Elena kicked at the soil with her toe, reluctant to rehash the entire story, the pain still too fresh.
Nee’lahn reached up and placed one hand on Elena’s cheek. “It’s all right now. Er’ril is a skilled swordsman. He won’t let anyone harm you. We need to know more if we are to help your brother. You want that, don’t you?”
Elena bowed her head and refused to raise her face as she spoke, her voice so low Er’ril leaned closer to hear. “That man and the one in the robe, they came to our farm last night.” Elena glanced to her hand, plain now, as she related the events of the previous night. She purposely left out the part about the red hand. “. . . and then Joach and I rode away before the worms or fire could get us. But when we made it to town, they were waiting and we were caught.”
“Do you know why they were after you?” Nee’lahn asked.
She lowered her eyes. “I don’t . . . No.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw a secret exchange pass between Nee’lahn and the swordsman, doubt clear in both pairs of eyes.
“Maybe I should ask our prisoner,” Er’ril finally said. “Twist it out of him.”
Nee’lahn frowned. “I think we all—” Elena caught the nod in her direction from the small woman. “—have had enough violence for one afternoon. Why don’t we wait until the girl is returned to her uncle, before you begin your . . . um, questioning.”
Er’ril frowned but finally sighed. “We should wait for Kral anyway. His skills may yet be useful.”
Nee’lahn turned back to her. “Elena, you should rest. We still have a long ride ahead of us.”
Elena nodded and moved into Mist’s shadow. She fiddled with the mare’s halter, trying to look busy. Why had she lied to them? They may not have been able to rescue Joach, but they did save her. She glanced again to her right hand and stared at the plain palm. The red hue had vanished. Gone in the flutter of an eye, just like her brother Joach. She fought back a new wave of tears. As much as she hated the thought of her magickal talent, if the power could return her brother, she would gladly accept the curse again.
Elena lowered her hand.
But it was over now. Wasn’t it?
TWILIGHT APPROACHED.
Er’ril fought to keep his eyes on the path through the woods and to watch for lurking dangers in the dappled shadows. But his mind kept dragging back the image of the darkmage as he vanished on the street. He could not grasp the implications of this encounter. He tried to shove such thoughts away until a time they could be carefully picked at and studied, but he could not.
How could Greshym be alive? Had he imagined it? No. It was an older face, but Greshym’s nonetheless. He tried to pierce the years to that midnight in the inn when the Book had been forged. He remembered the bond between Greshym and his brother. He could still feel the respect and affection he had for the older, wounded mage. How could he balance that with the hatred he felt now? His skin crawled with the memory of the black arts wielded by the mage. Foul trickster! What game have you been playing since ancient times?
And what of the Book? What did this mean?
His horse slowed on a steeper grade of the path, and he kicked at its flank harder than he had meant. The stallion whinnied with surprise and bucked a few steps forward. He patted the animal’s neck, calming the beast with his touch. His anger and frustration may have loosened his control, but his horse shouldn’t suffer.
Er’ril twisted in his saddle and checked his party. When Kral had returned with the mounts and gear they had left at the inn, Er’ril had set them a hard pace. The innkeeper had tried to stop Kral, screaming that the mountain man was stealing other patrons’ property. But when the guardsmen, busy with the riled townsfolk, failed to respond to the innkeeper’s summons, Kral had split a table with his ax, and the innkeeper quickly bowed out of the huge man’s path. On Kral’s return, Er’ril had not wasted the waning hours of daylight, fearing any repercussions from the town’s garrison. He had loaded everyone up and led the way to the highlands.
Behind him, Nee’lahn and the child rode together atop the girl’s horse. Kral and the prisoner rode one of the mountain folk’s huge war chargers. Its fiery eyes and metal-shod hooves marked it as a steed only a fool would try to stop.
Nee’lahn caught Er’ril’s glance and nodded forward. “A storm comes. We need to reach Elena’s uncle before full night.”
Er’ril glanced at the girl. And what role did she play in all this? Surely she was just an unwitting pawn—maybe a virgin for some foul magickal working. He had heard whispers during his travels of such sick deeds. He twisted forward again in his saddle, noting the black clouds obscuring the setting sun. Once free of the girl, he could concentrate on the matter of the mage. With a gentle nudge, he urged his mount to a quicker pace. Retrieving the boy was only a small part in his desire to hunt down Greshym. The darkmage had much to answer for.
As he led the party toward the highlands, the woods began to change. The autumn leaves of the oaks and alders, blazing with the crinkled hues of a smoldering fire, gave way to a green blanket of alpine evergreens. A sea of discarded needles spread yellow waves across the path.
Er’ril did not need a guide. He knew the path to the ruins buried in the valley of Winter’s Eyrie. Why would someone build a homestead in such a lonesome and windblown place? In winter, the snows at this height could reach the roof of a two-story house. He knew why the school had been built there: Isolation was necessary when training the initiates to the Order. Besides leaving the students with little to distract them from their studies, the distance from others kept the harm from magickal “accidents” of those new to their arts well away from habitable regions.
But with Chi’s abandonment of the land, why live out here now?
Er’ril cantered his horse over a steep rise, his mount’s hooves nearly slipping on the slick cushion of pine needles. He paused at the crest of the rise. From the tiny vale ahead, a single plume of smoke trailed into the twilight sky. Black clouds from the mountains beyond seemed to be drawn toward the plume like moths to a candle. The storm threatened. Flares of lightning winked from the clouds.
His eyes followed the smoke to its source. A stone cottage stood in the valley floor, its chimney painting the vale with the smell of wood smoke. His nose tasted the invitation to warmth, and yellow light flickered from tiny windows, adding its welcome.
The horse bearing Nee’lahn and Elena drew abreast of his steed. “That’s my uncle’s place,” the girl stated. “Looks like he’s home.”
Er’ril flicked his reins to walk his horse forward down the slope toward the cottage. “Let’s hope he’s ready for guests.”
With pinched lips, Er’ril studied the surrounding land and judged escape routes and places from which to fight if the need arose. His training as a campaigner in the wars against the Gul’gotha had become as instinctual as the beating of his heart.
He also studied the homestead of this “Uncle Bol.” From the condition of his home, Er’ril lost a certain amount of respect for the man. It was a shambles. Moss crusted the shingles. The doors to a small barn hidden to the side of the cottage lay crooked on their hinges. A small pen containing three goats had holes chewed into the planks of the fencing. Three horned heads poked from these holes and stared toward the newcomers. Nasal bleats insulted them as they passed.
Er’ril shook his head, recalling the order and stateliness of his own family’s farm on the plains. He turned his eyes to the heights beyond the cottage. Crumbled stone in unnaturally straight lines crisscrossed the neighboring rise. His mind’s eye pictured the rows of halls and dormitories of the Order’s school. Ravaged stones gave silent testimony to the ancient place of study.
The door to the cottage suddenly burst open, flinging light toward the trio of horses. A man stood limned in the firelight. “Well, what are you all waiting for? Hurry it up! It’s about to storm.” The man waved an arm and disappeared back inside.
Elena swung in her saddle to face them all, her
face scrunched up. “My uncle’s not that good with people.”
“But at least he seems to be expecting us,” Er’ril said, suddenly wary.
His nervousness grew once they had stabled the horses and entered the cottage. After so long traveling in the chilled highlands, the warmth of the cottage stifled the lungs. But Er’ril ignored this, his eyes instead fixed on the lavishly laden table. Three tall candles sprouted like islands from a steaming sea of foods: spit-roasted beef, steamed red potatoes, a thick bean soup with a loaf of pepperbread as big as his head. Platters of carrots and greens dotted the table among bowls of autumn blackberries. Six cups of ko’koa were set before six tin plates.
“Sit, sit,” the white-haired man said. He was setting bowls on the plates for the soup. He stopped to tap a quick kiss on Elena’s forehead. “I barely made it in time. Fila would be so angry if I didn’t do everything like she ordered.”
Elena spoke softly, taking the old man’s hand in her own. “Uncle . . . Uncle Bol, I have bad news. Fila’s dead.”
He slipped his hand from the child’s and patted her on the cheek. “Oh, yes, I know. Never you mind. Now, sit! Everything will grow cold.”
Er’ril found his tongue. “You were expecting guests?”
The man scratched his head with an ink-stained finger. “Guests? Oh no. I was expecting you, Er’ril of Standi.”
21
ELENA WATCHED THE swordsman pick at the beef and red potatoes on his dinner plate, his fork scraping across the tin surface. Elena sat beside Er’ril and caught his narrowed eyes darting wary looks toward Uncle Bol at the head of the table. But Uncle Bol ignored Er’ril, his own attention fixed on Nee’lahn at the foot of the table. Though the firelight seemed to have dimmed her beauty when compared to her appearance in the woods earlier, Uncle Bol’s eyes seldom spent much time away from her face. How odd, Elena thought, the way Nee’lahn’s beauty waxed and waned.
Suddenly a loud belch rattled the stoneware. Kral balanced on a small chair across the table from Elena and wiped at his bearded chin with the edge of his sleeve. He stared questioningly at all the eyes now focused on him. The mountain man was apparently oblivious to the social affront his eruption might provoke. “What?” he asked, placing his fork on his plate and leaning back and rubbing his packed belly. His head swiveled to face them all. “What?”
Elena held a hand over her mouth to stop a giggle from escaping.
Rockingham, who was digging at his beef with a spoon—the only utensil allowed him—mumbled to himself, “And they tied me up.” The captured man’s ankles had been roped together and secured to a foot of the oaken table for security.
Er’ril cleared his throat and faced Uncle Bol. “Well, it seems that everyone is finished with dinner. Now maybe you would care to enlighten us all on how you knew we were coming, and even knew my name.”
“Who would like dessert?” Uncle Bol scooted his chair back with a loud squeak. “In honor of the orchard fire, I made a hot apple pie. Anybody interested?”
“That can wait—” Er’ril started to say, but the four raised hands of his companions stopped him. The swordsman’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed loudly. “Fine. Fetch the pie.”
Uncle Bol got up and stretched. “Perhaps . . .” His eyes settled again on the small woman’s face. “Nee’lahn, wasn’t it? Perhaps you could help me in the kitchen.”
“Certainly.” Nee’lahn wiped her delicate hands on the scrap of linen in her lap, then rose and followed Uncle Bol from the room.
Er’ril tapped at his mug of ko’koa with obvious impatience.
Elena sensed that the swordsman was close to exploding. Ever since Uncle Bol had named him, then refused to answer any questions until they all had eaten, the muscles of Er’ril’s neck had grown corded and tight. Though he must be hungry, he had hardly touched the food he had taken.
“Don’t be mad at Uncle Bol,” Elena said. “That’s just the way he is.”
Er’ril stopped his tapping and swung to Elena. “Just what is your uncle up to?”
“He’ll tell us, but only when he’s ready. He used to tell us bedtime stories when he visited. If you tried to hurry his stories along, he would just drag them even longer.”
“So I guess we eat pie,” he said sullenly.
Elena nodded, chewing at the inside of her cheek. She remained silent about the nervousness she sensed in her uncle. Something was truly bothering him. She had never seen him jump at every noise. A popping log in the fire had practically shot him to the raftered ceiling. And Uncle Bol was normally a robust eater—how he ate so much and stayed so wiry and muscular was a mystery discussed among the female relatives of the family for years—but tonight, like Er’ril, he had barely touched the piece of roast on his plate.
Uncle Bol returned, carrying new plates and forks. Nee’lahn followed with the spiced apple pie. The aroma of simmering apple and cinnamon swelled through the room. Even Er’ril seemed to brighten at the smell.
This new delay that seemed to so irk Er’ril only lasted a short span. The pie plate emptied quickly, and after much sighing in delight at the sweet taste, the table was surrounded by full bellies.
Uncle Bol stood up. “I hope all have had their fill.”
Groans of agreement answered him.
“Then I guess it’s time I showed you your rooms for the night. I’m afraid the men will have to share one room, and Nee’lahn and Elena the other.”
Er’ril raised his one hand. “About those unanswered questions.”
Uncle Bol frowned. “Join me, Er’ril, after we get everyone settled, for a smoke by the fire.” He turned to Elena. “You join us, too, honey. There’s words I must pass to you.”
“What you need to say can be said among my companions,” Er’ril growled. Kral’s and Nee’lahn’s eyes glowed eagerly. Rockingham tried to feign disinterest, but failed miserably.
Her uncle rubbed at his mustache. “No, I don’t think the Brotherhood would appreciate that.”
“What brotherhoo—?” Elena began, but Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed her to silence.
“It’s been a long time since I could relax with a pipe,” Er’ril said. “I look forward to it.” His words had an edge of menace.
“Good! Now let me show you the rooms.”
ROCKINGHAM LISTENED AS the giant closed the door to their room. He could not see the mountain man as Kral then stripped out of his riding gear and climbed onto a cot. The bonds that secured Rockingham to the bed—his hands were tied to the pine headboard, his feet to the posts at the foot of the bed—limited his motion, blinding him to all but the ceiling and a tiny section of the room. Then the single lamp blew out, and even this cramped view vanished.
Rockingham lay stripped on his back under a heavy blanket. He crinkled his nose. Though he might not be able to see the mountain man, he smelled him. The odor of wet goats crept across the room to wrap around him; it was like sleeping in a barn. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth. It didn’t help. He tried to roll away on his side, but the ropes stopped him. His bed creaked loudly with his efforts.
“I sleep lightly,” Kral growled from the darkness. “Do not test me.”
Rockingham stayed silent. What was the use of even trying? The ropes, though not tight enough to chafe, were tied snug.
He lay still and found himself staring toward the rafters of the room. And why would he even want to escape? Where could he go? Not the garrison, that was for sure. Once word reached Lord Gul’gotha that one of his lieutenants had been beheaded and the girl he sought had escaped, his death would be one to terrify the hardest soldier. He had seen what slunk through the bowels of Blackhall’s dungeons. He shivered under his thick blanket.
His only options were either to disappear and keep running, hoping the minions of the Dark Lord never found him, or to stay with this group and look for a chance to snatch the girl. She was the key to unlock his dungeon. Recovering her would assuage the wrath of the Lord Gul’goth
a.
So he had not fought his kidnapping by the one-armed swordsman. Let them take him far from town—all the better. Don’t resist. Let them relax their guard. He could wait. A slight grin came to his lips at the thought of returning to Blackhall with the girl in chains. That was worth waiting for.
As he dreamed of that moment, an itch blossomed in his crotch. Damn that tavern wench and the lice she harbored! He tried to rub his legs together and calm the crawling. It only worsened. To make matters worse, the giant began to snore. Not a whispery nasal whistle, but a throaty rattle full of mucus and phlegm. Each outburst made him cringe in disgust.
Rockingham clenched his eyes closed and squirmed quietly. It was going to be a long night.
The tortures of Blackhall’s dungeons now didn’t seem quite so bad.
ER’RIL LEANED ON the mantel of the fireplace. Where was Bol? The others had retired to their respective rooms, leaving Er’ril alone with Elena. He watched the girl stare at the fire. As she sat, swallowed by the deep cushioned armchair, she seemed lost in the flames. A profound sadness shone past the exhaustion in her face. For a child so young to be so violently uprooted, she had a determined bearing about her that illuminated the strength of her spirit.
Words of consolation tried to form in his mind, but it had been a long time since Er’ril had had the need to show compassion. He found his eyes settling on the twitching flames. Time did not always grow wisdom, sometimes just calluses.
His reveries were interrupted by the reappearance of the girl’s uncle. He had two pipes in his hand. “The tobacco leaf is from the south of Standi, I believe. I thought a piece of home might be nice,” he said, passing a pipe to Er’ril.
“Thank you.” He raised the pipe to his nose. The smell of cured leaf and powder dried further words. At the back of his throat, he tasted the wide fields of his home. Bol sparked a flame on a stiff taper from the hearth. He lit his pipe, his cheeks bellowing in and out, and he sucked it to flame. Er’ril accepted the burning wick from the old man, but his hand hesitated in igniting the tobacco. He was reluctant to set to flame this reminder of home.