by K H Lemoyne
“He’s not likely to expire soon, and neither is she. You can’t believe the council would consider a recent acolyte, a plebeian mage, as a viable option.”
“They will choose the most powerful mage, or they risk rebellion.” His eyes brightened and his mouth set in a cynical smile. The cold confidence radiating from him was so strong it sickened Logan. His tension eased, relief flooding back as Rhiamon stepped away and turned her back, though he’d have preferred to keep an eye on Owain.
“You sound so certain.”
“I am more than certain,” he said.
She swung back. “If my memory serves, it is humility and diligence which open the doors to opportunity, not ego.”
“Waite teaches such tired platitudes, perhaps because he doesn’t have the intelligence or cunning for head honor.”
“How like you to compare yourself to your instructors.”
“We were not so different.” He moved closer, his chest a hair’s breadth from Rhiamon, the threat so obvious Logan wanted to shove him. But she kept her stance without emitting fear. And, as always, he had no influence in the vision of the past.
“You’ve enjoyed pitting yourself against me. We were almost evenly matched.” Owain’s sardonic expression remained, the quick flicker in his eyes signaling his displeasure with the memory.
“I, for one, don’t care to place for head honor.”
Owain’s brows drew together in a scowl. “You’re not serious? Do you want to while away the years, draped in funereal robes, praying for good rain and crops until you turn into an old hag? Be serious, Rhiamon. There’s desire for more inside of you. I’ve seen it.”
“That may be.” She moved past him. “However, head honor carries a great responsibility. I’m not sure I wouldn’t feel trapped by such a great weight.”
“Not weight. Power. You’d be crazy not to want to rule beside me.”
She gazed at him and froze. Evidently, she’d seen the obsession and greed on Owain’s face. And lust.
“Head honor isn’t about command, it’s about leadership,” she persisted. “Besides, our friendship ends with our ascension. You know that.”
His features hardened, cold, dispassionate, and threatening. “We’ll see.”
“Personal interaction between the mages and priestesses is a punishable offense.”
“Rules are meant to be changed.”
“Now you’ll change the rules, too.” Logan flinched as a new vision superimposed itself before his eyes, a vision not of Rhiamon’s creation, but one forced into her mind.
Owain, draped in robes of deep scarlet, with a golden circlet around his head, had his fist buried in the long, black hair of a slender woman in night-blue robes. He jerked her head to his, keeping her face from view, but the tight clasp of Owain’s arm around her back and his hand gripping her buttock left no confusion as to his intentions.
The beautiful sheen of black hair and the sleek figure was so much like Bri, Logan wanted to rip Owain’s fingers away and plow his fist into the arrogant face. No woman deserved what Owain intended.
As Owain’s vision ended, Rhiamon took two steps backward. “That is what you see? You in power, me, and the world changed for your pleasure.”
He didn’t move, but his lips tightened at her obvious rejection. “Vision is a powerful thing.”
“So is clarity. I wish you the best with the tests. If—when you are awarded head honor, you will only be in training to take on the role in the future.”
“Perhaps.”
“We’ll see how we do after the testing.”
He took her hand and raised it against his lips. “Best of luck, Rhiamon.”
She yanked her hand back. “Good night, Owain.”
He disappeared from the garden.
Ready to wake up, Logan blinked as images fled before him. Days, nights, wagons, cities. Again, the journey of the priestesses flew by at a dizzying speed. Views of barrels and boxes slowed and morphed into one of raucous crowds and the merry laughter of men and women. Children darted through adult legs and around boots and skirts. Explosions of color rained in the night sky and blended with the bright, bouncy tang of bows on steel from the fiddles and drums across an open field.
Logan turned in a circle, noting the wagons behind him. The crowd from the festival expanded for several hundred feet in each direction. Twin moons shone above a wide stream to his right and a village square on his left. Long stone walls and multiple sparkling castle turrets were visible beyond the fireworks and festivities. The fortified stonework ran the length of the city.
Ambling through the crowd, he took in the music and dancing until he reached the bystanders. The quick strum and bounce of the beat infected everyone. Men danced with high steps and swung their laughing partners into the air until skirts swirled in a bouquet of colors like a field of poppies swaying in the breeze.
Suddenly, Logan was aware that Rhiamon had discarded her male disguise for a long flowing dress. He hoped she wouldn’t attract more suitors like Owain. But she seemed content to watch a large giant of a man with strong features and golden-red hair lead a young woman through several high-kicking steps.
Then the man caught a glance of Rhiamon and made his way to her side.
Logan exhaled in relief when many of the next scenes sped by: talking, dancing, handholding, all too quick for his senses or memory, though he’d remember the man’s face. The scenes wound down with dawn cracking over a bay near the castle. Glimmering shades of pink and silver expanded along the horizon. Logan turned away from the red-haired giant, though the man’s gaze followed Rhiamon’s figure all the way up the hill to the wagons.
Whatever she’d experienced, she’d thankfully kept to herself. But given the deep longing Logan had seen in the man’s eyes, the night had left a lasting impression on her companion.
Logan approached the wagons from the river. Voices rose, and a small crowd of curious, leftover revelers collected.
Hoofbeats vibrated beneath his feet, and he barely managed to jump out of the way of a dozen or so black stallions. Each carried a guard dressed in full armor, with an emblem of antlers covered in ivy emblazoned on each warrior’s chest. The guards crowded together so tightly, Logan couldn’t see to their end.
A woman’s cry launched him into a run. He halted at the edge of the last wagon.
“Symone.” The woman’s whispered name came from Rhiamon’s lips.
The priestess knelt in the grass, her head bowed, her fingers digging into the dirt. Seven men, all fully robed in scarlet, circled her—Owain at their forefront.
“You are wrong. She is not among us,” Symone cried.
“You lie. I know she is here.” Owain’s voice carried as his fist clenched. Symone groaned.
Logan winced as sharp spikes of obsidian pulsed in a steady torrent, assaulting the poor woman. The attack tore the shimmer of silver and white that surrounded her into shreds. And if the remaining scarlet-robed old men were mages, from their stone-faced expressions, they wouldn’t interfere with Owain’s abuse.
The guards pulled the reins on their horses, their eyes wide as their mouths pressed tight in disgust.
“Stop this.” Two priestesses moved arm in arm before Symone, shielding her from view while a third helped her to her feet and away from scrutiny. “How dare you? Since when is an acolyte sanctioned in violence against one of our Order?”
Owain’s gaze riveted to the elder, taller woman, but a mage beside him stepped forward.
“He is here in a new capacity, Lady Edythe. In his role of succession.”
Edythe’s mouth fell open. She glanced from the mage to Owain but recovered quickly and narrowed her eyes. “Even so, his insolence is beyond excuse. His attack will warrant severe penalty—the loss of succession the least of his problems.”
The same mage quickly stepped before Owain. “My lady, you misunderstand. Lord Owain has already assumed his role upon Master Hiereward’s death, two eves past.”
Shock, dis
belief, suspicion, and finally rage all flickered across Edythe’s face without censure. Logan immediately deciphered the emotions. Unfortunately, Owain did as well.
He pushed the mage aside with the back of his hand, and closed in on Edythe. “You will deliver your acolyte now, and I will consider only a mild rebuke of your insolence.”
She raised her chin and glared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mistress Rhiamon is missing. She fled the citadel. Her departure is an act of treason. Hiding her convicts you and the sisters of your order as well.”
“An absurd accusation.”
“We’ll see how you feel after interrogation, my lady.”
The mage edged back to Owain’s side. “My lord, I am certain the Lady Edythe will comply once she is aware of Rhiamon’s true actions. Were the situation reversed, I would be most diligent in my denial of accusations against you without solid proof.”
Good counter, thought Logan. Not enough to dispel the rage building in Owain, but enough to give him pause. The crowd had swelled, too, a sense of fear and distrust mounting with the slinging of accusations.
“Bring Symone back. She is closest to Rhiamon.”
Logan bit back regret when Rhiamon stepped forward. “There’s no need for interrogating the priestesses. They didn’t know I was here.”
Owain spun toward her, his rage flaring as his gaze swept over her outfit. “You will be returned to the citadel for sentencing.”
Edythe had paled as Rhiamon spoke, but her determination returned with Owain’s words, her grit evident in her clenched teeth as she rounded on the man. “She is entitled to a hearing. My order has not reviewed the case and deliberated, much less determined our decision. Or have we dispelled with pleasantries of law and order under your guidance, Lord Owain?”
“Bring her and be quick,” Owain said.
“Quick will be a problem.” A guard stepped from behind Owain, accompanied by two other men bearing the royal emblem. “The king insists this proceeding be brought before him.”
“There is no need. This is a citadel matter.”
“The king disagrees. This dispute has taken place on his threshold, before the citizens of Aisalinore.” The man in rich brocade glanced between Owain, the priestess, and Rhiamon with little interest. Posture rigid and jaw tight, he wasn’t about to concede on the issue.
“Prince Kiaran is correct. The king’s impartial review would be best. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Owain?” The older mage almost cowered under Owain’s glare, but he held firm. “It would be unfortunate to begin your tenure with your judgment in doubt. This will alleviate any concerns.”
Owain glanced at Rhiamon. “Fine.”
“We will take custody of the prisoner until a verdict has been rendered.” The deep voice came from behind Logan, and he turned as the red-haired giant from the evening before, with the royal emblem stretched across his chest, joined the others. He didn’t acknowledge Rhiamon, but stood beside her, one hand surprisingly gentle around her upper arm.
Owain scowled and raised his hand. Loose threads of glowing red metal hung from his fingers. “Secure the prisoner with the hell-fyred iron. We don’t want to risk her escape, Prince Coel. She has escaped once. I won’t tolerate a second occurrence.”
Logan didn’t need information on the restraints. Owain’s look promised they’d be painful.
Coel said nothing, but grabbed the strands without flinching and turned Rhiamon toward the castle.
At the steel door of a dark cell, he looked from the threads to her. “I ask your word you won’t escape.”
At her nod, he stuffed the threads in his pocket, gently pushed her into the cell, and closed the door.
Logan came awake with a gasp, back in his own body.
“That bad?” Robert asked.
He scrubbed his face, glad for the freedom to move and familiar sensations across his own skin. He glanced at Robert, seated three feet away in the cottage. “You have no idea.”
8
Logan stood over the table and inspected Robert’s full bowl of congealed oats and idle spoon. “Not up for porridge?”
“Still full from last night.” Robert gave his spoon a slow swirl and then glanced at him.
Out of habit, Logan brushed his sleeve across his nose to make sure there wasn’t blood. “What are you staring at?”
“You move when you have those dreams. The visions.”
“Please tell me I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“No. That would be more informative. Please tell me they haven’t messed you up inside.”
“I’m good. Can’t say I have answers. A few things are falling into place. Still too many holes to understand how the information fits into the big picture. Hopefully the book will fill in the missing pieces.” Logan held up a hand, stalling Grainne as she reached for an empty bowl. He grabbed Bri’s book. “Feel like some fresh air? Since you’re obviously not finishing breakfast?”
The bowl was still in Robert’s hand when Logan settled against a stump at the edge of the clearing. He started as Robert dug a hole with his knife, poured the oatmeal in the dirt, covered the mess, and stood back with his arms crossed.
“What the—?”
“Wait for it.”
A full minute later, green shoots broke through the soil and stretched skyward. Leaves unfurled and tendered new shoots until the plant touched sunlight.
“Brings a whole new perspective to the beanstalk story.” Logan looked around at the proliferation of new plants and squinted at Robert. “You taking up horticulture?”
“Learned this from Hefin.” Robert waved the bowl toward three lush ferns down the line of plants. “He doesn’t care for parsnips in his stew, so he brings them out here and they…reform.”
“Right. Where is Hefin? And Bri?”
“A young boy showed up just after dawn. She left down the path with him. Hefin went in the opposite direction. Grainne said the lad was from the village.”
“Trouble?”
“Grainne seemed unconcerned. I’m heading down to the shore to wash up. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Logan watched Robert’s retreating figure until his head disappeared below the rise of the hill, and then scrutinized the row of budding plants. He hadn’t detected a lie, but something didn’t feel right about him. He shook off the sensation and flipped open the book’s leather binding.
The pages paralleled Bri’s description of a historical journal. The timeline account noted an arrival in the new world, construction of the new city, the collection of its people, the gradual infusion of magical elements and defenses. All noted in diary format. Colored symbols, notations, and clips of insight augmented each page with highlights, lending specifics, and details of powers and incidents.
References to minions appeared nowhere.
However, references to bloodlines and their strength were frequent. Detailed notes followed on the magical properties of various bloodlines. The breadth of powers ranged from full-borne alchemy to illusion. Additional details clarified how to induce latent powers, utilizing human abilities of enchanted words and tales.
Makirs only received brief note, with a reference on how their bloodline resisted the influence of magic. Etched in a margin, he found a second note on sentinels beside a paragraph outlining the village’s options for protection against unwanted portals. Evidently, Rhiamon considered her people’s risk minimal based on the lack of information she included. Or perhaps she had another reason for not considering the sentinels viable resources.
Each of her examples related to a person or event in her history. The notes were relevant and personal, recounting from Rhiamon’s insights and activities.
Whatever had happened between the scenes in his last vision and the creation of this journal, Bri’s mother had come full circle, living in a community based on integrated magical and human abilities without the heavy oppression of Brennagmore’s rules. This was a world she nurtured with quiet encouragement and pr
ide, in contrast to the heavy oversight of the citadel and council for their people.
Perhaps “living” wasn’t a strong enough term. Her insights described a loving and protective relationship with those around her, making the reading painful and sad, given he knew the community’s destruction had forced Bri’s escape into the dimension of Loci.
“So engrossed, lad. If you don’t move to the shade, I’ll have to give you a potion for sun rash. ’Twil seem worse than the healing paste.”
Logan laughed at Grainne’s comment. He wasn’t at risk from sunburn on this fall day, but she’d pulled him out of his dark thoughts about the fate of Rhiamon and her village.
Grainne knelt beside one fern Robert had pointed out and stroked the fronds. The individual leaflets unrolled into solid stalks and expanded into a thick bush. Tendrils—slender runners—snaked across the soil and dipped beneath. Between the large, dark-green leaves of the mother plant, round, green nodules developed into a recognizable shape.
“Are those strawberries?”
“Hefin thinks he is so smart in hiding what he can’t abide.” Grainne chuckled and tapped a finger to her forehead. “The blood persists. He’ll find the berries more palatable, if fleeting due to the coming cold. The child, too, might be tempted to open her eyes for these.”
She poured a bowl of water at the base of the plant. The green nodules plumped and changed from green to pink, then red. With a snap, she popped one off its flower truss and tossed it to Logan.
He bit the flesh of the fruit from its leafy cap, without hesitating. He didn’t dare insult this woman. The bright, sweet tang slid across his tongue. Incredible.
“Can you bring them back, even after the frost?”
She tilted her head. “Aye, but there are costs in fighting the natural tide of a living thing. The sun is bright and the water fortifying. The blood doesn’t resist. When the weather changes, too much effort is expended on what should wait for its proper time.”
“What do you mean by the blood not resisting?”
She stood, dusted off her long skirts, and settled on a stump. “The energy of a bloodline is tied to its power. The effort of the blood to resist against its purpose is a combination of the potency of the magic, the body it lives within, and the force exerted upon it.”
