Silverkin, page 27
* * *
Exeres paced in the small room and the walls seemed to press in on him. Something was happening beyond. He felt the warding over the city unravel like torn threads. A compulsion throbbed beneath his skin. He had to make it outside. Something was coming.
She was coming.
Anticipation sizzled in his skin and he hated the feelings it brought with it. Curiosity—shame—loathing—desire. Miestri was coming into Landmoor to face her age-old fellow traveler. The world rocked on its hinges. He could feel it brooding in the air like a tempest. A clash of wills. When it was over, there would be one less Sorian.
He bit his lip, wishing they would kill each other. It shocked him how, with disdain, Mage had sentenced Sol-don-Orai to its ashes. How he referenced the Druid god Achrolese with contempt. The spur of a memory pricked at him of the night in Castun when he thought he would die. Standing before the Bandit army, he had prayed to Achrolese. Mage had answered, as if he were the Druid long dead.
Was Achrolese a Sorian too? Were all the Druid gods? Were they Sorian who had fallen or who had given up their positions, refusing to leach the Life magic out of others? Refusing to play the sons and daughters of the world as pawns?
No, he did not believe that the great Achrolese was like Mage and Miestri. They may have shared the same powers at first, but there were bounds set—proprieties to be upheld. The deep traditions had been passed down the Druid priesthood for millennia. That was the order Exeres followed. Not these twisted aberrations reborn through countless generations of blood.
Yet part of him, a small insignificant part of him, a little speck of him, felt sorry for the old man. Landmoor was not a great palace. The valley of Dos-Aralon carried no significance in the world. It would be the graveyard of another doomed effort, yet hopefully it would not end as catastrophically as Sol-don-Orai. Hopefully.
Exeres turned as the door opened and Mage entered. “The warding is breached. I felt it rip.”
Mage eyed him, his whole body seemed weighed with stones. “She’s sending the little Shae against me.” He chuckled and winced. “She’s trying to pin me down here. To weaken me before she comes herself.”
Exeres swallowed, feeling that prick of compassion stab him again. He hardened himself. “How long before she comes?”
“Soon enough, boy. Soon enough. The girl is going to Tsyrke right now. I’ve prepared a way for them to leave the city. But it looks like I must stay here a little while to deal with this meddlesome whelp before he cracks the city in half and dooms everyone.”
“You actually care?” Exeres asked with disdain.
The old man’s green eyes hardened. “I can’t let her win, boy. I’m prepared to leave the valley and spend the next few centuries resting by a fireplace. I can guarantee you that she has no such intentions. She has been brewing a magic in the mountains—a secret magic to use for some dark reason. I don’t know what it is, but I can sense its power flickering awake. If you want her to be the next ruler of this valley, then stay down here and do nothing. Cower behind the table and you may live through the night.” His mouth quirked with a smile. “But I sense your hatred of my kind. I can work with that. If you want to free the world of a menace, then I suggest you do as I say. Or you and every Druid priest in the Isherwood will have a new mistress.”
Exeres licked his lips. “What do you want?” Anger boiled inside him.
Mage brought out the Bloodstone. “Help me rescue the Shae boy from her grip.”
His hand itched to snatch the orb. “What about Thealos Quickfellow? And the others?”
“It’s too late for them, boy. I can’t risk letting him find that magic now. Not until I’m safely away. If you help me then I’ll let you free them. You come with me freely, or I keep you locked down here as well.”
He grit his teeth. “You’re using me again.”
“At least I’m letting you choose this time.” The green eyes burned into his. “You’re strong with the Earth magic, boy. I can sense that in you. With this, you’ll be a good ally against her.”
Exeres wrestled with the choice. Help a Sorian destroy a Sorian? Was it even possible?
It was worth everything if it was.
“Give me the stone.”
* * *
Thealos awoke on a pile of foul-smelling straw that stank of urine. The oppressive weight was gone, but another had replaced it. Iron manacles bound his wrists and looped to a chain in the wall.
“Not again,” he muttered blackly, lifting his head.
A dungeon cell beneath the governor’s manor.
“Ban it. Ban it. Ban it.” He scooted himself up with his elbows into a sitting position and leaned against the cell wall. Sifting through his churning feelings, he tried to delve his way through the flood of them.
He had no weapon. The guards had already taken it. He sensed the presence of several Shae within the aisle of cells—a dozen or so? At least two quaeres probably. He could not sense the Silvan magic from their swords either. He could not sense the Silverkin, but that did not surprise him because he knew he was still too far away. The warding blanketing the city was gone. That surprised him. Yet something lingered in its place, two tides of darkness starting to converge somewhere above him in the city proper. The two Sorian? Both together?
He needed to get the Silverkin!
Hoisting his heavy wrists, he scratched his mouth against his shoulder. What about the Stones? Looking down at his waist, he saw the pouch there. Was it too much to hope for? He tested it and felt something solid within. Carefully, he untied the strings and emptied the glittering stones in his hands. What luck or magic had saved them, he did not know. It was a start.
How to get out?
The stones would disguise him, cloak him in nothingness and dissolve his scent, but they would not unlock the chains. Nor would they unlock the cell door. He stood clumsily, feeling the heft of the chains drag against him. Could he lure a guard close enough? He walked to the end of the length of chain and found that it kept him from reaching the bars of the door. That made sense of course. A warden could bring food and not worry about getting attacked.
Ban it!
The last time he had been trapped in the dungeons, Stasy had saved him.
The connection with her. He had made it back at the camp of Owen Draw. He felt along the thin thread of it, following it through the corridor and up some stairs. She was not far, actually. He closed his eyes, feeling her presence as he drew near her. He knew her proximity, but he could not speak with her, tell her where he was or ask her to free him. He would be able to follow her across the distance without needing a trail. But he could not commune with her, other than give her a sense that he was near. A sense that caused a prickle down the nape of the neck.
Thealos opened his eyes and stared at the bars, boiling with frustration. She was nearby—yet he did not think she would hear him if he yelled for her. Up some stairs, down the hallway—Tsyrke’s chambers. He squeezed his eyes shut, the frustration turning into searing anger.
Thealos wondered if he had been too naïve all along. The wellspring gave him wisdom, but had he truly done his best to heed it? Again he was trapped in a cell beneath the city. No Sturnin Goff to save him. No Ticastasy to free him. How long before Mage returned? Or what if Ballinaire himself came again?
The bonds chafed against his wrists, against his spirit. He had to get free. But how? He felt as if the world tottered at the edge of a table, ready to tip and crash into oblivion. How could he get past those iron bars, past the rope of chains binding him to the wall?
The answer struck him like lightning.
He could try to walk the Crossroads.
Would he be able to though?
There was nothing left to decide. If he could not, he could not. He had to try.
Clutching the stones in one hand, he bowed his head and delved into the power of the Oath magic, summoning up the memories of how to do it. The concept was easy to understand. In a way, it was like gathering the folds of a blanket and wrapping it around his body—except the world was the blanket. It took a lot of practice to be proficient in it. Many Ravinir could never do it—could not convince themselves that it was possible to do on their own. But Thealos had been with Jaerod. He had experienced the rush of the magic first-hand. He knew it could be done.
Taking a deep breath, he invoked the Oath magic and plunged into the Crossroads.
The shock of it was like an ice-cold lake. It was a sickly familiar feeling, a sense of drowning. His mind fought against it, struggling to surface again and free himself from the overpowering panic. Something inside him, a core part of his being, ripped loose.
He opened his eyes and the swarm of colors and feelings made him sick to his stomach. He’d forgotten about that part. The chains dropped from his wrists and lay in the mess of straw. The strain of holding himself there wracked him. Willing the stones to hide him, he took three steps and entered the main corridor of the dungeon block and then let himself emerge from the Crossroads.
Vomit rose in his throat as his stomach heaved. His guts wrenched and he doubled over, emptying his stomach on the paving stones. The magic of the stones cloaked him and the sounds, but he knew he would leave a puddle. His vision swam and the corridor lurched, nearly spilling him to the floor. He gripped the iron bars with his free hand and steadied himself, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Dizziness rocked him and he waited for it to pass.
It didn’t.
It was the result of using the magic, he knew. Many Sleepwalkers faced it. Not many had the stomach to handle the Crossroads regularly. Sweat popped out against his head and a chill shook through him. It was like having a fever.
Which way to go?
One direction led to the Silverkin.
The other led to Stasy.
* * *
"Ban you, Tsyrke, untie me!” Ticastasy fought against the leather straps securing her forearms and tethering her to the bedpost. They bit against her skin and stung, cutting off the blood to her hands. It hurt like fury, but she didn’t care.
“Quit squirming, Sparrow. You’ll only make it worse. I’m a sailor. You’ll not be able to undo those knots. Not in time anyway.”
He looked in the last trunk lid at the vibrant-colored moss and then slammed the lid down. “This is the last one,” he told two soldiers. “Carry it with the others and leave it at the end of the tunnel. Then go through the way into the cellars like I told you.”
“Aye, sir. We have horses ready for the ride. You sailing with us?”
“I sure as Fire am not staying in this cursed city longer than I have to. We ride fast and we ride hard. Do you have the cloaks Mage made for us?”
“Waiting below, sir. Come on, Umerill.” The two hoisted the chest and carried it to the trapdoor behind the desk and together they lumbered down the steps.
Ticastasy glared at Tsyrke. “I’m not going with you.”
He cocked his head, his eyes twinkling with exuberance. “The city is about to fall to Lord Ballinaire. You would really rather stay?”
“I don’t want to go with you!”
He paced around the desk, his hauberk rattling as he walked. His crimson cape was left in a heap by the bed. It was one of the only times she had seen him not wearing it.
“I think it best if we had this discussion somewhere else. There’s going to be a war here, girl. It’ll be one banned good fight, I imagine, but the Shae and Dos-Aralon will win it. I’m sailing for Windrift and then east to Sheven-Ingen. I’m bloody bringing you with me.”
She wanted to kick him. “I’m not your slave, Tsyrke! Go ahead! Leave like a banned coward! But don’t make me.”
He came closer. She could hit him if she wanted to. Maybe he wanted her to. “So you can run to your little barter friend? Do you truly believe he cares for you? That you could what…live in Avisahn with him? You know the Shae, girl. That’s what surprises me so much about this foolishness clapping about in your head. I made my promise to you, Sparrow. I’m keeping it right now. I’ll let the boy live. I’ll let him win the day. But the deal was for you.” His finger stabbed the air. “It was always for you.”
She looked him in the eye, felt her heart throb with anger and warmth. Ban, she hated him. Hated him and loved him. “I don’t want you, Tsyrke.”
A look of pain bloomed across his face. She couldn’t have cut him deeper with a knife.
A hot snort expelled from him. “I’m bloody going to save your life anyway.”
No!
“Tsyrke. Listen to me. If you make me go with you, I’ll hate you. I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.”
He untied the knot holding the tether to the bedpost. “You’re desperate, girl. I’ve seen that look when someone knows they aren’t holding a winning hand at Bones. I can truss you up and carry you to the horses if I must. Don’t think I won’t. Now be a good girl. I’m not giving you up.”
She wanted to rake his face with her nails. But something stopped her. A feeling went down her back and made her shudder.
He paused and looked up. “What’s wrong?”
And then Quickfellow was there, grabbing Tsyrke by the arm and shoving him into the wall face first.
Ticastasy yanked the tether out of his hands and stumbled backwards. When she looked up, she saw Tsyrke collapse, not making a sound as he fell.
She gaped at Quickfellow as he stuffed something into a pouch at his waist.
A surge of joy dazzled her. Was it true? Had he finally gotten himself out of a mess without her help? How had he gotten in the room? From the trapdoor? It didn’t make any sense, but she didn’t care.
“What are you…how did you…?” she whispered, her eyes stinging.
“Saving you, it would appear,” he answered, just a little smugly. His eyes twinkled. “I’m glad I finally got a turn.”
He bent over Tsyrke’s body and drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt.
“Please. Don’t kill him.”
“No. I wouldn’t do that.” He straightened and slit the bonds screaming at her wrists.
As soon as she was free, she took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the mouth. He tasted, actually, like bile.
“By the gods, Quickfellow, our first kiss was better,” she said, wiping her mouth.
He smiled and took her hand. “You ready to run again?”
She was and much more. “Just don’t ask me to leave you.”
Chapter XXIX
The Sorian walked with head bent, the whisper of his robes snuffling against the paving stones. From a few of the houses peeked tapers and lamps, but the majority of the dwellings in the inner city had failed to announce their homes as occupied by anyone living. The mercy of armies was a fickle thing, regardless of whether that army was liberating or not. It seemed to Exeres that the citizens of Landmoor hunkered against an advancing storm.
He was doing the same thing himself.
The gloom of the night still prevailed, but the faint edges of dawn brightened the eastern sky with shades of turquoise. A hot wind roamed the deserted streets, tugging rudely at his clothes. He gripped the Bloodstone in his left hand, drawing in as much Earth magic as it would let him. It throbbed with heat, burning uncomfortably against his skin. At what point it would start blistering, he didn’t know, but he bit his lip to stifle the pain, walking in the Sorian’s wake as they advanced through the web-work of streets.
“Up ahead. Do you feel it, boy?”
Exeres had to swallow before he could speak. “I do.” The presence of another power rattled through the stones, making the air a smothering miasma. The same reek churned from Mage.
“Remember what I told you. Use the Bloodstone to protect yourself from the magic when it begins. Watch for falling rubble. Be alert. Get as near as you can before striking. With that Stone, she won’t be able to lock out your grasp of the Earth magic. Do not let her back inside your mind.”
“I understand.”
Another cough and boom filled the air just ahead, followed by the pattering of bricks and fragments. Mage muttered something, and pressed on. The air charged with power as if the entire sky coiled in upon that very spot. Spots danced before his good eye. His blind eye watched the flow of magic ebbing from Mage much faster, but replenished itself from the world around him to counter the drain.
Anger burned inside him. It was wrong. The Sorian—all of them—were wrong to exist.
A beveled archway supported a walkway between two buildings, opening up beyond into a broad courtyard. The presence of another Shae emanated from the shadows.
Mage walked beneath the archway, and Exeres followed, feeling a chill grip his heart as he passed it. A warding. He paused, caught betwixt it, wondering if he should abandon the madness that had lured him that far. Sweat trickled down his ribs and he stanched his fear, his revulsion, and stepped into the courtyard.
“A clever warding,” Mage said, addressing the Shae known as Justin…and Ravin. “But it traps you in here just as well.”
“She did not want you running away when it became difficult, old man.” The Shae voice was heavily accented king’s common.
“What is it?” Exeres asked, his voice pitched low.
“It’s a Death Warding. In case anyone tries to leave this courtyard.”
Exeres saw the two face each other, each gripping an orb the color of fire. The tortured shapes twisted inside each sphere, sending shocks of memories into his mind. He clutched the Bloodstone, hoping it would live up to the old man’s assurances.
“She should not have given you her Firekin,” Mage said, clucking with humor. “So very dangerous for her to be left without one.”
Justin’s eyes glowed, reflecting the orange of the dual orbs. “She had this one to spare, old man. You are not the first she’s defeated.”
“I’m defeated already? She made no such boasts when I wrestled her in Castun.”
