Stefan opened his mouth to speak, but Ryne held up his hand.
“Alternatively, I can simply take him. Without me, he will lose control.” Ryne stared down Galiana. “You both know what that entails.”
“I stopped you once, I’ll do so again.” The edge to Stefan’s voice was sharpened silversteel.
Greatsword in hand, Ryne shrugged, swung his other foot casually off the table, and stood, his full height forcing him to bend his neck so he wouldn’t bump his head on the ceiling. “That will not happen twice.”
In response, Stefan’s hand flew to his sword hilt in an eyelid’s blink.
With a shake of his head, Ryne sheathed his weapon in the scabbard on his hip. “I need you to trust me.” He glanced from one to the other. “Both of you.”
“You talk as you do, look as you do, threaten me and mine, and now you ask for trust?” Stefan gave him an incredulous stare.
“Yes. I won’t make things appear less dire than they are. A darkness exists within the boy. He’s hurting. From the look in both your eyes, you’ve seen it. It will consume him if you deny him my help.”
For the last few minutes, Galiana had appeared deep in thought. Now she spoke. “If we are to trust you or begin to, I need to know something.”
Ryne nodded.
“A netherling, one of the most powerful creatures written about in the legends of the world, presumably a descendant of the gods themselves, bestowed a power on Ancel. It tells him someone is coming who will train him. You appear covered in the same power of which he only has a tiny portion.” Galiana’s golden-eyed gaze met his. “Who or what are you, Ryne?”
Ryne allowed his face to become deadly serious. “I’m Ryne, the other part of your legend about gods, netherlings, and daemons. I’m an Eztezian.”
Gasps escaped Stefan, but Galiana appeared unsurprised. An instant later, Stefan’s eyes narrowed, his hand drifting to his sword once more.
“There’s no need to worry,” Ryne said, the lie rolling from his tongue smoothly. “My power is fully under control. I’ve not used enough of it for me to go mad or cause senseless destruction.” But in training your son I will surpass that threshold. He’d long accepted that fact on the way here. Teaching his ward was necessary, even if it meant he sacrificed himself.
In the back of Ryne’s mind, several other pinpoints came to life, bonds similar to the one he had with Ancel, but of a lesser quality. He frowned as they veered away from the path he would have expected. No sense in worrying over them now, they could handle themselves. His purpose here called to him.
Chapter 11
Doubt seeped into Irmina with the thought of the Exalted’s orders to kill Ryne and his mentor. Although she knew it meant Ancel, she prayed she might be mistaken. In her mind, she imagined Ryne visiting Eldanhill only to find he was wrong about the person he thought he’d felt that day in Castere. It helped a little. What didn’t help was picturing Ancel and her when they were younger, flirting, playing together. They would engage in their favorite game of taking a chunk of glass and watching as it reflected rainbow-like colors on the Whitewater Inn’s walls. She gritted her teeth against the memory.
To make the situation even worse was the sinking suspicion that the tiny knot inside her head was Ancel. This close to Eldanhill, she found it incredibly difficult to ignore. And it had grown.
At the Iluminus, her goal seemed so clear. Now, when she considered Ryne’s power and Jerem’s words she wondered how she would be able to complete her mission. She harbored no illusions of defeating Ryne in a fair battle, maybe not even in an unfair one, but she was willing to try. Ryne had said he was going to Eldanhill for Ancel, to help him, and that he needed her too. What can you possibly know of Ancel or me, for that matter?
Hunched into her horse’s saddle, she fidgeted with her clothes, smoothing the front of her thick woolen tunic. The pants fit a bit snug, showing off her shape, but served the purpose of allowing her to tuck the ends inside her boots. She buttoned her fur-lined overcoat once again.
Denestia’s twin moons cast their silvery glow across the land, bathing the snowdrifts and mounds along the plains north of Eldanhill in a ghostly sheen. Even from where she and Jerem stood, the distant roar of the great Whitewater Falls reached them. Silence draped their immediate vicinity in a cold sheet. Directly ahead, the walls around Eldanhill rose like some black monolith, stark against the ground’s white. Beyond it shone the orange luminescence from torches within the town. A town that had grown to the size of a small city in her absence.
“Nervous?” Jerem asked from beside her.
“Not particularly,” she lied even as her stomach fluttered as if she was about to receive Ancel’s first kiss.
Jerem chuckled. “A word of warning,” he said, becoming serious. “Whatever you do, do not let anyone know you’re in the Tribunal’s employ. If you do, they will tread lightly around you.”
“You don’t have to tell me about my own people. Besides, Ryne already knows who and what I am. I’d be more worried about Jillian’s reaction. For years she tried to warn me about the Dorns.”
“Well, Jillian isn’t there. She’s been sent away on another task. As for Ryne, no one must know his true identity. You need to understand that as grievous as your scars are, for some in Eldanhill, theirs are worse when it comes to the man he once was. Those painful memories are another reason I advise against revealing yourself also.”
“Fine, I’ll keep your warning in mind.”
“Well then, I leave the rest to you. Remember, as soon as you move, the guards will see you.”
“You aren’t worried that I carry out the Exalted’s orders?” Irmina avoided looking in Jerem’s direction.
“You will do what is necessary.” With those words, a horizontal slit appeared in front of Jerem, accompanied by a sound akin to a blade slicing empty air. The slash opened into a shape much like an eye before twisting into a vertical position. Beyond was darkness. He stepped through the portal. It snapped shut behind him.
Irmina was abruptly cold and alone. In the silence around her, the thumping of her heart resounded. She was returning to Eldanhill, the only place she ever called home, and she felt like an utter stranger. Why did the task ahead wear on her so? By no means was this her first mission. She’d been on countless such jobs. She’d deceived, manipulated, coddled, cajoled, and killed, all in the name of her profession and the Tribunal. So why did this feel different?
The ties she cut should have left her emotions free, not jumbled. The thought of the Dorns or the Council on a whole upset her stomach like spoiled food. Her craving for revenge boiled inside her until it seethed, but something, no, someone else made her nervous, gave her second thoughts about what she needed to do.
Ancel. A sigh escaped her lips. What will you do when I meet you? How will I react? She drew her cloak tighter around her.
The bell at the top of Eldanhill’s Streamean tower tolled in a long gong as if announcing the dead. Torches brightened the towers along the wall’s length. Voices shouted orders. Several fireballs arched into the air, their flames crackling and hissing as they met the night sky’s cold and moisture.
Cursing to herself as she realized her mistake, Irmina made to flap her reins. Whispers of movement froze her in her tracks. She eased her hand down to her sword hilt and waited.
The snow around her shifted and came alive. In over a dozen places, the white fluff stood in the shapes of men and canines. A few of the animal forms were too huge to be dogs. As if synchronized, they shook, similar to a dog shaking water from its fur. The snow fell away to reveal several large men dressed in furs and animal hides. A torch in one of their hands sparked to life, lighting up the area in orange hues. Beside each man was a daggerpaw or a wolf, teeth bared, tongues lolling in wicked grins.
Slowly, Irmina regarded each. The Seifer and Nema mountain clans were working together.
“After you, little lady,” a gruff voice said.
Someone snickered.
Irmina smiled at hearing those dialects again. Not only did the man leave off the ‘th’ in certain words, but others he converted to a ‘d’ so ‘that’ became ‘dat’ and ‘this’ turned into ‘dis’. Some letters changed to an ‘f’.
“I’ve no intention to be doing anything funny,” she said. “Although, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a good guiser’s play. You know, for a moment there I actually thought you men were dressed the part, disguised as sheep.”
A low growl in his throat, the man stepped next to her. “Dere aren’t any sheep here, lil miss, only mountain lions. I can show you what it’s like to fuck one.” He wiggled his waist, the shaggy fur on the front of his pants bouncing with the movement. His fellows guffawed at his joke.
Irmina glanced from Rawbone to his daggerpaw. Cropped short, the man’s hair reminded her of the tuft on a donkey’s head, and he had a face below it to match. What was worse, his tone sounded much like a bray. She gave him a slow smile. “I’d rather your daggerpaw fuck me than to lay with a mule of a man.”
Several clansmen chuckled. Even in the moonlight, Irmina picked out the angry glimmer in his eyes and the clenching of his hands near the axe on his hip.
Rawbone shifted closer, reaching out and grabbing her reins. “Look here, lil miss. I’ll have none of your lip. Now, move it or lose it.”
“Lose it.” Irmina drew her sword and relieved the man of the hand still holding her reins.
Blood painted the silvery snow red, its warmth throwing up steam. The severed hand, now in a half-closed fist, fell to the ground. The man yowled and snatched at his stump.
Snarling, its bone hackles snapping up into knife sharp edges, his daggerpaw launched itself at her.
Irmina opened her Matersense, seized essences of air, and stopped the animal in mid flight. The daggerpaw hung suspended in the cushiony strands she Forged. A wave of her hand sent the creature flying fifteen feet into a snowy mound.
Her sword point was at Rawbone’s throat before he managed to move. “Call off your pet.” She nodded toward where the daggerpaw was clambering to its feet.
Squeezing his arm above the wrist, the man said a few guttural words. The daggerpaw shrank back, but its gaze glowed with vehemence.
Irmina gave a nod of satisfaction then surveyed the clansmen arrayed around her. As she expected none of them had attempted to help or interfere in a one on one fight. Not yet. But the scowls and hands tightening around weapons said any one of them might wish to challenge her on their own. After all, she was a weak lowlander and a woman. Why would one of the mountain men need assistance to teach her a lesson? Pride could be anyone’s undoing. “I don’t take kindly to threats. Now, any of you move, and I’ll give him another mouth to yap out of.”
The men remained still. None uttered a word, but their eyes and the weapons in their hands spoke in volumes of violence. Irmina’s horse snorted.
“That includes you,” Irmina said to a man trying to sneak from her blind side.
The whisper of his feet on snow ceased.
“Now,” she said, “until over a year and a half ago, Eldanhill used to be home. It never had a wall, and your kind stuck to the mountains. Why are the Nema and Seifer not only here in the lowlands but working together?”
No one spoke. The wounded man moaned.
“You can answer now.”
“T-Tings have ch-changed, miss,” Rawbone said between clenched teeth.
“Oh?”
“D-Dey can tell you what h-happen w-when dey get here.” Rawbone nodded toward Eldanhill’s wall.
A sally gate opened to reveal several forms illuminated by the backdrop of torchlight. One of them mounted, pulled a hood over their head, and kicked the horse into a trot.
“P-please, miss.” Rawbone tried his best not to sag onto her sword point. “Let dem h-help me. I swear no one w-will a-attack you.” Eyes wide, he licked his lips.
Nodding, Irmina eased her blade from his throat. “Help him.”
With a moan, Rawbone collapsed to one knee and stuck the end of his stump into the snow. Uncertain glances passed between the clansmen before several of them rushed to his side and began fussing over him.
Irmina kept her gaze between the approaching rider and the remainder of the men. Those who weren’t assisting Rawbone stood watch. Their daggerpaws and wolves crouched, heads down, muscles tense, held back only by handfuls of fur in straining hands.
As the rider drew closer, the wind picked up, whipping powdery residue sideways, but Irmina resisted the urge to pull her cloak tighter around her. She held her sword casually to one side, wondering which of Eldanhill’s Council had been sent out. She pictured the surprise on their face when they recognized her.
The cloaked rider reached within a few feet, and Irmina frowned. The person was smaller than any Council member she remembered, even shorter than she was.
The clansmen dropped to one knee and bowed.
Brow puckered, Irmina glanced from the clansmen to the newcomer. The person slowed to a walk, handling the horse’s reins expertly. The form stopped and threw back the cloak’s hood.
“Teacher Galiana Calestis?” Irmina exclaimed.
Face haggard, the woman appeared frail compared to the vibrant person she remembered. “I have been expecting you, Ashishin Irmina.” The wind fluttered Galiana’s cloak out behind her.
Irmina gasped at the uniform she saw below the cloak and the insignia glinting on Galiana’s breast. The green colors and the Setian Quaking Forest. Her grip on her sword tightened until her hand trembled.
Chapter 12
Back bent as she rode, Shin Galiana noted Irmina’s reactions to the soldiers. Irmina’s eyes merely narrowed at the Dosteri troops, but at the sight of the Setian colors, her hand drifted to her sword. When she realized, she fidgeted with her reins and quickly shifted her hand while glancing in Galiana’s direction. Galiana pretended not to notice.
“I heard rumors of this within the Iluminus, of Sendeth having risen against the Tribunal.” Irmina stared straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the patrolling soldiers as their boots squished along the slush-filled and torchlit roads. “I must say, I’m surprised. I thought Eldanhill would remain loyal if for no other reason than the Mystera’s influence.”
“We are loyal.”
“To who?”
“Our heritage,” said Galiana, her voice soft as she kept a hand on her staff. “Loyal to who we are. To what was taken away from us.”
Irmina flinched at those words, color rising in her cheeks. “What of the things the Setian took from others? The countless lives …”
“Everyone has lost someone at some point.” Galiana meant her words as reassurance, but Irmina squeezed her eyes shut. “Some more than others. Our reactions in the face of extremes, of grief, of terror, of rage, of elation are what shape us.”
A deep breath escaped Irmina. “Indeed. I’m sure Aunt Jillian would agree. Where is she anyway?” Her eyes were as cold as the icicles hanging from the eaves or stony corners of parapets on the buildings around them.
Galiana heaved a sigh, and in spite of her furs, she shivered. “She went off to escort some of our own to safety.”
“By the orders of the Dorns, no doubt.” The bitterness in her tone was clear. “Wait, I forgot, there’s only one Dorn left now.”
A hair from telling her that Ancel was a Dorn despite how she felt, Galiana kept quiet instead. Whether her Aunt Jillian told Irmina or if she discovered the Dorns’ identities on her own made no difference. Irmina knew. Why she had left so abruptly and why High Shin Jerem insisted on her traveling to Ostania made sense now. Time to heal, to decide, to make allegiances. But on whose side was she? From all reports, Irmina belonged to the Tribunal and in turn to the Ex
alted. What game was Jerem playing at? Irmina should have the Setian cause at heart regardless. The Dorns had no choice when they destroyed her family. The blame for what happened to the Nagels fell on Nerian’s shoulders and their own for turning to the shade.
Added to all this was the stranger, Ryne. A self-proclaimed Eztezian. How much of what the man had said could she believe? For most of her life, she’d researched and followed the Chronicles, using their prophecies and recordings as a guide to hopefully see a better future. Not everything within them had come to pass, but enough happened for her to believe some semblance of truth, of an ability to foretell, existed within those pages and the men and women who wrote them. Discerning what was worth pursuing was indeed the hard part. Not only were the words within them open to interpretation, but the Chronicles she read laid out conflicting paths.
According to her experience, dating back to when the original Iluminus split only to reform under the Ashishin, the events foretold by the Chroniclers bore a near uncanny resemblance to what transpired. At times, they did not. However, this only led her to believe in the different threads of destiny, altered fates, some of which were beyond prediction. If only she had managed to obtain every one of the Tomes. She let out a sigh. A million questions ran through her mind to ask Ryne, but she wondered just how much truth would be in his answers.
Despite all she had seen and the many changes she achieved due to the information deciphered from their pages, there was one thing Jerem always said that stuck in her mind. ‘No man’s fate is decided beforehand. People and paths change and destiny is nothing more than a choice here or there and a chance for some philosopher to say I told you so.’ However, his own words did not deter him from using the very same Chronicles.
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