The woman fixed him with a considering gaze. “You’re quite a mystery, Darien Lauchlin,” she muttered. “So how exactly did you plan on returning to Aerysius to wreak vengeance upon your brother and still manage to make it to Orien’s Finger by Solstice?”
Darien shrugged. “It’s a week to Aerysius from here. And another week to Orien’s Finger.”
“And what do you intend to do once you arrive, Bound as you are?”
“I hadn’t the faintest idea till tonight.” A strange smile formed on his lips, the first that Kyel had seen since before his argument with Proctor in the tower. “But we must make use of the Catacombs. It’s our only chance of buying enough time.”
The woman shook her head, this time much more adamantly. “No. I forbid it.”
“Then our journey ends here.” To Kyel’s astonishment, Darien brought his horse around and turned it back the way they had come. The woman stared after him with an exasperated look, eyes glowering behind her veil.
“You would give up your own mother’s rare and precious gift merely to have a chance at slaying your brother?”
“That’s right,” Darien assured her. “When the battle is joined in truth, I can’t afford to have Aidan at my back.”
Kyel frowned in puzzlement, intrigued by his words. Perhaps the man was not insane after all; what he said did seem to make sense. A desperate kind of sense. The priestess seemed likewise affected, and allowed Darien a reluctant nod, once again appearing to reassess him.
She muttered at last, “You would have made a formidable priest of Death.”
“What I really need to be is a formidable mage,” Darien countered.
“Have no doubt; you are,” the woman sighed, looking skyward as she shook her head. “The nearest entrance to the Catacombs is at a shrine off the Great Northern Road, southwest of Wolden. We can make it there by tomorrow if we ride straight through the night without stopping.”
The surefooted horses plodded along, picking their way gingerly down along the curving, narrow trail. Kyel found that it was hard to stay afraid when such extraordinary changes were taking place all around him. It happened so slowly at first that he really hadn’t noticed the transition, but gradually over time the clouds were loosening their hold on the sky and the dawn was becoming brighter. Plants began appearing on the sides of the mountain slopes, sparsely at first, then growing thicker the further down they went until the mountains around them began taking on a hue of astonishing, dark emerald green.
And then a wondrous thing happened. The clouds parted overhead, and a ray of luminous sunlight fell across his face, far brighter than he ever remembered. Kyel brought his hand up to shield his eyes, blinking as he stared up into a blue morning sky. The sun had never felt so warm or so welcome. Below him, the verdant foothills of the Shadowspears spilled down into a grassland so rich and green and consummately bright that Kyel found himself wanting to cry with joy. It had been almost two months since he had seen blue sky, or even so much as a single green leaf. The breeze stirring toward them from the grassland was warm and redolent with the sweet, rich smell of autumn.
“The Cerulian Plains,” Darien announced, indicating the expansive sea of waving grass and colorful patches of flowers that swept before them to the distant horizon. He lifted his arm, pointing toward a branch of the mountains that marched southward to their right.
“Far to the south lies Orien’s Finger,” the mage stated ominously. “There’s a Circle of Convergence at its peak, where Grand Master Orien made his stand against the Enemy four hundred years ago. The whole of this valley is covered by an enormous vortex that begins just north of the town of Wolden. Which means we’ll be passing through the outer margin of it.” Darien’s eyes settled on Kyel’s, fixing him with a significant look as he warned him, “Don’t try to get a sense of the field from this point onward. Not till I tell you to. Without training, even the very margin of a vortex such as this could do you harm if you stroke it the wrong way.”
Kyel had read enough to know what a vortex was and what it meant. A shudder of foreboding passed over him as he stared down at the grasslands, which suddenly seemed to have diminished in their beauty. Before, when he had trekked up this way, a vortex had meant nothing to him. But now that he’d started exercising his mind to consciously sense the magic field, reaching out toward it was becoming second-nature. Still, he didn’t understand; he was not a Master, so how could the field possibly harm him?
But if Darien sensed his question, he didn’t say anything. With one last admonishing glance at him, the Sentinel sent his horse forward at a lope down the mountainside. Kyel’s mount wanted to break after it, but he held it to a walk with a firm hand on the rein. He looked over at the priestess and was suddenly discomfited when he saw that she was staring at him.
“You never told me your name,” she reminded him politely.
Kyel felt a flush of embarrassment, realizing that he had committed a social blunder. He felt intimidated by the woman; her bearing was so regal that she reminded him of a princess. Beside her, he felt so insignificant that he hadn’t even bothered to mention his name. He really hadn’t thought it mattered to her, one way or the other.
“I, uh. Kyel Archer, that is. That’s my name.”
Beneath her veil, the woman’s lips drew upwards in a smile. Kyel couldn’t believe he’d just fumbled over his own name. Sure that his face was as red as a day-old sunburn, he suddenly wished that he could duck down beneath his horse and hide.
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Kyel Archer,” the priestess said formally, though she was still grinning in amusement. “You may call me Naia, if it pleases you.”
He wasn’t sure if it did please him. For the second time since coming to Lor-Gamorth, a person with an imposing title had asked him to use their given name. The first time, he’d earned himself a chain on his wrist. But at least the mark the Sentinel had placed there was out in the open, where he could stare at it and consider its implications. There were many types of chains.
But the priestess seemed to be simply regarding him casually, a wistful expression on her face. “Is he a hard master?”
Kyel found himself thinking that question over for a minute, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, he really didn’t know. His apprenticeship was only just beginning.
He shrugged, responding, “Darien is harder on himself than he is on anyone else.”
Naia appeared to be considering his words, glancing down at the place where the mage had drawn his horse up and was staring out across the plains.
She said at last, “Some people tend to be hardest on those they care about. You’ll need to remember where that hardness comes from, and take heart.”
With that she tapped her crop into the mare’s side and trotted on ahead. He let his eyes sweep over to the black horse that seemed to have taken up residence about halfway down the mountainside. He shook his head, feeling that he seemed to be existing in a permanent state of confusion. It was not a state that he liked.
Chapter Seventeen
Wolden
WOLDEN WAS JUST as Darien remembered it, a surprisingly large but ramshackle town that marked the end of the Great Northern Road. The very fact of its existence was something of a puzzlement. Wolden had originally been established as a waypoint in the movement of supplies and soldiers to the front, really just an outpost of Greystone Keep. Yet as trade to the pass had slowly dwindled over the years, the town had continued to flourish and had even grown. Other than Rothscard, Wolden was the most populated settlement in Emmery. And it was directly in the path any invading army would take, snug up against the foothills that climbed into the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.
Darien could not conscionably skirt the town without giving its people some type of forewarning. So he ignored the pang of urgency that made him want to bypass the settlement and instead directed his horse toward it. Kyel and the priestess followed, though Darien could see the look of bewilderment on Naia’s face almost hidden beneath
her veil. After all of his arguments pressing the need for haste, he could understand the woman’s confusion.
The priestess was quick to figure out what he had in mind. She drew up beside him on her roan mare, adjusting her veil and saying in a lowered voice, “You must take great care in how you handle this. You’ll not want to create a panic.”
Mildly irritated, Darien suppressed an urge to turn and tell the woman that he was very well aware of what he was doing. Instead he swallowed his ire, saying, “I intend to find the mayor. I’ll give him the information and let him figure out what he wants done about it.”
The priestess nodded tentative approval, though her eyes still looked troubled. He didn’t like the look on her face, the thoughtful goings-on behind her eyes. He was starting to get the feeling that he was in some odd sort of power struggle with the woman, and didn’t like it. By her own admission, Naia had been sent to him merely as a guide. But from practically the first moment she had risen from off the floor of Proctor’s chamber, the priestess had seemed bent on questioning him at every turn. Her superior manner was beginning to chafe, becoming frankly annoying. He had need of her as a guide, but as far as he was concerned, the woman could keep her council to herself. His patience was already hanging by a frayed and rotten thread.
The trail they followed wound through the flowing grasslands, widening as they approached the town’s north gate. Being situated where it was so close to the front, Wolden was fortified, ringed by a crenellated wall that was broken in places by towers where guards could be stationed. But Wolden had grown too big to be contained within the space cordoned by the wall, and a good deal of the town had spread beyond it.
The first cottage they rode past looked dilapidated. A woman was sitting in a chair on the porch. Beside her sat a basket of yarn and a small child that was squatting next to it, intent on the basket’s contents. The woman glanced up at the sound of their horses, a look of casual interest on her face. But then her expression crumbled, turning to a look of fear. She shot out of her chair, gathering the child into her arms and hastening inside.
Darien frowned, wondering what had prompted the woman to react that way. It was more than just the glimpse of his cloak. Most people of the Rhen were familiar enough with what that cloak represented not to be overly startled whenever they saw one. He wondered if the woman’s reaction was instead in response to the white dress of the priestess riding beside him; initiates of Death rarely strayed very far from their shrines. Or perhaps it was the sight of the two of them together that had upset the woman so. Darien wondered what such a union would symbolize to a simple commoner, the Silver Star joined in party with the white veil of Death. He had to admit, the combination did seem a strange and ominous pairing.
As they approached the gate, every person they came across seemed to be deeply affected by the sight of their party. They drew a broad range of reactions, ranging from shock to dismay and even outright fear. Darien was becoming unsettled by the looks they were receiving. He was used to people deferring to him, moving out of his way on the street, staring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. But he had never experienced anything like this. He had been to Wolden only twice before, but it was enough to know that it wasn’t just some strange quirk of the citizens there, like the superstitious fear of magic that was prevalent in some parts of the Rhen. No; something else was afoot to make these people react the way they were. He just wished he could put a finger on it.
Even the guards stationed at the town gate were gaping at them as they passed through. They were looking at him as if he were Zavier Renquist himself. The guards made no move to bar his way, but edged away from him as far as they could against the wooden planks that paneled the stone walls. Darien turned to look over his shoulder, watching as a man with a bow abandoned his post, lighting out down a narrow side street.
Darien cursed himself. He had been a fool not to consider the swift wings of rumor. No doubt word of Aerysius’s fall must have preceded their arrival in Wolden. If the people of this town thought that every last mage was dead, then he could imagine their shock at seeing him riding in with a priestess of Death at his shoulder. He should have planned for this. What he should have done was take off his cloak and left Naia outside. Instead of avoiding a panic, his lack of foresight had created one.
The man who had run away from the gate must have raised some kind of alarm. Their party was quickly surrounded by mounted guardsmen. And even though their weapons were sheathed, Darien didn’t like the looks in the eyes of the guards who ringed him. They were afraid. Frightened men could be desperate men. And he was powerless inside the perimeter of Orien’s Vortex.
A guard with graying hair brought his horse forward a few steps. He eyed Darien up and down as he dipped his chin in a stiff greeting. “Your pardon, Great Master, but the mayor would like a word with you. We’ve been sent as an escort. You are advised to come with us.”
Darien ran his eyes around the tight circle of men then nodded once. The guard leaned forward and caught Darien’s reins in his hand. Immediately, two more guardsmen drew their mounts around to flank him. Another kicked his horse forward, insinuating his mount between Naia’s and his own. The guard who had his reins never took his eyes off him as he led Darien’s horse forward through the street.
Townsfolk cleared the way before them in haste and then just kept moving away, often at a run. A woman startled at the sight of them, spilling a bag she was carrying. Abandoning her items, she dashed away toward the nearest opening of an alley. Darien felt a small sense of satisfaction as he watched a young street urchin come along behind her and pause to retrieve the goods the woman had left behind. The boy glanced up at him from where he was squatting, shoving what looked like a whole hare and a few vegetables into the folds of his tattered coat. The boy smiled at him coyly before scurrying away.
As it turned out, the mayor’s house was not all that far from the gate. It was not a house at all, really, but rather what looked like a small palace. Darien was taken aback by the sight of it, although he knew that he shouldn’t be surprised. In the North, elected offices turned over about as often as Southern kingdoms changed dynasties. The mayor of Wolden had probably enjoyed his position for decades.
The guardsmen guided them through an iron gate to a trail that wound through a series of symmetrical flower beds hedged with boxwood borders. The whole affair reminded Darien of the queen’s palace in Rothscard, just on a miniature scale. It was so similar that he was sure the grounds were a deliberate copy. Even the tall, corrugated architecture of the house was reminiscent of Emmery Palace. Obviously, the mayor of Wolden was an admirer of Queen Romana Norengail.
They were ordered to dismount before a flight of wide marble steps that rose beneath a columned overhang. Darien climbed down from his horse first, studying the guards warily as he waited for the priestess and Kyel. His new acolyte looked a little unsure about what to do with his bow. Darien shook his head at him, indicating with his eyes that he ought to leave it behind with the horse. Kyel reached up and glumly hung the bowstring from his saddle, shrugging his quiver off his shoulder, as well. He looked back after it with a forlorn expression as he walked away.
The guards dismounted, ringing them in with their bodies. They were led up the steps under the overhang and through a large door. Within, the interior was dim. A foyer spanned the entire front of the house, with a white staircase curving up from one corner to a balcony on the second floor. The room was sparsely but elegantly furnished, every piece of furniture appearing selected for its artistry of craftsmanship. Letting his gaze wander around the room, Darien discovered what looked like a priceless collection of oil paintings mounted high up on the walls in ornately gilded frames. He thought he might even recognize a few of the artists. One in particular, a nude of a woman sitting alongside a bath, had the unmistakable broad strokes and bold contrasts of a Gabrizi. Darien swallowed, wondering how in the world he was going to be able to convince the owner of this collection to lea
ve it all behind.
They were led down a short hallway and into a snug room with a comfortable fireplace and a large table that was entirely too big for the space, leaving scant room for anything else. A man was seated behind the table, his hands folded neatly on its polished surface. He made no move to stand, instead just gesturing with his hand at two chairs across the table from him.
“Please, have a seat.”
Darien paused before making a move toward one of the chairs, taking a quick survey of the man in front of him. He assumed it was the mayor he was looking at, although the man was younger than he would have expected, with short brown hair and a plumpish face. He was wearing a simple tan jacket, though the cut looked well-tailored and expensive.
“Mayor Blake Pratson,” the man said by way of introduction as Darien removed his baldric and took the seat across from him.
By the rules of etiquette or even common courtesy, the man should have risen to greet his guests. Naia’s presence alone should have been enough to demand it. But the mayor of Wolden just sat back in his chair and waited until Darien and Naia were seated, Kyel lingering awkwardly on his feet. The priestess looked fit to be tied, her seething dark eyes glaring at the mayor though her veil. Kyel, on the other hand, was making a conspicuous study of the wood of the tabletop.
Darien thought about demanding an explanation for the treatment they had received, but decided against it. He needed this man’s cooperation, not his animosity. Instead he leaned forward, extending his arm toward the man across the table and supplying his name, leaving off his title. Pratson looked down at his offered hand as if it were a venomous snake. But he reached out and clasped it in a tentative grip.
Darien said, “May I introduce First Daughter Naia Seleni of the Temple of Isap. And this is my acolyte, Kyel Archer.”
He let go of the mayor’s hand, noting the clammy feeling of the man’s skin. Like the guards, Blake Pratson was afraid of him. Which made no sense. As mayor of Wolden, the man should know that he was powerless here within the turbulent currents of the vortex. The entire town of Wolden was effectively mage-proof. Yet if the feel of his hand betrayed his apprehension, the mayor’s face was a study in unruffled self-assurance. Sitting back in his chair, Pratson folded his arms across his chest and regarded Darien with a dubious expression on his face.
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