Silverkin, page 33
Tsyrke drew his blade from his shoulder scabbard. He gripped the hilt with both hands, listening, feeling for his enemy. Not without a fight. Not without a heavy cost.
A light shone from the tunnel ahead of them. Two people stood in the light.
Mage looked up sharply, his eyes blazing with panic.
“Safehome…” he said in a choking voice.
Tsyrke saw both men, one dressed in black like all the Sleepwalkers he had heard about. A medallion glimmered on his chest. The other wore green.
Tsyrke had always wondered what fighting a Sleepwalker would be like. Another thing he would learn before he died. How lucky…
“You found me,” Tsyrke said, edging forward, keeping the tip of his blade. “But I’ll not lay down and die. You owe me that much, Sleepwalker. I’m ready.”
The Sleepwalker had grey eyes. Deep grey, as thick as shadows. His cowl came down.
Tsyrke nearly double-stepped forward and struck him right then, but something in the man’s eyes forestalled him. He was not used to that look. Not from another man. Compassion? Pity?
More noises came from the corridor behind him. Soldiers flooded the tunnels. Probably Wolfsmen followed by regular Shae army. The knights would have made a banned racket.
“You don’t have long to make this decision, Tsyrke Phollen,” the Sleepwalker said. The other man, a blue-eyed Shae, stood impassively next to him, clutching a snow-white orb.
“What decision?”
Was it a feint? A trick to get him to lower his weapon? He edged forward, hoping he was fast enough, knowing he probably wasn’t.
“Come with us. Both of you.”
“I know what a Ravinjon is, Sleepwalker. I banned well better know. There is no surrender. There are no terms. I…”
“Are you going to waste your last few moments arguing with me? Come with us. Both of you.”
“Where?” Mage croaked, his eyes stabbing at the green-robed Shae.
A wry smile quirked on the Sleepwalker’s mouth. “You have another appointment, Sorian?”
The sound of boots and the glare of torches filled the hall behind him.
The Sleepwalker cocked his head, studying Tsyrke as if saying, Well?
He lowered his weapon and flipped it around, handing the hilt to the Sleepwalker.
Everything went white.
* * *
It was finished.
Miestri of the Vale watched the threads of smoke rising up from the battered city. She watched until Ballinaire went down and the knights thronged around him. She watched long enough to see his head shorn from his shoulders—a punishment earned years ago in the Duchy of Owen Draw. A punishment commuted until that blazing glorious morning.
What matter of Silvan magic had banished the Firekin, she did not know. Nor did she wish to know. It was enough that she sensed the subtle shifting in the Earth magic. It was enough that Mage was powerless…or even better—dead. The banners snapped in the morning breezes. The Rebellion was broken, crumbled.
It had gone according to her plans.
She smiled, feeling the well of magic within her rise now that one fewer Sorian could tap into its deepest depths. Her share increased, not to be replaced by another. Not every morsel of her plan had played out, but she was content with that. The Druid priest and the Warder had lived—or so she supposed. The Silvan magic had struck in the moment of her victory. But it was a victory nonetheless.
She raised her orb and sent a thought to Dairron, waiting patiently in the Kingshadow Mountains.
It is finished.
His thoughts warmed. It begins.
Chapter XXXV
There was nothing but a fog of pain.
Thealos was lost in it, seeking to find a crack or crevice where he could escape it for a moment. But the agony never left. He did not know how long it had been. He did not remember what had happened after the Silverkin’s magic had broken him. Opening his eyes was all he had the strength for.
“Are you awake?”
Ticastasy’s voice.
Even his eyeballs hurt. He tried to nod, but he couldn’t. His voice was so thick and strained he did not recognize it.
“Maybe.”
She leaned forward on an oak chair next to his bed, her skin scrubbed clean and smelling of soap and the room of broth and bread. She’d changed clothes as well, wearing a light brown shirt with soft leather cuffs and collar that was parted down the front and trimmed with tiny beads. Hooking some of her hair behind her ear, she smiled at him.
“Have some broth, Quickfellow. Exeres says you need to eat.”
She reached for a bowl on the table by the bed and leaned over him, spooning some into his mouth. It tasted of egg, salt, and stock—his stomach gurgled in response. She fed him two mouthfuls, then four. Weariness stole over him. Swallowing was an effort.
“Enough,” he whispered. She wiped his chin with a linen napkin.
“How long…has it been?”
“Two days, I think.” She scooted closer and then put the bowl back down on the table. She reached out and gently covered his hand with hers. He winced and glanced down.
His stomach lurched.
His arms were splinted and bound, but the skin—his skin was purple with bruises. Several blankets covered him, but he felt the splints on his legs as well along with a tightness of a bandage around his chest. He made a face and it hurt horribly, his cheeks throbbing.
“What about…Everoot?”
She shook her head. “It’s gone. All of it. The Shae have been searching…but there isn’t any to be found. I know Tsyrke smuggled it away. The rook.”
“Mirror.” He swallowed and it felt like swords in his throat. “I want a mirror, Stasy.”
She looked him in the eye. “No, Quickfellow. You need time to heal. Time to rest from what…what happened to you.”
“Let me… see my face.”
She shook her head and reached over and with the tiniest touch brushed some hair from his forehead. “You’ll be all right, Quickfellow. You just need some time is all. I’ll be here for you. I’ll be here till you’re well again.”
Why wouldn’t she get him a mirror?
He started to panic. The constraints against his arms and legs stifled him. Was he going to be trapped in splints on a bed for months? For how long? He felt as if he’d fallen from the tallest cedar in the Shadows Wood.
“Ssshhhh,” she soothed. “Don’t wrestle like that. You need to lie still. Please, Quickfellow. You need to be still. You’re broken in so many…so many places.”
He closed his eyes, sick to his stomach. “I want to see it. I want to see what it’s done to me.”
The door opened.
Thealos blinked his eyes open and saw Exeres coming in with a tray.
“Good, you’re awake.” He put the tray on another table and dipped a cloth into a bowl and squeezed it. It smelled strongly of lemon and something pungent.
“He wants a mirror,” Stasy said.
“I don’t know if there is one handy,” he said, dabbing Thealos’ chest and throat with the sopping cloth. “I’m not moving you off this bed unless the inn catches fire.” He sat down in another chair on the other side of the bed. “Thealos, you aren’t well right now. I’ve been healing you, part by part. But,” he sighed, “it’s draining. I’m so weary myself I don’t have much to draw from.”
“Where is my sword?” Thealos whispered.
“Against the wall,” she answered. “Next to you.”
“Show me the blade.”
Ticastasy bit her lip and that made his stomach churn even more.
“Ban it, Stasy, just do it.”
She reached behind him and pulled. The blade made its tinny squeal as it came out of the scabbard. Bringing it around in front of her, she held it lengthwise in front of him.
The first thing Thealos saw was his eyes. The whites were tangled with crimson veins, the whorls so thick that he nearly retched. His face was pockmarked with crimson spots, and bruises discolored his puffy cheekbones and his distorted nose.
He did not recognize himself.
His throat seized and his eyes swam with tears. A deep-seated shudder rumbled in his chest. Then another. Both caused spasms of agony. He bit his lip but he felt the sobs come.
Exeres hooked his hand behind Thealos’ head. “No, my friend. Listen to me. Listen to my voice. It’s not time to weep. It’ll ravage your insides even more. I’ve kept Flent out of here to keep you from laughing, but he’s standing guard in the hall outside. He hasn’t left for two days. Listen to me. I know it looks bad. But each part of it will heal. If we give it enough time, it will heal. I can cure you.”
Thealos wanted to cling to his words, but they rang hollow. He stanched the shuddering sobs that threatened to kill him with pain. Gritting his teeth, he felt the ache in his jaws, the swollenness of his cheeks.
“The Everoot could heal me,” he said with all the bitterness congealing inside him. “But not even you could heal this, Zerite. I may well never leave this bed.”
Exeres looked down at the sheets and then up again. “You may be right,” he said, his voice low. “If that’s the case, I will stay by you until I die. I owe you a debt, Thealos. I owe you a blood debt.” He shuddered. “I…I nearly killed us all. I nearly destroyed the entire city. Everyone, myself included, though that would have been a small price. It was you who stopped it. It was you who released the magic that cured me. That freed me from…her. I owe you a debt that I will repay, Thealos Quickfellow. If I repay that debt ladling soup into you night and day for a year or more? I’ll do it gladly. You saved us. I want you to remember that when the pain is more than you can bear. You saved us all.”
Thealos felt a sting in his throat. Exeres’ words humbled him—shamed him. He had gone back to Landmoor knowing that he might die. But he did not entertain the thought that he would lie in a bed as a cripple the rest of his life. What about the Oath magic? Being a Ravinir? What good was he to anyone like this? What purpose could he serve if it took months and years to recover? That was the unfairness of it. The not knowing. Especially when he knew of a magic that could heal him.
“He needs more broth. Dip some bread in as well. He needs to eat to regain his strength, to let his body help in the healing. But let me scrub him first with this. It will help with the bruises.”
He paused.
“I don’t think he minded your help when he was asleep, Ticastasy. But I think he’ll mind now that he’s awake. Let me bathe him.”
Thealos glanced at her and felt himself blush—if that were possible.
She started to rise, but he managed to brush his hand against her sleeve. It sent stabs of pain down his forearm.
“Thank you.”
She smiled and bent down and kissed his cheek. “No, Quickfellow. Thank you. I’ll go help Blayne in the kitchens. You should feel honored, Quickfellow. This is the nicest room in the Wee Kirke.”
She started to the door and opened it. Then she stepped back, startled as two men entered.
Jaerod and one of the Mages of Safehome.
Thealos recognized the color and style of the Shae’s robes from his Foretelling months before. The wellspring, which churned within him still, confirmed it. Jaerod nodded and a familiar prickle went down his broken back. Even shuddering hurt.
Exeres rose respectfully, placing the cloth into the bowl next to the bed.
The Mage of Safehome lowered his cowl, revealing shoulder-length silver hair. The tassels on his robes swayed with the movement. He stepped forward, Jaerod two steps behind and to the left in a sign of deference.
The Mage looked at Ticastasy first. “Hello, child,” he said with such tenderness in his voice. He took her hands and clasped them in his, like a grandfather would to a favored one. “You have done so well. Thanks to you, our friend lives. And thanks to you, the magic of Safehome has been protected. Do you still have it, child?”
She bit her lip, flushed, and nodded.
“Give it to me. It is time to return the magic to where it belongs, lest it fall into the hands of those who would open its prison.” He held out his hand.
Ticastasy didn’t hesitate. She withdrew a small pouch hidden beneath her shirt and withdrew the gleaming jewel.
Just looking at it caused a wave of revulsion and fear through Thealos. He cringed inside himself, hearing it whisper to him, yet the voice was sluggish, heavy, thick with the weight of the taint. The Mage of Safehome took it and shielded it from Thealos’ eyes.
“You have done so well, child. Go now. I must speak with Thealos alone.”
Exeres nodded and started from the room as well. Jaerod caught the Zerite’s sleeve, whispered something to him, and Exeres nodded before leaving. The door shut softly.
Thealos stared at them, wondering what he should say. His tongue felt swollen.
“You don’t have to say anything, Thealos. You have done what you were sent here to do. What we knew you would do.” The Mage looked at him seriously. “The experiences you have had are meant to teach you. I hope you will take to heart those lessons. For someday you will need them if you truly desire to be a Ravinir and to walk the streets of Safehome. Yes, Thealos. The true Safehome. The very city that brought the Shae to this world. And to others.”
He approached Thealos’ bedside. “You are weary and broken from your experience. But sometimes things must be broken to be re-shaped. It was what the term Ravin means, does it not? To break is to be broken. If you are broken, you can be made anew. Not restored to what you were; to be made over into what you will become. The breaking is the process that begins the transformation. It involves great pain. But if in the end you become what you truly desire to become, what you were truly meant to become, then you will see at that day that the pain is fleeting. On that day you will understand that it served its purpose. Silver must be purified by fire to remove the dross. And so must each of us.”
Jaerod said nothing. He stared at Thealos, his expression hard, pained—hopeful.
“If I understand this someday, then I accept it,” Thealos said hoarsely. He coughed, knifing his side in the process.
The Mage smiled. “Well enough. The other teaching I want you to remember is this. Every form of magic has its opposite. Or shall I say, every form of magic can be used for good or for evil. The Earth magic. Life magic. Even the Oath magic. A warning I give you, Thealos Quickfellow. You will continually be tempted to use it in ways that are Forbidden. Resist those urges. Remember what Jaerod warned you of when you began taking the Nine Oaths. Never flaunt the Oath magic. Never use it for greed. You will know the difference. But it will not be easy choosing it. Do this, if you choose wisely, and we will meet next in Safehome where I will give you the blade and the medallion of a true Ravinir. Where you will be able to swear others to the Nine Oaths, as Jaerod did with you. Seek us. We will seek you. When we call, you must come. No matter how ill-timed it may seem.” He looked down at Thealos sharply. “No matter how ill-timed it may seem to you.”
“Aye,” Thealos said. It was the only proper answer to give a Mage of Safehome.
The Mage smiled and turned to Jaerod. “We must depart.”
Jaerod nodded and glanced over at Thealos again.
“Will I…will I see you again?” Thealos asked, feeling his emotions churn to the surface again.
Jaerod smiled, that same quirk of a smile that said so many things. “I’ll bid you farewell before I leave Avisahn. Your family has been interred, but there will be a state funeral when you return home. I will be there with you.”
The thought of it sent splinters of sadness deep inside, but he was grateful Jaerod would be there. “Thank you. I will see you in Avisahn then.”
The Mage lifted his cowl. “We must go.”
“I promised Exeres a word. I’ll join you shortly, if I may.”
“Well enough, Jaerod. Well enough.” He turned one last time to Thealos. “Sleep, my son.”
And he did.
* * *
Exeres turned as the door opened and Jaerod motioned for him to enter. Thealos was asleep again, but this time the pained twist of his forehead had calmed. The Mage of Safehome was gone. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
The Sleepwalker went over to the window and tugged the curtains closed to block out the fading sunset.
“What is it, Jaerod?” He was tired of games.
“I have a message for you.” He turned back, his gaze deep and meaningful. “The Everoot has been taken back to Safehome. As well it should. Men are too eager to fight over it, as you’ve seen for yourself. To use it in Forbidden ways.”
Exeres licked his lips. “I wish I had a little stub of it left to heal Thealos. Though it would require more than a stub.”
“The injuries of his that I worry more about are the ones in his mind. They will take time to heal. No amount of Everoot will cure those. It is better that he heal more slowly, to provide him with some time to think. But I will say this. The Everoot is a powerful magic. It is the strongest of the Earth magics. The fountain where it was kept in the Shadows Wood has become…acquainted with its powers over the centuries. Those waters will be potent for healing for years to come. Be sure he drinks of it, every day. As a Zerite, you’ll be amazed at how quickly it happens.”
Exeres smiled and stubbed his boot tip gently against the corner pillar of the bed.
“Don’t be shy, Exeres. I lingered here for a reason.”
“I don’t like playing games, Sleepwalker. Tell me what you intend to tell me. I’d rather not fish if nothing is going to bite.”
Jaerod gave him a sidelong look. As if considering him again.
“You’ve seen for yourself what the Sorian are, Exeres. You’ve seen what they became.”
“I’ve seen what some became.”
“But Achrolese was a Sorian too. You may respect his motives even more, but that does not change what he was. It does not change that the Druid priesthood was founded by the Sorian order.”
