Silverkin, page 25
“They went ahead!” Ravin said, taking a step forward. “There’s no need to kill the Drugaen.”
Flent pitched forward in the grass, clutching his chest as he coughed and choked. His face went white like spoiled milk, and he thrashed in the scrub.
“No!” Ravin yelled. “Release him! He cannot hurt you! I told you where they went!”
“Then stop me.”
Fear clenched in Ravin’s stomach. He found himself wishing the Sleepwalker were there to face her instead. Flent sagged flat, his eyes wide with death panic. She was crushing his heart, stopping it from beating. The icy fear turned into white-hot rage. His friend was a fool, unlearned, but he was still a friend—and he writhed, unable to save himself. Why could she not just leave him alone?
“Free him!” Ravin said.
She only smiled, letting her magic crush out his life.
He wanted to fight her, to claim her power as his own. She would kill the Drugaen. She would kill anyone who stood in her way.
Ravin snarled, his slim hands shooting forward. He summoned the Earth magic in a hurricane of thought, drawing it into him with all his strength, with all his will, with every bit of desperation. He drew beyond the bounds of safety, beyond the borders of what was allowed. Forbidden magic. A coppery smell bloomed in his nose. A honey-sweet taste filled his mouth. The magic swarmed inside him, licking his bones and blood, surging with strength and emotion. He remembered the drink. The taste of her blood mingled with his. The glory of it!
This was not a fire she could quench, not Earth magic she could tame.
Ravin hurled it at her, summoning more of its sweetness that thrummed through his skin. He could do more. So much more!
She walked through the torrent as if it were a light rain. The greenish flames dripped harmlessly off her skin and robes. “Surely you can do better than that, child.”
Her hand lifted, cupping the Orb of the Firekin.
And he wanted it.
Chapter XXVI
"I can’t see anything,” Ticastasy whispered as she pulled her cloak tighter. “How do we know we’re going the right way?”
The fog smothered them with its thick wet embrace, soaking them. Thealos could not see the stars to tell how soon dawn would begin its battle against the mist and cold. The long grass swayed as they passed, the bulbous tips brushing against his fingertips.
Xenon paused a half-step and cocked his head. “Waymarkers, human. The quaere ahead is leaving a trail.”
“Can I see one?” Thealos asked.
The Wolfsman removed a hewn square of stone from a pouch at his belt and gave it to him.
The waymarker was thin, broken raw from a slab of granite with a chisel and hammer and then polished on one face. A master stonecraftsman had marked a sigil into it, but the runes were unknown to him. The stone bloomed with Silvan magic as Thealos held it in his hand, and in his mind’s eye he knew where another matching stone waited. It was not far, bearing slightly to the left. The pulse of its magic was so faint that he had not felt it emanating from Xenon.
“As we follow the trail, we collect them,” Xenon said, taking it back. He gave Ticastasy a disdainful look. “If it were our intent to lose you in the fog, it would only be too easy.”
“How comforting,” she said back, matching his tone.
Xenon smirked. “Rest a moment until I return.” He strode ahead, his hand fastened to the pommel of his leaf-blade. His expression clouded as it had during much of the hard walk through the Shoreland valley surrounding Landmoor. Thealos guessed he communed with the other Wolfsmen silently threading ahead of them in the deep of night.
“Insufferable wretch,” Ticastasy whispered after the night swallowed him.
Thealos said nothing, but he agreed.
The night’s chill bore through Thealos and he wondered how Ticastasy endured it. His toes felt like stones in his boots, and he chafed his hands together to warm them a little—in case he needed to draw the Silvan prince’s sword and fight. A sudden gust blasted into them from the south, making him draw deeper into himself and wish they were at the walls already. A pang of homesickness for Avisahn smarted inside him after he smelled the aroma of a nearby patch of wildflowers—flowering weeds, actually.
“Cold?” he asked her, not really knowing what he could do about it.
She nodded. “Aren’t you? Makes me remember the hearth fire at the Foxtale.”
“I remember it. Big enough to stick a whole tree trunk in there. I’d pay ten Arolian pieces right now to warm my hands.” He wiped moisture from his forehead and tried to contain a shudder.
“I’ll do it for five. Give me your hands.”
“I was joking, Stasy.”
“I’m not. Give me your hands.”
Hers felt like ice.
“Do you think he’ll kill us both if we snuck away in the mist right now?” She flashed him a mischievous smile and rubbed some warmth into his hands. He felt some of it reach his cheeks as well. Especially when she did not let go.
She cares for you.
Was it a warning from the wellspring, or maybe the throbbing echo of Justin’s words?
“I’m still a little sore from his earlier…greeting.” He smiled at her and shook his head. “You’ve changed so much since Sol.”
“I’m still the same girl. Being out here reminds me of the morning I walked with Sturnin Goff to Landmoor.” She squeezed his hands, then gave them a little pat and let go. “I’m sorry he died.”
“One of my regrets too.” The desire to brush some hair from her cheek itched inside him and he shoved it away.
She cocked her head. “What is it?”
“You’re too good at reading faces.”
“I hope so. What were you thinking about?”
Only the memory of a kiss. He shoved it down again, trying to think of something to say. “Do you have any guesses?”
“Not with you, Quickfellow. You’re a hard man to read. You always have been. So mysterious. I know you’re a barter’s son. I don’t hold that against you, either. But you don’t…well, you don’t really act like one.” She rubbed her arms vigorously. “Ban, it’s cold tonight. What are you going to do when this is all over? Are you going back? To Avisahn?”
There was something in her voice. Something buried in the question.
“I haven’t thought that far,” he said softly.
She snorted. “Where else would you go?”
He had to tell her. “I might not make it out of Landmoor.”
Her gaze narrowed.
“You don’t believe me?”
“You told me this before, Quickfellow. But I don’t believe Jaerod sent you here to die. You shouldn’t either.”
“I can hope, but we have to be prepared. Using it might kill me.”
Silence.
He looked up at her, saw the worry on her face. He plodded on ahead. “When I take the Silverkin and the warding fails, I may not be able to protect the magic. If that happens, Stasy, I want you to take it. There is another passageway that leads out of the tunnels. Out here.”
Thealos felt Xenon’s presence in the mist approaching them. Ban it!
He grabbed her wrist, forcing her to look at him. “Allavin will be watching for you.”
She shook her head. “No, Quickfellow. Don’t ask me…”
“I must.” He squeezed. “You must.”
Xenon arrived and scowled with disgust. “Enough of that, boy. It’s disgraceful.”
Thealos gripped his control to keep from dropping the Wolfsman with a kick to his forehead. It took every bit of his thoughts to master himself. He had not thought taming the Oath magic could be so difficult. Or the struggle to tame his tongue.
“What news, Xenon?”
The Wolfsman did not seem bothered at all by the chill of the night. “We passed the citadel several miles ago and have swung around to approach it from the west. Brome just crossed a warding. A vast one.”
“How far from the keep?”
“Several miles. Can these…Sorian do that?”
A pit of dread opened in Thealos’ stomach. “How far has your lead searched the perimeter of it?”
“We know our business, boy.”
“I know that, Xenon. I’m asking for my benefit.”
“I have two men trailing the edge of it, both directions. I’ve called for some Warders to come, but they won’t arrive until after dawn.”
“Ballinaire’s front lines will be here by dawn as well. We don’t have time to delay.”
Xenon gave him a scowl. “The warding wasn’t there earlier. It is preventing us from contacting our brothers within the fortress. If the Warders can disrupt some of its magic, we could find what is happening inside.”
“We don’t have time to delay, Xenon.”
“I’m not sending us all to our deaths, boy. We wait.”
Vanish. Disappear. Walk the Crossroads. The temptation to invoke the magic slammed on Thealos. He clenched his fists and fought against it. He had promised not to disobey him.
Ticastasy interrupted. “I have an idea.”
Thealos and Xenon looked at her.
“I don’t think these Sorian can fly. Maybe this warding you’re talking about is there to warn them which direction we’re coming from. Your men have already touched it, so it stands to reason that he knows we’re on this side.” She tugged Thealos’ arm. “Remember the night we ran through the Bandit camp? We moved fast enough that we were able to make it through before they were ready for us. Maybe that’s the answer here.”
Xenon’s scowl deepened into wrinkled folds. “Your advice could get us all killed, human.”
“Well, if you’re too afraid to try, then admit it and let us go. I agree with Thealos. We don’t have time to waste bickering about it. Let’s go for the walls. Now. Fast as we can.”
“If they are waiting for us on the walls? What then?”
Thealos looked at Ticastasy and his heart swelled with admiration. “We start the Ravinjon early.”
“Mad. Both of you.” Xenon stamped and whirled away, seething.
Thealos grabbed Ticastasy’s hand and gave her a little tug. “You don’t have to follow us then, Xenon.”
* * *
The warding did not affect Thealos as much as he thought it would. He knew once they had crossed it, for it felt as if the sky had suddenly fallen like stacks of plates from a cupboard. But the Oath magic gave him a dispassionate glimpse of it—a look into what it really was. Fear—simple yet potent. The warding was fear. An attacking army would struggle against it, especially a Shae army. But in the end, all it could do was make one afraid.
Something Jaerod had whispered to him that night crossing the Bandit army bubbled up from the wellspring’s memories—It is only fear. I will protect you.
Two other quaeres ran ahead of them, their bodies bounding up the rugged slant of the hill with quicksilver ease. He sensed their presence ahead, just as he sensed Xenon’s quaere behind. Three quaeres of Crimson Wolfsmen. That should be enough men to breach the walls.
Ticastasy labored alongside him and he clutched her arm to help her keep up. He guided her around the thick sedge to avoid crunching through them. Ahead, a huge boulder jutted out of the slope, as impassive as a wall. He connected his hands like a stirrup and helped hoist her up into the grasp of the Wolfsmen above and then clambered up the slope himself. At least he wasn’t cold anymore.
The slope grew steeper and their jog slowed to an arduous climb, grasping onto exposed rocks and pulling higher up the steep slope. No army would be able to attack from that direction—which would make it the least defended also. The Oath magic thrummed in his skin, boosting his endurance and making him long to charge the rest of the way by himself.
Ticastasy’s boot slid on a mud slick and Thealos caught her around the middle and hoisted her back to her feet. He could feel her heart hammering beneath her soaked shirt. She nodded that she was okay and continued to scramble up the hillside. Thealos followed, feeling the strain of the magic.
The first quaere made it to the wall and one of the leads started climbing it. Thealos watched him scale its cobbled surface like a spider, following the pitted seams and edges of the battlement wall. A huge rope dangled from his belt as he moved upwards. Thealos watched, impressed, and joined the others at the base of the wall. The area was overgrown with prickly shrubs and thriving with witchthorn and brambles. Ticastasy sagged against the wall, covering her mouth, and tried to catch her breath from the hard run.
Xenon arrived as the lead reached the lip of the wall and waited, dangling dozens of feet above them. He rocked twice and then swung a leg up and around and disappeared over the top.
Thealos stared, holding his breath.
A coil of rope tumbled down and one of the Wolfsmen caught it deftly.
Xenon muttered to himself before straightening and pointing to the others. “Stand guard on the walls until everyone has made it over and down, Brome. Then I want…” He stopped. “Vannier isn’t with us tonight. The next patrol is coming sooner than I thought. One quaere at a time.”
He shoved Thealos and Ticastasy back against the wall. “Don’t move!”
Thealos watched as three more Wolfsmen shimmied up the rope, their arms pumping as they went hand over hand up the wall. In moments, they disappeared, one by one over the edge. The end of the rope fell from above, snatched by one of the Wolfsmen on the ground.
Xenon cocked his head and then held his finger to his lips.
The sounds of bootsteps and muttering sounded overhead, and a set of torches illuminated the crenellations on the bastion as if dawn had decided to arrive a few hours early. Thealos pressed against the cold wall next to Ticastasy and waited until the steps passed. Xenon motioned for one of his men, who nodded and stepped back out and caught another coil of rope as it plummeted. A second coil winged down as well.
“You two,” Xenon said.
Ticastasy grabbed the rope and prepared to climb, but Xenon shook his head and looped it around her forearm. “Just hold on.”
Thealos followed, and the members of the quaere hoisted them both up top. His heart pounded in his chest. As he reached the edge, one of the warriors reached down and grasped his hand and pulled him the rest of the way up. He pointed to a steep, narrow stairway that ascended up the inner side of the wall. Thealos nodded to him. The ropes were tossed back down and tensed as the next batch of Wolfsmen started up.
Ticastasy grabbed his arm and pointed towards the illuminated windows of the governor’s palace, rising up in the fog’s gloom like candles. Thealos had the uncanny feeling that the structure was watching them. The smell of garbage wafted up to his nose, reminding him of the sour flavors in Sol.
His gaze followed the line of her arm and he saw it—a park to the north of the manor house. It was only a few streets over.
Two of the quaere hustled with them down the chipped and broken steps and into a tiny courtyard ringed with two-story buildings. In the shadows of one of the buildings they waited for the other Wolfsmen to arrive.
Xenon bounded down the steps and glanced at them all. He grasped the pommel of his weapon, apparently thinking his orders to the quaeres and then motioned for the two of them to follow him. One of the quaeres remained behind in the courtyard.
It was strange being in the streets of Landmoor again. As they hurried down the main street, Thealos watched two cats furrowing in one of the cross alleys and glance up at them, their eyes glowing like a Shae’s.
Xenon fell back and grasped Ticastasy’s shoulder when they reached the first intersection of streets. “Which way?”
She motioned to the left and pointed to the governor’s palace looming before them.
Nervousness burned inside Thealos. This was too easy.
They took the left-side street and traveled along in the shadows before cutting deeper into the city. The unlit houses had the feeling of a graveyard. Or was it simply the potency of the warding?
“There it is,” Stasy whispered.
Down a side alley stood a spiked iron gate set in a stone embrasure. Gardens and trees filled the courtyard beyond, awash in the fog. A stone footpath went from the gate into the depths, flanked by lush lawns and hedges. The chill of a shudder went down his spine. Was she leading them to a trap? He wanted to trust her, to believe that the Sorian did not have a hold on her. He patted the pouch of stones at his waist.
The manor house itself was an entrance into the tunnels. But it would be the most heavily guarded position in the city. The gardens behind it was a safer choice.
Xenon motioned for the gate and the first quaere stormed it, bounding up and over it without it groaning or rattling. The four of them stood tensed, hands on their blade hilts, staring into the fog-shrouded park on their side.
Thealos touched the cold iron bar, wondering if he was making a mistake. No prompting from the wellspring. No whisper in his ear from Jaerod. He glanced at Xenon, nodded once, and then climbed up the ironwork and jumped down the other side.
The others joined and together they entered the park full of its turret-like redwoods. Ticastasy gripped his elbow, her face strained with anxiety. She guided them through the park to a small stone well in the center.
Crickets chirped suddenly, startling him.
He approached the mouth of the well and stared into its depths, seeing not a glimmer of water but a chain descending down to a passageway beneath. She was right after all.
Xenon circled his hand and pointed to the well shaft. The other quaere members started down, using the chain as a rope to descend into the gloom of the tunnels.
A silvery wind blew through the grove of trees and tickled Thealos. The Wolfsmen down in the tunnel below disappeared, two going one way, two going the other. Xenon planted one hand on the rim of the well, seeming to watch through their eyes, his hand never losing touch with the pommel of his leaf-blade.
“The girl next,” Xenon said when it happened.
The well crank started turning, bringing a circular wheel of stone up from the floor of the shaft, spinning slowly to cut off the Wolfsmen from below. The crank turned by itself, looping the chain around its shaft.
