he would be returning to Halthas with the intent of facing Attalon in the brewing conflict, the Imaran had insisted on accompanying him. Although the Raeswa had said the affairs of neighboring kingdoms were not their concern, Raed disagreed. He and two other Imarans, Leng and Kentan, had joined Pathius on his journey to the city, and planned to offer their spears in service of Halthas against Attalon. Glad for the company as well as the support, Pathius had welcomed them along. The other two altered Wielders, Blur and Dashal, had also joined them, ready to return to their home.

  The rest of the party grabbed their belongings and followed Pathius down the wooden planks of the dock to the riverbank. It was a short walk to the road that would take them through the gates and into southern Halthas, where they could then make their way over the Merchant Span and cross the river into the northern part of the city. As they walked past the busy docks, many of the sailors, workers, and traders paused to watch them pass. Although Imarans were a typical sight in the city, Imarans like Raed and his men were not. Dressed more like traveling warriors than traders, the three Imarans wore thick leather armor, and although the tips of their spears were covered with cloth, it was obvious they carried weapons. Halthians were accustomed to seeing Imaran traders, not Imaran fighters.

  Pathius led them through the open gates, trying to ignore the stares of passersby, and wondered whether he should have covered his head with a cowl. It was odd, walking through the city with his face showing. The last time he had done that, he’d been a prince, and his kingdom had been at war.

  “People are watching us,” Raed said as they walked, making their way through the busy streets toward the Merchant Span.

  “They’re watching you,” Pathius said, “and your spears.”

  “This is not all,” Raed said. “I hear some whisper your name.”

  Pathius knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but it unnerved him nonetheless. Callum and Cecily had actively tried to quell rumors of his seemingly miraculous return from the dead, but he was aware his name had resumed circulation. After Caerven, word must have spread that he was, in fact, alive. He wondered what people had heard. Nothing good, of that he could be fairly certain. His display of power in Caerven would have been enough to start a thousand rumors that would make their way up and down the river, no doubt growing in the retelling as time passed.

  “Rogan is going to hear we’re coming,” Pathius said. Now that Raed mentioned it, Pathius could see people pointing and speaking to each other, and some were clearly gesturing toward him. The news would fly ahead of them, bound forth on the wings of whispers.

  He expected the king would already know of his impending arrival. At his behest, the Raeswa had sent a message with a group of traders that had left several days before him, bound for Halthas. He didn’t want to risk making the wrong impression and find himself locked in a cell before he had the opportunity to see the king.

  They continued to the Merchant Span and made their way over the wide river to the northern portion of the city. Passing through the thick walls, Pathius noticed a trail of onlookers had sprung up in their wake. A small but growing crowd had gathered, following a slight distance behind.

  “My royal escort,” Pathius said, with a shake of his head at the motley that followed.

  “Is this expected?” Raed asked. “I thought you are somehow not royalty any longer.”

  Pathius knew Raed had a hard time understanding the intricacies of the Halthian monarchy. It was vastly different from how the Imarans lived. On their trip downriver, Pathius had tried to explain to the three Imarans that he had once been the son of the king, and had therefore been known as a prince. But with his father’s death and the seizure of the throne by Rogan, that title no longer belonged to him. The Imarans had looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if confused, and shrugged to each other as if his former title held little import.

  “I wasn’t speaking seriously,” Pathius said. “And no, this is not expected. I’ve been so busy wondering how Rogan is going to react to me, I hadn’t thought much about the rest of the people in the city.”

  Although most people either ignored their passage, or watched with some level of interest, the crowd behind them continued to grow as they neared the palace gates, following with a low murmur of voices.

  At least they haven’t tried to apprehend me.

  Perched on a high hill, the palace was surrounded by some of Halthas’s oldest noble manors. The palace itself was encircled by a high wall, although the structure had been created more as a show of power than with the practicalities of defense in mind. Pathius stopped outside the gate and gazed into the grounds. Tall towers of pale stone soared into the air; the delicate lines appeared to reach for the blue sky above. Giant stone lions stood guard at the base of each tower, and the meticulous gardens spread out around them.

  Hesitating, Pathius stared at the palace. It was the place of his birth and his childhood, looking at once familiar and altogether foreign. The trees were taller, but the gardens were still carefully trimmed and the fountain at the center sprayed a delicate curl of water into the air. People milled about near the entrance, guards and pages going about their duty, just like it had been when Pathius had lived there. It was almost like stepping back in time.

  With a deep breath, Pathius walked across the threshold, his feet touching the palace grounds for the first time since he’d held the title of Prince. He glanced around, suddenly overcome with the feeling that something more momentous should have happened. The son of the dead king had returned, but lightning did not strike. He simply adjusted his pack and made his way deeper into the palace grounds, his odd escort trailing him.

  Whispers flew ahead, and soon it was as if the entire palace reacted to his presence. The small crowd that followed stayed in a tight bunch, walking a fair distance behind Pathius and the rest of his group. Servants, messengers, and others in livery darted around the grounds and a steady stream of finely dressed men and women wandered out in front of the towering structure.

  “See, they come to greet you,” Raed said. Pathius couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

  A line of four palace guards pushed their way forward and Pathius halted in front of them as one guard spoke. “State your business.”

  “I’m here to see King Rogan,” Pathius said.

  The guards eyed the Imarans with open suspicion as more people began to filter out in to the space in front of the palace. Pathius thought he recognized a few faces among the well-dressed nobles, and he wondered if they recognized him.

  “Who are you?” the guard asked.

  Pathius took a steadying breath as his heart began to beat harder. “Pathius Meroven.”

  The guard on the end gaped at him, but the others shared a glance as if they were expecting his answer. “Very well.”

  Gesturing for Pathius to follow, he turned and the four guards cleared a path toward the stone steps that led to the main entrance. Pathius straightened his back and made his way through the staring crowd, the rest of his party at his heels.

  Murmurs echoed off the high ceil
ings inside the foyer as a crowd of nobles and servants funneled in behind them. More guards came down staircases and servants rushed by as if sent on sudden errands. The palace seemed to buzz with excitement as they neared the main hall and the guards ushered them in to the cavernous throne room.

  Little had changed since Pathius had stood at his father’s shoulder in that room, listening to petitioners and councilors. The walls were adorned with enormous paintings depicting Halthian kings. It surprised Pathius to see the portrait of his father still displayed, although it had been moved to a side wall from its former position above the throne itself. Delicate chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, holding pale glowstones, illuminating the room with soft light, and a thick, narrow carpet marked the aisle that led to the royal seat.

  Set on a dais, the throne was carved of stone, its lines simple, in contrast to the intricate décor that filled most of the palace. Wrought by a Shaper in the earliest days of Halthas, it had represented freedom from the oppression of Attalon as the first Halthians settled a new land. Pathius paused just inside the entrance to the hall and looked up the carpeted aisle toward the throne, now occupied by a new king.

  Rogan stood as Pathius entered and set his pack down, gesturing for Raed and the others to wait. People filed in, quickly taking their places before the dais on both sides of the aisle, apparently anxious to see what would happen as the son of the deposed king faced their ruler. With his back straight and chin lifted, Pathius walked up the aisle. Rogan watched, his face unreadable.

  Stopping before the dais, Pathius regarded Rogan for a long moment. Rogan’s black doublet was trimmed in gold to match the circlet perched atop his head. This was not the same crown Pathius’s father had worn; it was an understated piece rather than the heavy, ancient crown Hadran had used.

  With a hand to his chest, Pathius bent forward in a low bow. Rogan put his hand to his own chest and inclined his head in a gesture of respect.