The fourth Mystic was another mage, a woman named Weath, an alchemist. Almost from the start, she and Xain fell into animated conversation. Among a blur of words she barely understood, Loren gathered that they had attended the Academy at around the same time, though Weath had completed her training with the Mystics.
They soon excused themselves to continue their conversation elsewhere—or rather, they were forced to leave when Erik nearly threw them out of the room.
The Mystic then sat with Loren and called for wine, for he had many questions. In particular, he wanted to know of the Shades: their strength, the composition of their troops, their strategies and any weaknesses that might be exploited. Loren felt of little help, for she had no mind for warfare or strategy. But when she told him of Trisken and the man’s ability to cheat even mortal blows, Erik took great interest.
“It was the tattoo on his neck,” Loren explained. “It held some dark enchantment. I would wager the Necromancer himself put it there, for it had the power to stay death itself. Only after Jordel destroyed the tattoo could Trisken finally be killed.”
“And you say it was on the back of his neck?” said Erik. “Do they always place it there?”
“I know not. But Rogan, another man like Trisken, goes to battle with chain hanging from his helmet, which protects the same area. It seems a safe wager.”
“You are sure Rogan has the same power?”
“I shot him in the hip with an arrow. He snapped the shaft as it if were a fly’s bite and came for me again.” Loren shuddered at the memory, and at the baleful look she could recall in his eye.
“I have seen men do much the same in battle when their blood is up.”
“Not like this.”
Whenever he paused to think of more questions, she asked Erik about himself, and the others with him. Loren learned he bore the title of knight. But when she asked if that meant he was like the other Mystic warriors she had met before, Erik shook his head.
“The greater part of Mystics is simply that—Mystics. They follow orders and fight at the command of others. In time, they may be promoted to a knight, like myself, and then to the rank of captain. Captains answer to Chancellors, who answer only to the Lord Chancellor himself. The Lord Chancellor answers to no one, save the High King.”
The others bore no rank other than their title of Mystic—not even Weath. That confused Loren, for it seemed a wizard such as she would be more than a match for Erik in battle, even if he were a mighty warrior.
“It is not only strength in battle that determines worthiness of rank,” said Erik. “If that were so, the Lord Chancellor should never have risen to his station. He has never performed any great deeds in battle.”
“How did he rise to his position, then?”
Erik looked around, though no one had entered the room since their conversation had started. “There are many rumors, and little known for certain. But he hails from the family Daydren, and their influence is powerful across the nine lands. The Academy Dean hails from that black clan as well.”
Loren shuddered, for she had heard that before. Annis, whose family of Yerrin was fearsome enough, had feared to do more than whisper at the Daydrens’ dark machinations.
Once Erik had finally exhausted his questions and Loren had no more in return, he took his leave. She found herself alone in her cabin, for Gem and Chet had gone to the deck, while Xain and Annis had left her some time ago. She stood and paced. Loren had two hard decisions, and each had weighed heavily upon her ever since Kal had told her his plan.
Just as she had made up her mind to go, there came a sharp rap at the door. It opened to Chet. He shut the door behind him, clearly troubled. Then he came to stand before her, and though he looked as though he longed to take Loren’s hands, he did not.
“You mean to go through with this mad plan, then?”
She met his gaze and nodded. “I have no choice.”
“We all have a choice. You told me you had a message for the Mystics, a message that might let them save all the nine lands from peril. That message is now delivered, it seems. Yet still you march by their orders.”
Loren found herself annoyed but let it pass. “The message has not yet reached as far as it must. You heard Kal, and I know you saw the wisdom in his plan. Without the High King’s order, the nine lands may wait forever for the Mystics to act.”
“Xain is already determined to tell her, whatever his consequence. Yet you, too, are a criminal under the King’s law, and may face the same penalty.”
“That is unlikely. I would be surprised if word of my doings has reached the Seat.”
Chet looked far from satisfied. But Loren had only just mustered the courage to do what must be done and had no time to console him now.
“I hope you will come with me still. But I will understand if you wish to wait here. Stay here, on the coast, and I promise I will return to you the moment the High King has been informed of the threat. Then we can return to the Birchwood, where I am certain your father awaits your homecoming.”
“Would that I could believe it,” he murmured, looking past her as his eyes grew distant.
“I believe it. But now I must speak to Annis. You need decide nothing until the morrow.”
Loren moved past him. At the last moment, his hand jerked out to brush against hers, and she let her fingers trail against his for a moment longer than needed.
She found Annis upon the ship’s main deck. The girl sat on a large coiled rope, which formed a perfectly sized seat. Her eyes were on Gem, who had somehow convinced one of the Mystics to practice his swordplay. The boy had stripped to the waist, and his bare feet danced upon the boat’s planks as he swung hither and yon with his blade.
Though her mind had been made up, Loren quailed when she saw Annis sitting there. The girl looked up and saw her, and in her smile Loren saw the same quiet panic she had been feeling herself. So rather than speak, she sat beside Annis on the deck, and together they watched.
Gem’s weeks of practice seemed to have paid off, for he matched the Mystic blow for blow. He was one Loren had not yet been introduced to—a thin and wispy Mystic who seemed a perfect match for Gem’s small frame.
Only now that she watched him, Loren saw that the boy was not so small as he had once been. In the months since their first meeting, he had shot up like a beanstalk. And from many adventures, and the sword practice he had thrown himself into since Jordel’s death, Loren now saw thin and sinewy muscle where once skin had been clinging to bones.
She looked to Annis by her side and saw that the merchant’s daughter, too, was no longer the child she had been. She was neither so plump nor so short. And her eyes as they watched Gem showed something Loren recognized, something that might not yet be womanly but was not entirely childish. It was disconcerting to recognize that two of her closest friends in the world should have grown so much in such a short time without her seeing it.
Annis caught her looking and blushed, turning her eyes from Gem as he practiced. “Am I staring so boldly? I do not mean to—you probably think me a fool.”
“Sometimes you can be.” Loren nudged her knee. “But not now.”
Annis slapped her hand, but a smile could not banish all her anxiety. She opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it. When she finally found her voice, Loren could tell the words were not those she most wanted—and needed—to say.
“What do you think I should do? About Gem, I mean.”
“Whatever you wish.” Loren shrugged. “Your feelings are your own.”
“You could give me some advice. After all, you and Chet . . ."
Loren felt her cheeks burn a bit, but mayhap less than she feared. “That is not the same. We have known each other all our lives, and Chet wished to marry me for years. You and Gem only met a while ago, though indeed it seems longer.” Her smile dampened, and she spoke more softly. “But I do not think that is what chiefly troubles you.”
At first, Annis looked as though she was trying t
o feign ignorance, but her mask soon fell. She hung her head, her thick black hair cast down about her face. “No, it is not.”
“We are going to the Seat,” Loren prodded. “From what you have told me, many of your family are there as well—and even more of their agents. For all we know, Damaris herself might have returned by now.”
“I doubt that,” Annis said quickly. “I do not think the Seat is much safer for her than it is for me now, if indeed the Shades’ influence reaches so far as it seems.”
“And yet . . ."
“And yet.”
“If you wish to come with us, you can, of course. But I cannot see that as wise, though it breaks my heart to say so.”
Annis’s eyes grew wet with tears. “I do not wish to be parted. I told you as much in the Greatrocks. I shall repeat it now.”
“And it is the last thing in the world I would wish for. But this is not forever, or even for long—only until we have done our duty and can return to you.”
Annis barely held back a sob. It turned to a sniff instead. “But you will take Gem.”
“Gem will not be hunted high and low by his family, for he has none.”
“What do you mean to do with me, then?”
“Nothing without your consent. I tried before to make arrangements without you. I will never do that again.”
“You know my meaning. Where would I go?”
“With Kal, perhaps. I will ask him to take you to Ammon. I can scarcely imagine a safer place in all the nine lands. And I mean to make my way there in any case, upon leaving the Seat. There I will find you, and we will set forth upon the road together.”
“Do you promise me this, Loren? You will not abandon me there and go your own way?”
Loren took her hands and pulled Annis down to the deck so they were facing each other. “I swear it by the sky above and the darkness below. When I sent you ahead in Cabrus, I did not stop searching until I had found you. When Xain was seized by madness and took you from me, I found and plucked you from his lair. Hear me now: I will come for you in Ammon as soon as I may. You are my dearest friend, Annis of the family Yerrin.”
“You are more than a friend,” said Annis, who could no longer hold her tears. “You are my sister—nearer to me than blood, and twice as dear.”
She jumped into Loren’s arms and let her tears spill silently down.
Loren kept her own from falling—but only just.
twenty-three
They spent a restless, fitful night on the boat. Loren had not slept well when they sailed on the riverboat along the Dragon’s Tail, and found it no easier even on a ship so large. Almost she thought to go into the town and find herself an inn to stay for the night but feared discovery by the Shades—and Annis would have been distraught besides. The girl spent the night in Loren’s bed, curled up like a pup to its mother, and seemed to have no trouble with her slumber. So Loren stayed, waking in fits and starts, miserable when morning dawned.
She and Kal had traded words the night before. To her surprise, he had easily agreed to the idea of taking Annis in his company. “’Tis a sensible choice, and one I am surprised to hear you make. I cannot promise you the girl will enjoy Ammon, but neither will she starve. I shall put her to work.”
They bid farewell on the Long Claw’s deck just after dawn. Annis would scarcely let go of Loren, although she no longer wept. She said goodbye to Chet, which was somewhat awkward for them both, and then to Xain, which was somewhat cool, for Annis could not entirely forget his actions in Wellmont. Gem she saved for last, and Loren half expected some grand confession to bubble forth from her mouth. But Annis merely held him close and made him promise to come for her when he could. Gem, for his part, seemed mostly confused, and said of course he would be with Loren when they all came to fetch her.
Annis watched them go and stood waving until she disappeared from sight. Probably, Loren guessed, she stayed on the dock long afterward, until only the thick black dot of the ship shrank upon the sea. Some time after, Annis would no doubt shuffle halfheartedly onto Kal’s ship, take passage to Dulmun, and complete their journey to Ammon.
“Do you think she behaved oddly?” said Gem. “It was as though Annis feared we would never come for her. And twice I thought she meant to say something, but both times closed her mouth.”
Loren rolled her eyes and turned from Gem.
She returned to her cabin once they were upon the water and there rested upon her pallet, trying to recapture some of the sleep she had missed in the night. But if slumber had been difficult while the ship was docked, it was much harder under sail when the waves tossed them asunder. After an hour of fruitless trying, there came a knock at her door, and Xain let himself inside.
“There is something to discuss before we reach the Seat, and I have only just thought of it.” He cleared his throat then added, “Concerning your dagger.”
She reached for its hilt. “Sky above. I did not think of it.”
“I thought not. You cannot march into the High King’s palace with it. It could spell the Mystics’ end.”
“What must I do, then? There is little between here and there save open water. Must I cast it into the sea?”
“Not quite,” the wizard smirked. “I have a friend upon the Seat, a man in whom I have the utmost trust. He will take care of your dagger, keeping it out of sight and mind until you reclaim it.”
“That is well.” Loren sighed. “But what if I never return? You cannot have forgotten that possibility.”
“Indeed I have not. In that case, he will sail into the Bay and cast the dagger into the waves. If it comes to such, I do not think you will miss it.”
Steps pounded in the hallway outside, and Chet burst into her room.
“Loren! Come quickly! ’Tis the Seat!”
She stood from the edge of her bed and went up to the deck with Chet, Xain hobbling along more slowly. Seizing her hand, which no longer felt so strange as it once had, Chet took Loren to the railing near the prow.
There sat the High King’s Seat, like the prize jewel in a great crown fashioned from sapphire. It shone in the midday sun, golden, bright, and glistening like a dewdrop. Even from so far away, at the edge of Loren’s vision, it stole her breath. Chet’s and Gem’s mouths hung open in awe. She realized with a start that hers gaped, too.
The closer they came, the more dazzled she felt. Soon, Loren saw golden spires thrusting up from white stone walls that bordered the island. A silver tower stuck straight like an arrow from the back of a practice target. Perfectly round, it caught the sun’s rays from every direction—so bright, they could scarcely stare upon its splendor. And from every battlement, rampart, and tower flew the High Kingdom’s many banners, blue and green and red and gold, fluttering in the wind like the feathers of some great bird.
Loren looked over to find Xain observing them, clearly enjoying their dumbfounded excitement. “Welcome to the High King’s Seat, Loren of the family Nelda. I hardly thought we would ever come here together. Yet it pleases my heart to see the look upon your face.”
“You lived here? How did you ever go about your life? If I lived upon the Seat, I could do nothing but walk around staring. I have heard tales and stories aplenty, but it is ten times better than even the best.”
“It wears on the senses soon enough,” he said, his tone slightly darker. “I am certain you will soon find yourself as weary as I was upon leaving.”
He raised his hood as they approached. The dock was a masterpiece. Loren had seen plenty before, but always of wood and never of stone. The moored ships were grander even than the Long Claw, their masts reaching for the sun.
Torik skillfully guided his ship into port, and in short order his crew had lashed it to the moorings. They followed Xain, raising their hoods, then set off down the pier and into the streets of the Seat.
The city was not paved in gold, as Loren had heard, but with a fine white stone, perfectly fitted and sealed together. Few travelers were on foot. She saw many
constables atop horses, and the rest were royalty or wealthy merchants in fine carriages. Some drove wagons, but even these were of far finer make than anything she had seen in the cities of Selvan. Every building was stone, and each an exquisite display of craftsmanship. Even when they passed a butcher’s shop, she saw burning braziers hanging above the door, and their pungent, sweet aroma banished the normal charnel stink.
Erik marched before them with Weath, and the other two Mystics behind so that most passersby gave a wide berth. Their steps took them toward the High King’s palace, but Xain tugged at Erik’s sleeve for a word.
“We have one burden we must deliver first. Do you know the way to Aurel’s smithy?”
“I do not,” said Erik.
“Then follow me, and closely.”
He turned them to the left so that they began to circle the palace. The streets were well ordered, and soon they stood before a fine-looking shop with a low, red door. Above it hung a sign with the mark of a silversmith burnt into the wood. The door stood open, but Xain took them around to the back of the building, where a more modest service entrance awaited.
Xain rapped sharply on the door, then they waited a moment before it swung open to a thin little man, his grey hair sticking out in every direction, spindly hands clutching each other in curiosity. He saw the four redcloaks waiting outside and squared his shoulders.
“What’s this about? What service can I be to the Mystics this day?”
“Not to them, old friend.” Xain lowered his hood. “But to me.”
The man looked as though sheer surprise might strike him dead on the spot. He rushed forward, eyes watering, to clutch the front of Xain’s cloak.
“Xain! Xain, is it truly you? I never thought I would look upon you again.” He recoiled, not in fear, but to look around in sudden suspicion. “But my boy . . . you must know the island is not safe for you. Come, come inside, and quickly.”
“No time for that, Aurel. I have a burden I must ask you to bear, for a while at least. ’Tis for the girl here.”
Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm Page 14
