Chapter 8

The remainder of the trip to the Ferélli port city of Esk consisted of days upon days of rain, wind, and choppy seas. Frisha was frustrated with Xa’s insistence on following her around the entire time. After nearly getting washed overboard once, he restricted her to the cabin. His protectiveness was worse than Rezkin’s, and although Xa smiled more often, his humor was dark and his manners lacking. She missed the pleasant days when Rezkin strolled along the road beside her discussing the plants and animals. Then she remembered that those had been the quiet moments between storms. He had been out killing people and tasking thieves and assassins when she was not looking. Every once in a while, when she felt his gaze on her, she would glance up just as he looked away and wonder which of those people he was in that moment. Was he missing her, too, or was he thinking of ways to kill her? She then wondered what, exactly, she would have to do to lose his friendship.

“So, I’m a warrior and a healer,” Reaylin said smugly. She nodded toward Yserria and Nanessy Threll and said, “She’s a knight, and she’s a mage. What is your function on this trip, Frisha?”

“Reaylin, you shouldn’t be unkind,” said Yserria. “Frisha has not yet found her purpose. That does not mean she has less value. Rezkin says potential is the greatest asset, and I think Frisha has much potential.”

“Potential for what?” said Reaylin.

Yserria glanced at Frisha. “Well, I don’t know, but potential without direction is still potential.”

“It’s alright,” said Frisha. “I know I’m useless—useless and stupid.” Frisha did not look up as she pushed her potatoes around her plate.

Reaylin and Yserria exchanged glances. Yserria said, “Why do you say that?”

“I just … I make stupid decisions. I’m not even supposed to be here. I stowed away.”

Reaylin released a long whistle. “Oh, I bet Rezkin was livid.”

“You have no idea.”

Yserria nodded toward Xa who was seated at another table but still within arm’s reach. “I guess that explains your new shadow. I can’t imagine what Rezkin would do if something happened to his betrothed.”

Frisha flushed. She had avoided talking about what had happened, mostly because the more she talked, the harder it would be to avoid their questions. Rezkin had not bothered to correct anyone when they made such comments, so she had not either. Why had he not said anything? Did he still think they would marry, or was he protecting her from the embarrassment? Perhaps it was part of some insidious plan. She did not want to be a part of the Raven’s plans.

Frisha abruptly stood. “I need to speak with Rezkin.”

It was only after she said it that she realized she had interrupted Mage Threll. The other women had moved on to a different discussion while she had been lost in thought. She apologized for the interruption and then staggered out of the mess. Although walking on the ship had gotten easier with time, the vessel occasionally plunged unexpectedly.

Rezkin was in his quarters deep in discussion with Strikers Shezar and Farson when Frisha stumbled into the berth.

“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. She turned to leave but ran into Xa.

“No, stay,” Rezkin said. To the strikers, he said, “Go eat. We will resume this discussion afterward.” When they had gone, he told Xa that he, too, could take a break. When the assassin looked uncertain, Rezkin smirked. “I will not kill her while you are gone.”

Xa glanced at Frisha in warning, as if telling her to behave.

After the door closed, Rezkin sat back in the chair behind his desk. “What do you need, Frisha?”

She bit her lip with uncertainty, then lost her footing. Rezkin waved toward the bed, and she hesitantly perched on the edge.

She said, “I’ve been thinking about, um, about you, I guess, and I’m terribly conflicted. When I see you, I see the Rezkin I’ve known, the one I thought to marry. Now, I don’t know if any of that was real because there are these other things—terrible things—that have happened. I didn’t see them happen, but I know they did, and you say you are responsible for them.” Her eyes were large and pleading as she looked up at him. “How can you be someone I know and a complete stranger at the same time?” He had no answer for her, but she did not seem to expect one. She said, “Are you still angry?”

He watched her in silence for a while. Finally, he said, “I admit that I was frustrated with your lack of regard for your own life. I have dealt with those feelings and will endeavor to remain emotionally withdrawn, as I should have been all along. I apologize for my failure. I also recognize that your decisions were based on a false sense of security that I inadvertently instilled in you. The event has reaffirmed my belief that it is better for the ro to know the dangers they face. Still, I need people to continue functioning properly, so I cannot tell everyone the whole truth. It is apparent from your behavior that I may lose their trust and loyalty.”

Frisha dropped her gaze to the floor. “I know I have made some stupid mistakes. I act on my feelings and don’t always think things through.”

“Perhaps knowing someone else’s survival is dependent on yours will encourage you to be more responsible.”

She glanced up at him. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Shaking her head, she said, “I can’t do this. I can’t be responsible for someone else’s life.”

“His life was over when he defied me for the last time. Attaching himself to you was merely an extension, and it gives him something to do besides vex me.”

“How can you speak so casually of life and death?”

“I carry the responsibility of life and death for thousands, at the least. I cannot carry everyone. A drowning man is dangerous. He will drag you down with him if he can. You have to know when to let someone go.”

“You remind me of Uncle Marcum. He says things like that.” She paused and then took a deep breath. “Um … what of our betrothal?”

“That is entirely up to you, Frisha.” Seeing her shock, he said, “You are surprised?”

“I didn’t think you would still be interested,” she said. “Everyone else thinks you should marry Ilanet. You are a king. She is a princess, and she was supposed to marry a prince of Ashai.”

Rezkin shook his head. “I have no intention of marrying anytime soon. I will likely die before that day. The only reason I had considered it was to keep you with me. If you do not marry me, then there is no point in marrying at all.”

Frisha’s eyes welled with tears. “When you say things like that, my heart listens. It is terribly romantic, but now I wonder if you mean it at all.”

Rezkin frowned. “I assure you that I have met no other woman I would consider marrying. It is not a priority. I will be satisfied to go through life without a spouse, if it would not be you.”

“Do you love me?”

Rezkin stood from his seat and came around to kneel before her. He took her hands and met her gaze. “I have spoken with Farson. I know what you want to hear, but I must honor you with the truth. I will do everything in my power to make you safe and happy. I will give you a kingdom—I will give you every kingdom, if it is your wish. But, if love is what you desire, then it cannot be me.”

 

Frisha looked longingly into his crystal gaze and then shook her head, her expression pained. “I’m sorry, Rez. I know you’re doing what’s necessary for the kingdom. I can’t understand it all, and I really don’t want to, but”—she took a deep breath—“I support you. You will always have my loyalty.”

“But not your hand?”

She stared at their entwined fingers. It was rare that he touched her so intimately. “Tam says I’m a hopeless romantic, but I had resolved myself to the fact that I would never have true love. I thought I would marry a stranger who would only want me for my uncle’s fortune. Then, I met you, and I had hope. I thought you really cared. A girl dreams of being swept away by a knight in shining armor, not a shadow knight of death. More importantly, she dreams that her knight loves her. I trust that you won’t allow me to marry someone I don’t want. If I am to be given a choice, I want to marry someone who loves me.”

Rezkin lifted her chin and caught her gaze. “Is marriage your dream, Frisha?”

“I—I don’t know. I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“You will not marry until you are ready. I will make sure of it. If becoming a wife and mother is your dream, there is nothing wrong with that. It is a position deserving of respect, equal to any warrior, healer, or mage; but, perhaps you should spend less time thinking of husbands and more time thinking of who you want to be.”

An abrupt pounding on the door woke them from the depth of conversation, and Malcius strode into the room unbidden. “I heard you two were in here alone. Look, Rez, I know you are as good as betrothed, but I am supposed to be her escort. I am responsible for making sure she retains her virtue.”

Rezkin rose to his feet and went back to the seat at his desk. “You are correct, Malcius, and it is especially important now that we have agreed to call off the betrothal.”

“What?” Malcius said in alarm. “No! I mean, you two are supposed to get married. Frisha, tell me he is joking.”

Frisha shook her head and chuckled as she wiped watery eyes. “I don’t think Rez makes jokes.”

Malcius’s face reddened, and he turned on Rezkin. “Did you reject her? Suddenly you have other prospects, and she is not good enough?”

“No, Malcius!” said Frisha. “It was my decision.”

Malcius turned his ire on her. “What is wrong with you? Are you mad? He is king! He is a legitimate prince of Ashai.”

 

Rezkin clenched his teeth through the tightness in his chest. It was threatening to restrict his breathing, and he would have thought something seriously wrong if he had not already felt similar pain in the past. He now knew it was the pain of loss. It was stronger this time, and he wondered if it was due to the amount of time he had spent in the outworld. Perhaps he was losing his ability to distance himself from his feelings. He needed time to meditate. The stone on his chest heated as his pain grew, and Rezkin focused on the burning discomfort to take his mind from it.

“Malcius, calm yourself,” Rezkin said. “It has been agreed that I cannot give Frisha what she desires most, what she deserves. You are aware, at least in part, of my upbringing. I am not fit to be her husband. As with all of you, I will ensure that she has all that she needs until my support is no longer necessary.”

Malcius shook his head and looked at Frisha. “Who do you intend to marry, then?”

Frisha balled her fists and pushed to her feet, her show of strength slightly marred as she stumbled with the roll of the ship. She righted herself and lifted her chin. “I am not going to marry anyone.”

“But your father and Uncle Marcum—”

“Are not here,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Then, what are you going to do?” Malcius said with genuine concern.

“Well, I’m … I’m going to do … something.” With feigned confidence she said, “I haven’t decided yet, but it will be great.”

Xa entered the room just then and smirked at Frisha’s attempt to stand up for herself.

Malcius nodded toward the Jeng’ri and asked Rezkin, “Why do you keep assigning him to watch the ladies? Is he a eunuch?”

The assassin’s grin fell, and he drew a blade.

Rezkin sighed. “No, he is not a eunuch. At least, not as far as I know. He will protect Frisha, though. Now, all of you out. We will soon arrive, and I do not wish to be disturbed until we do.”

Rezkin barred the door and placed several traps around the room. He ate the food he had prepared earlier to fill his grumbling stomach, yet he was still unsatisfied. He then lay back on his bed to meditate and promptly fell asleep. For the first time in a long while, he dreamt.

The light of the day waned, and he stared into the darkness between the trees. The fire’s heat seeped into his skin, driving out the chill. An owl hooted, and branches creaked as the wind swept through the pass. He heard a woman’s voice, a whisper in the otherwise unbroken melody of the natural world, but he could not understand her words. He turned. He saw her clearly. He knew he had, but a glimpse was all he could remember. A glimpse of silver eyes and hair as white as snow.

Rezkin awoke to shouts announcing their arrival at port, and he realized he must have been asleep for several hours. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shook his head to chase away the grogginess. Alarmed that he had been so vulnerable in his unexpectedly deep sleep, he surveyed the room from his bed but found no evidence of an intruder. He sat up, and when he lifted his eyes, his heart immediately burst into a gallop as he saw two orange orbs staring at him from across the room. The wood-like creature had taken on the rough form of a table, a table with a face looking out from its columnar pedestal.

He exhaled in a rush. “Bilior, what do you want?”

The table twisted and snapped as the katerghen took its usual form. It stood awkwardly with one arm out to the side and its head tilted at an angle. Its leaves rattled, and the sound of rain, for once, was not coming from outside.

“Power dances on the wind,” the katerghen said. “They come.”

The katerghen popped and crackled then bounded through the porthole, stretching and twisting to effortlessly fit. Rezkin watched after him, noting that they were already tied to the floating dock, and the fae creature disappeared. Once he had finally cleared his mind of his muddled thoughts, Rezkin left his cabin. He had no idea what the katerghen was trying to tell him, but it sounded ominous. Without more information, it was pointless to speculate. He put the matter aside.

 

The ride to the sanctorum of the Adana’Ro should not have been a long one. The process of arriving, however, had become daunting. Since they needed to acquire more horses anyway, Rezkin had planned on purchasing some in Esk. It was unexpected that none of the horse traders were willing to sell. No matter their method of approach, somehow the traders always saw through their subterfuge. The road was fairly well traveled, and no word of trouble had reached their ears before the onset of their journey. After being attacked by bandits twice in the first hour of their jaunt, however, it became obvious they were being targeted. What would have been a few hours’ ride by road turned into nearly a day’s hike across wild terrain.

“I do not like this,” said Farson.

“Nor do I,” replied Rezkin, “but it was unavoidable that they would know we were coming.”

“They have not attacked,” Shezar observed.

“They have been slowing us down,” Farson said. “Do you think they planned this from the beginning?”

“They stole the sword long before I had designs for Cael or dealings with Gendishen. It may be that someone whispered in Privoth’s ear the suggestion to have me retrieve it, though.”

“Privoth is shrewd enough to invest in that idea on his own,” said Farson.

Malcius sidled up beside them. “I still do not understand why the Adana’Ro would be interested in you.”

“The Adana’Ro are mysterious,” Rezkin said.

Malcius huffed. “That is not an answer.”

Yserria wedged herself between Malcius and Rezkin and said, “The king does not answer to you, Malcius Jebai.”

Malcius said, “You may be a knight now, but I still outrank you. You will treat me with respect.”

Yserria grinned sweetly and said, “When you say something worthy of respect, I shall oblige.”

Malcius looked to Rezkin. “Why do you put up with her?”

“If you find her remarks offensive, Malcius, perhaps you should do something about it.”

“But … she is a swordmaster!”

“Yes, and you are not. Her strength is earned, while yours is dependent on the diluted power of your forefathers. Knight Yserria is not a conniving woman. I would not have granted her the title if she were. Find a way to earn her respect.”

Yserria grinned as Malcius fumed and then dropped back to walk beside Reaylin and Nanessy.

“You always take her side,” Malcius muttered.

“We are all on the same side,” Rezkin said as he studied the cliff face looming in the distance.

The sanctorum was located high upon a cliff that overlooked the River Rhen. The river’s banks were dotted with scraggly bushes and the occasional twisted, scruffy tree. Patches of greenery grew where the water splashed off rocks, but the landscape was otherwise speckled with rocks and a variety of cactuses. The river flowed between high cliffs that appeared painted in varying shades of gold and red, and the road they had intended to take ran across the high ground. It would have taken a phenomenal archer and a generous amount of luck to target them so far below; but, from that vantage, it would be easy to track their progress and signal ahead for an ambush. Therefore, it was not surprising when they were suddenly surrounded by masked assailants.

Wesson and Nanessy immediately encapsulated the travelers in a glowing ward of their combined powers, intentionally rendering visible to all. It crackled with warnings in livid red runes scored across the swirling blue surface. An attempt to breach the ward would mean a messy death.

The assailants were mostly women, each dressed in black and covered from head to foot. All that showed from beneath their skin-tight coverings were their eyes, but the weapons they carried were obvious. Swords, knives, and bows abounded, while mage power buzzed in strength from a few. Thirteen were visible, which meant there were probably at least three more unseen. One stood out among them. She wore a head scarf of scarlet red, and her eyes danced with mirth as she met Rezkin’s gaze.

“We meet again,” said the secrelé in heavily accented Ashaiian.

Rezkin recognized her as the woman who had led the cueret at the Black Hall. “Do’grelah, Secrelé,” he said in formal greeting. He switched to Ferélli, having already confirmed that none of his companions spoke the language. “My companions are ro. You will not harm them.”

After a quick perusal of the others, the secrelé said, “Perhaps some of them are ro, but they dance along the fire line.”

“Only because they are in my company.”

“Then it is you who are responsible for their fall.”

“Only if you push them,” he countered.

Her eyes narrowed as if she smirked beneath the mask. “Why did you bring them?”

“To them I am king. They believe I need them.”

“Do you?”

Rezkin shrugged. “A king without vassals is a king in name only, and I have no need of titles.”

At this, she chuckled. “And yet you have acquired many.”

Rezkin grinned in return. “The first act of defense is to put a name to that which you fear. Without a name, I am only fear itself.”

Her almond eyes became crescents again, and she said, “Do you think we fear you?”

He said, “I think it is your wish.”

“Why would we wish for that?”

“Because you hope. You hope for the Riel’gesh.”

She glanced at the others, who stood in tense anticipation. Another of the Adana’Ro, a woman with amber-colored eyes who buzzed with the talent, approached.

“I have completed the study. They must drop the ward if they are to leave or strike outside of it,” she said.

The secrelé looked back to Rezkin and spoke in Ashaiian. “You will come alone.” Again, she grinned beneath her mask. “And, you will bare yourself.”

Rezkin said, “I do not believe that is customary.”

Her eyes glinted with silent laughter, and she replied, “We do not trust you.”

He glanced back to the strikers.

Shezar said, “It is not worth the risk. With the mages, we can defeat these and leave this place. Once they have lost so many, they will reconsider their methods of negotiation.”

When prompted, Farson shrugged. “You are the weapon. If you should need any others, you can take theirs. You will be at a disadvantage without the armor, though.” He met the secrelé’s gaze as he continued speaking to Rezkin. “If you die, it will not be the first time. They should worry about what you will do when you return.”

The two women glanced at each other and then watched as Rezkin began to disrobe.

“Wait,” Malcius exclaimed. “You are not seriously going in the nude.”

Rezkin removed his armor and then his shirt. He then began unstrapping all the previously hidden sheathes and harnesses, tossing his knives, stars, needles, and other sharp objects into a pile on the ground. “They have something we need, and this is what I must to do get it.”

Malcius watched as the pile of armaments grew. “I had no idea you carried so many weapons. Actually, I did not know it was possible.”

“I do not always carry this many.”

Malcius muttered, “A lot of good it does you if you just throw them away because they tell you to.”

“That is precisely the good of it,” he said as he pulled off his boots. “They know that, although we are surrounded, we are not incapable of defending ourselves. I voluntarily disarm and disrobe as a gesture of good faith.”

“Good faith to a sect of assassins,” Malcius muttered.

“Yes,” Rezkin said as he dropped his pants and set to unstrapping additional weapons.

Malcius huffed and scowled at his female companions who showed no shame in watching the show. He turned back to Rezkin. “What if they try to kill you?”

Rezkin ran his hands through his loose, inky locks to show that he had no hidden weapons. “They likely will. I must survive.”

“But they are fully armed!” said Malcius.

Rezkin grinned and flexed his biceps. “So am I,” he said with a wink for the secrelé.

The woman’s laughter was cut short as he strode effortlessly through the explosive mage ward. When the vimara slid like illuminated water over his skin, for the briefest moment, strange, archaic black, blue, and red lines and runes could be seen scrawled across nearly every inch of his flesh below the neck. In that moment, he truly looked the demonic lord many a rumor claimed him to be. The marks were gone in a flash, and onlookers would have been left to wonder if they had been there at all, had the others not also witnessed them.

Rezkin stopped less than a pace from the secrelé and caught her in his icy gaze. “Shall we go?”

“That?” she said, nodding to the stone that hung from the lace around his neck.

Although he was no longer in the citadel, he was anxious about parting with the stone. He would need it upon his return, and he did not want to lose the one object he knew could help keep his mind sharp.

“It is only a stone,” he said. “A token from home. I prefer to carry it with me as a reminder of those who await my return.”

She glanced at the stone and nodded solemnly. “It could easily be used as a weapon, but I will permit it. As you said to your friend, it is a gesture of good faith.” She motioned for him to walk ahead. The other Adana’Ro surrounded him as they departed, and Rezkin’s companions were left alone.

 

Malcius rounded on Farson. “What was that?” he said, motioning to his arms.

Farson said, “I have never seen them before. I assume they are the marks Connovan mentioned.”

“So it is true, then?” Malcius said. “About him dying?”

Farson shrugged. “It seems the presence of the marks is true. As to their cause, we cannot say for certain.”

Mage Threll said, “What is this about him dying, and what does it have to do with those marks?”

Ignoring the question, Malcius said, “So we are going to let him walk away with those people? What if they kill him? What if he does not return?”

“They enticed him here for a reason,” said Farson. “I doubt they want him dead. Even if that is their purpose, he will not make it easy. They know this. They will have to decide if the survival of their sect is more important than killing him.”

Malcius shook his head and huffed. “Why I am asking you? You are probably hoping they kill him. It is no secret that you have wanted him dead since you arrived.”

Shezar said, “Your tongue has become loose, Lord Malcius. You speak to a striker with the same disrespect Knight Yserria showed you.”

Malcius did not back down. He met Shezar’s stare. “A striker receives respect because he dedicates himself to the service of the kingdom. I have accepted Rezkin as my king. This man has not. He serves no one. Until he does, he is no striker.”

Farson straightened to his full height, his strength of presence making it appear as if he towered over Malcius, even though he was only a few inches taller. “I serve the Kingdom of Ashai. Right now, how best to do that is in question.” He poked Malcius in the chest. “You accepted Rez as your king without knowing him. It is not supposed to be the duty of a striker to determine who is the rightful king. I am heartened to think there is an alternative to Caydean, but I am not certain the world can survive Rez. You should be concerned as well.”

“Sometimes you must choose a side and hope for the best,” Malcius said. He stalked away and practically ran into Yserria. “Did you get a good show?” he snapped.

Yserria’s concern became a smirk. “I have never seen that much of a man before, but the others tell me he is a perfect specimen.” She tilted her head and said, “Tell me, Lord Malcius, how do you compare?”

Malcius’s face heated in anger. “You were never so forward with Palis. You will never know what it means to be a true lady.”

Her smile fell, and she scowled at him. “Palis was a gentleman who respected me, and you will never know what it is to have a true woman.” She spun on her heel and rejoined the other women who were seated on the talus slope.

Unable to leave the bubble in which they were trapped, Malcius plopped down on a boulder between Wesson and Brandt.

“She is infuriating!” he said.

Wesson shifted uncomfortably as he glanced at Yserria, who scowled in their direction while she and Reaylin conversed too quietly for them to hear.

“You antagonize her,” said Brandt.

Malcius continued muttering. “I will never understand what my brother saw in her.”

Wesson kicked a cobble and scratched runes in the dirt with his boot.

“Why any noble would marry a commoner …”

“I hope to,” said Wesson as he tucked a curl that had grown too long behind his ear.

“What? To marry a commoner? Why?” Malcius said, aghast.

“Not just any commoner. There is someone specific,” Wesson said.

“I did not know you had a woman,” said Brandt

Glancing back at the dirt, Wesson said, “Well, I do not have a woman. Not really. I mean, I have not seen her since we were children. She was always special to me. Even then we assumed we would marry. But … she is probably already wed, now. Her father—he was not a patient man.”

“You do not know?” said Malcius.

Wesson shook his head. “No, I used to write letters to her often. I never received a single reply. I—well, I did not leave home under the best of circumstances. She probably hates me. I have apologized so many times in my letters.”

“You have not been home since you were a child?” Malcius said, truly surprised.

Wesson shook his head. “No, my master did not feel it was safe to let me leave until I was thoroughly trained to control my powers. There were … other … issues, as well. It was best I stayed away. I was hoping that, after I finished my apprenticeship, I could earn enough money to return my house to good standing and show her that I am not the person she thinks I am.”

Malcius looked at him in horror. “What exactly did you do?”

Wesson pulled his gaze from the ground. “I am a battle mage, Lord Malcius. Consider uncontrolled destructive power in the hands of a child.”

Malcius was quiet for a while, although he glanced at Wesson warily several times. Finally, Brandt said, “I thought most mages came into their power close to adulthood.”

With a nod, Wesson said, “That is true for most.”

“Was it because you are so powerful?” said Malcius.

“Usually, the amount of power has no bearing on when the talent will present itself. My master did wonder, however, if mine was just too much to contain.”

 

 

The sun set early beyond the canyon wall, and Rezkin had nothing to protect him from the chill. He focused on warming his muscles as he jogged across the rocks at a steady pace. Although the sharp edges did not often break through his thick calluses, one would occasionally bite at the softer tissue between his toes. He kept on as if unperturbed. It was hardly the worst pain he had suffered. Once they left the flatter terrain by the river, he was forced to navigate, in the waning light, up the talus slope and between cacti, thistles, and sagebrush.

At the base of the cliff, he paused and looked back to the secrelé for guidance. She motioned up the wall of rock.

“You do not intend to guide the ascent?” he said.

“If you are the Riel’gesh, perhaps you can fly.”

“If I am not?”

“Then we have no need of you.”

The Adana’Ro had employed an ancient and effective method of security to prevent unwanted guests from reaching their cliff-side home. Foot and handholds had been carved into the face. There were many paths, but only one led to the sanctorium. If one took the wrong path, it was nearly impossible to backtrack. Once started, the only way to finish alive was to reach the top. Those who were poor in luck or memory met with the ground much more quickly than how they had left it. Rezkin managed to find the first foothold, but if he started with the wrong foot, his climb would be doomed from the start. With a fifty-fifty chance, he began with the left. Since the cliff was now in total darkness, he was glad for the fact that he had no boots and could feel for the cracks and divots.

The Adana’Ro had not followed him up the cliff, and as far as he could tell, only one or two now remained at the base. Once he was too high to turn back, several ropes had been lowered out of his reach, and the black-clad warriors had climbed the wall quickly.

The night climb would have been impossible under normal circumstances, but Rezkin intended to cheat. He felt around for the next handhold, but he could not find it, if it were there at all. Running his hand over the surface, he found a small crack. As he clung to the wall, he focused intently. The image of the potential ward popped into his mind, and with its function defined by his will, the imaginary construct solidified inside the tiny crevice. With a second thought, the potential ward expanded in a pulse. With a pop, fragments of rock rained down the cliff face. Rezkin dug his fingers into the newly made handhold and pulled himself higher.

He continued in this manner to the top, knowing it would be easy for the assassins to force him from the wall. From that height, a fall would guarantee death. He wondered if he could produce a potential ward large enough to cushion his fall or deflect an attack. Having never created one larger than his thumb, he had no idea if it was possible. Of course, now he wondered about the truth of his potential wards. Had he been misinformed as to the nature of what he was producing? Farson would not be able to answer the question since he was neither aware of Rezkin’s potential wards nor a mage. Rezkin hesitated to discuss it with Wesson since he did not know what the future held. It was always a good idea to have a secret weapon, especially one that could not be found when searched.

When he was within thirty feet of the top, the warriors began tossing pebbles and cobbles down on him. None were large enough to knock him free of the cliff, but they were a sufficient distraction. After being pelted for several minutes to no effect, a bucket of water was dumped over him. The reason for this became apparent as the wind abruptly began swirling around him. The tingle of power in the air confirmed that a mage was involved. The cold night air whipped over his wet skin and prickled his flesh. It was not the first time he had endured such petty trials, and by the laughter he heard above, he knew their efforts were intended as taunts.

As soon as his fingers curled over the ledge, someone attempted to stomp them. He grabbed the woman’s ankle and yanked her over the side. She smacked into the cliff face, her hands scrambling for purchase as she dangled upside down. A rope was tossed over the side, and Rezkin held her just long enough for her to grab hold. Then, he pulled himself onto the platform.

A young man, clad in black, leapt from the ground where he had knelt to check on the woman. He raised his fists and hissed, “That was foolish!”

“Yes, it probably was. I should have let her fall.” Rezkin held up a knife. “I can still remedy the situation.”

The man rocked back in surprise as Rezkin flicked the dagger toward the rope, missing it by a hair as the point dug into the dirt to the side. He said, “She may want that back when she reaches the top.”

After rubbing the loose sediment from his hands, arms, and chest he stalked forward, unperturbed by the stares and remarks over his nudity. The entrance to the sanctorium was narrow and appeared to be a natural opening to a cave. Once inside, though, it became obvious that the structure had been in use for many generations. The walls had been carved to depict what was presumably the history of the sect, and additional rooms had been opened or widened along the sides. He had no idea how large the sanctorium truly was, but the grand hall was impressive. It was a dry cave, and the places not modified by human hands were characterized by smooth, swirling eddies of colorful banded rock shaped by the natural elements over time. Torches and mage lamps hung from the walls and ceiling, and sections of the floor bearing furnished seating areas were covered in thick carpets. Walkways and overhead balconies indicated at least three levels, and most of these were occupied by spectators covered in black with the occasional splash of red.

A woman in red sat on a golden throne at the head of the hall. The back of the throne bore two crossed bronze-gold short swords of the Jahartan style. Rezkin wondered if the weapons were functional or purely aesthetic. Behind the throne was a statue three times the size of a normal man. It was a representation of Meros, the ancient Verrilian god of joy, standing tall, his head held high, a broad smile gracing his strong jaw, his hands fisted at the waist. On either side of the throne were two women dressed in blue, each with weapons drawn. The entire scene was vaguely reminiscent of the descriptions of the Soka, the great warrior women of the Jahartan Empire.

The secrelé placed her fists together in front of her and bowed over them toward the seated woman. “Great Mother, we have brought to you the one called the Raven.”

“And my children?” the woman said.

The secrelé glanced behind to where they had entered then turned back. “All are well, Great Mother.”

The secrelé and the rest of Rezkin’s escort then moved to the sides of the chamber so that he was left standing alone in the center before the dais. The great mother studied him with golden eyes rimmed in green. She pulled the covering from her face, allowing it to hang beneath her chin. She was an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, and her skin was darker than the typical Ferélli.

“Why have you come here?” she said.

“You know why.”

With slender fingers, she gracefully motioned to a woman standing at one side holding a slate with a parchment and quill. “For the record, please.”

“I seek the Sword of Eyre,” he said.

She nodded. “For what use do you desire it?”

Rezkin glanced at the scribe as she scribbled on her parchment. He replied, “I have no use for it. It is King Privoth who desires the sword.”

“Yet it is you who have come seeking it,” she mused. She perused his form and then said, “You make yourself vulnerable on his behalf.”

Rezkin shook his head with a grin. “Perhaps it is natural for people who cover themselves so completely to mistakenly think me vulnerable because I wear no clothes.”

“At the least, it is a distraction,” she said.

He squared his feet, planted his fists on his hips, and stood in a parody of the statue of Meros that towered over the throne.

“Are you distracted, Great Mother? Perhaps you are the one made vulnerable by my nudity.”

The woman laughed and said, “You may be right.”

She unwound the red scarf from her head. It fluttered on a delicate breeze between them before she released it into his hands. The tingle in the air died with the wind, and he wrapped the scarf about his hips.

She smiled and said, “A minor improvement, but I am satisfied that you bear no weapons.”

Rezkin cocked his head. “I am the weapon. Anything else is merely a tool, and I count at least thirty-seven I could reach before your people posed a reliable threat.”

The woman laughed again, perhaps not taking him seriously, since he stood at least five paces from any people or furniture. Then again, she was the Great Mother of the Adana’Ro, so she may have found joy in the belief.

She said, “Then, I am glad we had the foresight to ensure your cooperation.”

The great mother raised a hand, and Xa appeared on one of the balconies to Rezkin's left. He was surrounded by two women in red scarves and one in blue, all with their swords drawn. Rezkin knew what would come next. The jeng’ri would not be parted from his charge. On a balcony to his right was Frisha. A single black-clad warrior stood behind her. Her face was pale, but her gaze remained strong. Rezkin looked back to the great mother, careful to school his expression to one of indifference.

“You should not blame him,” she said. “The jeng’ri is good, but he is not better than a dozen Adana’Ro. He killed four of ours before we incapacitated him. He serves you well. I do believe he would have died to protect your woman.”

“You needlessly sacrificed four of your people. I did not come here to kill you.”

She said, “We will never know. After your show at the Black Hall, we had to be sure.”

“I told you why I came. You have not yet said what it is you want.”

“You have been avoiding us,” she said.

“On the contrary, I have engaged your people every time they chose to interact. They lost.”

“So I have heard,” she replied. “I still find that difficult to believe. It is more likely you used some trick to enchant them. What is your talent?”

“I am not a mage,” he said.

“You lie,” she snapped.

He shook his head. “You bear the talent. Do you feel any of the power in me?”

With determination, the woman stood and stepped down from the dais. Unlike her warriors, she wore a long, airy, diaphanous robe that danced on a non-existent wind. She circled him several times, her spiral tightening until she came to a stop so close her breasts nearly grazed his chest. She looked up to search his icy gaze. Her callused fingers caressed the bare skin of his arm and then trailed across his shoulder to rest on his chest.

“No, I feel no power from you. It is impossible. You could not have scaled the cliff without it. And … you are warm. You should be wet and frozen.”

Rezkin grasped her hand and held it tightly as he generated a small potential ward. He allowed the tiny ward to dance along her skin, spreading in a prickly wisp up her forearm. Her green-gold eyes widened as she tried to pull back her hand. She was strong, but he was stronger, and he did not release her.

He said, “I am not a mage.” The great mother’s wind and tendrils of power lashed at him, but he held firm as he leaned in and said, “I am something more.”

His potential ward silently crackled and snapped, releasing energy along the fringes of its form. The woman yelped as it burned into her skin. The smell of scorched flesh reached his nostrils as she squirmed and yanked her arm, but she did not call for assistance from her people. When the marks blackened and began to bubble at the edges, he finally released her. It was the first time he had used a potential ward in such a way, and he was surprised that it had worked as he had intended.

The great mother beckoned a young man who rounded the statue, presumably from a hidden corridor. He hurried to her side, and Rezkin felt the trill of power as the healer prodded at the wound. The blisters healed quickly, but the blackened lines remained.

“What have you done to me?” she hissed.

“A reminder of your duty,” Rezkin said. He pointed to the archaic script on the ceiling above the throne, an exact match to the scorch marks on her flesh. “Do you know what those symbols mean?”

She glanced up and then looked at him. With confidence, she said, “It is Jahartan for Riel’sheng dak ro, meaning grantor of death to save the innocent.”

He hummed under his breath. “Actually, it is Adianaik, and it means in service to the Gods. It was universally understood, at the time, that the will of the gods was to protect the innocent. The inscription is a reminder to all that it was the responsibility of the knights who served their respective gods to eliminate those who threatened them.”

“It is the same thing, then.”

“An interpretation rarely holds the full meaning of the intent,” Rezkin said. “Either way, it is something you have forgotten.”

He nodded to where Frisha stood on the balcony at the mercy of her captors. The great mother scoffed and returned to her seat in a huff.

“I have difficulty believing she is ro, considering that she is betrothed to the Raven and protected by the jeng’ri. Regardless, I have no intention of harming the girl.”

“So long as I cooperate,” said Rezkin.

“Your cooperation was guaranteed. We can tell you where to find what you want in exchange for a price. Her presence was merely an assurance that you would not attempt to kill us before we made a deal.” Her lips turned upward into a playful smile. “And we were curious. What kind of woman does the supposed Riel’gesh desire?”

Rezkin sighed in boredom. “I never said I desired her. She was a means to an end—one that is no longer relevant. The betrothal was called off before you took her.”

The woman’s smile fell, and she glanced at Frisha, who was looking at Rezkin in shock.

“Is that so?” the great mother said. She drew her fingers along the glyphs burned into her arm. “You seem very protective of one who means so little.”

He tilted his head. “I was not protecting her. I was protecting you.”

“How so?”

“You are sworn to the code of the Adana’Ro, who follow the path of the Riel’sheng. I take oaths quite seriously. If you break your oath, I will kill you. Shall we move on to negotiations?”

“Very well, but there is nothing to negotiate. We want one thing. If you want the sword, you will bring her to us.”

“Her?”

“Oledia.”

“You wish for me to kidnap Queen Erisial’s daughter?”

The great mother waved her hand, and a black-clad small-woman bearing a tray laden with a pitcher and two goblets came to her side. “Oledia will come willingly. She has written to us several times requesting entrance to the sect. She wishes to learn the skills and develop the strength necessary to claim her mother’s throne, presumably upon Erisial’s death, although I would not put it past her to make the attempt sooner.”

“So, I am to help her escape her mother’s grasp?”

The woman shook her head as she poured liquid into two goblets and took one of them. “No, of course not. That would be too simple, and you know we are perfectly capable. You must bring Oledia to us with her mother’s blessing.”

“Erisial would never grant her daughter to the Adana’Ro.”

“No, she would not, which is why you must convince her. It is the only way she will be permitted to join us and still return to Kielen to claim the throne.”

Rezkin said, “The Riel’sheng do not seek crowns. You are meant to serve, not dominate.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “You are said to be the Riel’gesh, yet you have laid claim to two thrones.” The small-woman with the tray stopped at his side, and the great mother nodded for him to take the goblet. She said, “We do not seek the crown of Lon Lerésh, only to gain influence with its next bearer. Oledia will be released from her duty to us if she is successful.”

The great mother raised her goblet and stared at him expectantly. He peered into the metal cup. The golden-pink liquid was slightly syrupy and smelled of nectar. With a sigh, he raised the goblet, as she did hers, and together they drank.

 

Rezkin remained alert on the walk back to his comrades in the dark. His focus was split between the potential dangers of the desert wilderness, their proximity to the sanctorium, the jeng’ri who followed only a few paces behind, and his contemplations over how he might convince the queen of Lon Lerésh to part with her daughter so that he could deliver her to a sect of assassins.

“You didn’t mean it, did you?”

His attention fractured once more to include a new line of focus. Frisha had finally broken her silent protest.

“Which part?” he said.

“You know which part,” she snapped from beside him.

“I assure you that what I meant for the Adana’Ro I also mean for the jeng’ri who is walking behind you.”

Frisha glanced back and seemed to understand his meaning.

Xa said, “You know I can hear you.”

“Yes, and now neither of you know to whom I am being most sincere.”

A silhouette, a large, imposing figure, stepped into their path. Farson’s voice carried in the darkness. “I am no longer the only one who understands what it means to never trust anything this man says.”

Rezkin said, “According to the Rules, Striker, you should never trust what anyone says.”

Farson grumbled, “That may be true for you, but the rest of us have to function in a society where a certain level of trust must be granted.”

Frisha said, “Well, I choose to trust you, Rezkin. I do not believe you were using me.”

Xa stepped up beside her and said, “I trust that the Riel’gesh would not weaken himself with useless sentiment.”

“Yet, you both cannot be right,” said Farson.

“But they could both be wrong,” Rezkin added.

The others fell silent as they walked, presumably to contemplate his statement. Finally, Frisha said, “You are intentionally confusing us.”

“Yes,” he replied. Changing the subject, he asked Farson, “Why are you here? You should be in the ward with the others.”

“The mages could not keep that type of ward active for so long. It fell a while ago, replaced with something less threatening. We have been taking turns scouting in case we needed to prepare for another ambush or you required assistance. The camp has been moved to a better location. It is just around this bend.”

Farson snuck back into the darkness, and Rezkin strode into what appeared, from outside the ward, to be a dark camp. Once he crossed the threshold, however, he was surrounded by ethereal light emitted by blue fluorescent swirls dancing across the interior surface of the ward. He was followed by Frisha and Xa, whom most of the others still knew as Lus.

“Frisha?” Malcius exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be waiting on the ship.”

Frisha huffed. “I was—until a group of assassins swarmed the ship and kidnapped us.”

“See?” Malcius snapped. “This is why you should not have come.”

“You’re going to blame this on me?” Frisha said. She balled her fists. “You know what your problem is, Malcius? You always blame the people you’re supposed to care about for everything bad that happens.”

Malcius stomped toward her. “That is because the people I care about keep getting themselves into trouble!”

Frisha’s retort died on her lips as Rezkin whipped the veil from his hips and began dressing.

Malcius said, “Rezkin, must you do that here? There are women.”

“Oh, no, he’s fine,” Reaylin said. “We don’t mind.”

Rezkin looked at Malcius as he strapped a few previously hidden knives to his legs, knowing he would have to adjust them later so his opponents would not know their exact locations. He said, “You would prefer I go outside the protective ward to dress?”

“No, I guess not, but they—”

“Have already seen. If they do not wish to see more, they may look away.”

Malcius stormed over to Yserria, who was seated beside Reaylin, and said, “You are a knight. Have you no decorum?”

Yserria bounded to her feet to meet Malcius’s hostile stance. “Firstly, Malcius Jebai, my oaths said nothing about not watching a man dress; and secondly, it is none of your business where I look!”

Malcius fumed as he stormed to the edge of the ward and sat with his back to the group behind the rock on which Brandt was sitting.

Shezar stepped closer to Rezkin and said, “That one is always angry.”

“Yes,” Rezkin said as he pulled on his pants.

The striker said, “It will get him killed.”

“Probably,” Rezkin replied.

“We should counsel him.”

“You may try, but I believe this is something he must work through for himself. Then again, I have difficulty understanding these outworlders at times. I could be wrong.”

“I have not yet known you to be wrong,” Shezar said with a smirk.

Rezkin strapped on his sword belt and replied, “I am often wrong. I simply choose not to speak of it to others.” With an edge of frustration in his tone, he said, “I was wrong about what Privoth would want, and now we are stuck going to Lon Lerésh.”

“The sword is in Lon Lerésh?

“No, it is not. We are set to yet another task. They want Oledia.”

“Who is Oledia?” Reaylin asked, obviously having been paying as much attention to their conversation as she was Rezkin’s body.

“Queen Erisial’s daughter.”

“Another princess?” she exclaimed.

“She is not a princess,” Rezkin said. “In Lon Lerésh, the crown is not passed down the family line, and the offspring of the rulers bear no more power or respect than any other member of a powerful house. Lon Lerésh is ruled by women. The women are the heads of the houses, and they maintain and control all matters of politics, business, and the personal lives of the members of their houses. For a woman to climb the social ladder, she must defeat someone higher than her, either through financial, political, or physical means. Accepted methods of defeat in specific matters are strictly governed by cultural tradition. To become queen, a woman must kill the sitting ruler.”

Reaylin said, “So any woman can assassinate the queen and claim the throne?”

“Technically, yes, but she would not remain queen for long. If she does not have the support and strength of the highest houses behind her, she will be killed by a rival. You have played Queen’s Gambit?”

“Yes, my father taught me when I was a child,” Reaylin said. “I hate it.”

“It came from Lon Lerésh. It is a game of strategy best won when your opponent cannot make any moves against you without destroying him or herself. When played with multiple players, one must manipulate the board so that any move by any player will be harmful to the other players. The player in the lead takes the Crest, and the other players are relegated to fighting each other to remain in the game.”

“I know,” Reaylin huffed. “I never win. Either a player has to sacrifice herself for someone else to have a chance, or the other players gang up on someone, which was always me, by the way.”

“I wonder why,” Frisha muttered.

Rezkin said, “The crown of Lon Lerésh is won in much the same way as the game. It might be easily gained through murder, but it is not easily kept. Queen Erisial has worn the crown for six years, which is a long time by Leréshi standards.”

Malcius glared at Yserria as he stood to rejoin them and said, “What you are saying is that the Leréshi are a bunch of conniving, backstabbing women who are not to be trusted.” He looked at Rezkin. “Great. When do we go?”

“You will stay with the other men on the ship. I will go alone with Yserria, Reaylin, and Mage Threll.”

“That is absurd,” Malcius exclaimed.

“Yes, it is,” Farson said as he stomped through the ward. “She is not going in there alone.”

Shezar also spoke up. “I am prepared to stand at your side.”

Rezkin looked between the two strikers skeptically. “You two desire to go into Lon Lerésh?”

Both shifted uncomfortably, and Shezar said, “I do not desire to go there, but I will suffer the consequences to serve my king.”

“And I will not let my niece go alone,” Farson said.

“She will not be alone. Knight Yserria and Reaylin will be with her, and she is a capable mage in her own right. You, however, will be a liability.”

“I will go,” Wesson said.

Rezkin looked at him in surprise. “You understand the danger?”

Wesson scratched his head and shrugged. “So long as they do not know the strength of my power, I think I will be okay. I am not exactly their type.”

Malcius exclaimed, “What are you all talking about? Why would you take them and leave us behind?”

Rezkin said, “I told you, Malcius. Women rule in Lon Lerésh. Any woman may claim any man as her consort.”

“You mean as her husband?”

“No, it is extremely rare for a woman to declare a man to be her husband. To do so would mean that she recognizes him as her equal, and he would have the right to claim half her property and engage in business on behalf of the house. A consort has none of those rights. He is her companion, lover, and sometimes champion, but he is not her equal.”

“So, he is her slave?” Malcius said with disgust.

Yserria said, “No, men hold the same position in Lon Lerésh that women do in Gendishen and most of the other kingdoms, including Ashai.”

“It sounds like slavery to me,” he said.

“It does, doesn’t it,” she snapped.

“It is the accepted culture in Lon Lerésh,” Rezkin said. “Men vie for positions as consort to powerful women, conduct most of the activities requiring physical labor, and serve in the military. Men unsuited to physical labor raise the male offspring and perform domestic chores.”

“So, any woman can claim a man. What if he is already taken or does not wish to be claimed?”

“The woman to whom the consort belongs is called his matria. If he has not been claimed, he belongs to his head of house, or matrianera, which would be his highest-ranking female relative. If a woman attempts to claim a Leréshi man, his matria has the right to challenge the claim. The matria may make a financial deal if the exchange is accepted, or she may name terms for a duel. The matria will name a champion, which may be the man in question if he does not accept the claim, and the challenger will also name a champion, usually a male from her household or another of her consorts. The terms of the duel are determined by the matria being challenged. If the challenger does not agree to the terms, she may withdraw her claim.”

“Wait,” Reaylin said. “You said another consort.”

“Yes, it is not uncommon for a woman to claim more than one consort, but more than three is frowned upon, and they are usually of varying stations. A woman attempting to claim too many high-ranking men would be considered greedy. She would lose the support of her peers, which, as we have said, is vital to her staying in power.”

“What if a man wants to claim a woman?” Malcius said.

“It is not permitted. If he has a good relationship with his matrianera, he can request that she approach a woman to determine her interest, and they may negotiate a contract in much the same way as is done for betrothals in Ashai. A dowry may be offered on his behalf. You must keep in mind, though, that if a woman does not desire a man who belongs to her, she may sell or trade him to someone else. The women in lower society often claim many men to use as workers. A woman is expected to provide for her men, though, and his quality of life should be at least equal to his station.”

“But we are not Leréshi,” Malcius protested.

“Foreigners are not exempt from their laws, Malcius, just as they are not exempt from those in Ashai. There are certain agreements, though, to keep the peace. Foreigners can be claimed, but they cannot be forced to stay in Lon Lerésh. Men who are already married in another kingdom are exempt, since their wives are not present to accept the challenge. Also, sailors and travelers cannot be claimed so long as they stay within the designated dock area. It does not matter your station, if you do not satisfy those conditions, you may be claimed. The only exception is royalty. A member of a foreign royal family may not be claimed.”

“So that is why you can go,” said Malcius.

Rezkin glanced at Shezar and Farson. “Perhaps.”

Malcius said, “What do you mean? What is the problem?”

Shezar said, “Lon Lerésh has not recognized his claim to Ashai or Cael. They may not grant him the royal privilege.”

Frisha said, “But he is the son of—”

“That is not common knowledge,” Farson said with a pointed look.

Frisha crossed her arms and said, “Well, why is Wesson unconcerned? Are mages exempt?”

“Um, no,” Wesson said. “It is just that, from what I have heard, I am not their type. They prefer men like the strikers or Rezkin. You see, the women are concerned with status, and the strength and masculinity of their men is most important. I do not exactly fit the profile.”

“Men like Rezkin?” Frisha said. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Fine. If the other women are going, then I am too.”

“You cannot go,” Malcius snapped. “I am your escort, and I am not going to be claimed by anyone! You are staying on the ship with me.”

Yserria looked at Malcius and said, “I am sure you have little to worry about. You heard the mage. You are not their type.”

As the conversation devolved, a thought occurred to Rezkin. He turned to Farson and said, “Why did you return from scouting so quickly?”

Farson watched the heated exchange between Malcius and Yserria, which was shortly joined by Frisha and Reaylin who tried to drag Mage Threll into the fray. He shook his head and said, “Because we are surrounded.”

Rezkin nodded. “Surrounded by what?”

Wesson had taken refuge from the argument by moving to join them.

“Vuroles,” said Farson.

“Lord Malcius is either brave or stupid,” Shezar muttered as he watched the drama unfold. He turned to Farson and asked, “How many?”

“Perhaps fifty. They are difficult to see in the dark. It could be a hundred.”

“Do you think we can wait them out?” Wesson said. “Perhaps they will lose interest.”

“I doubt it,” Farson replied. “They look hungry. Also, something is strange with their eyes.”

“Are they black?” Rezkin said.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“In Gendishen, the ukwa driving the drauglics had black eyes. It seemed unnatural, and the way he threw them against us made no sense.”

“Why did you not say anything?”

“Rule 3.”

Farson sighed. “That does not apply when the information may be important to the group.”

Rezkin shook his head. “It was not important until now, and now it has been revealed.”

Shezar surveyed the darkness outside of the glowing ward, but the light made it difficult. “You think they are being driven? They are enchanted?”

“The Adana’Ro?” said Wesson.

Rezkin said, “I do not believe it is the Adana’Ro, but I do think they are under someone’s influence.”

“What makes you think that?” said Wesson.

“The cat at my feet.”

The others looked down to see Rezkin’s cat sitting patiently as it watched the women berate Malcius. The young lord was not backing down.

“What is your cat doing here?” Wesson said in alarm.

Rezkin looked at him and said, “It is not my cat.”

All of them eyed the creature warily.

“That is the same cat that appeared when the drauglics attacked,” Farson said.

“And I saw it at the plantation, too,” said Wesson.

The cat flicked its tail and blinked up at them without concern.

“Is it a familiar?” Shezar said. “Have you bonded with it?”

“Not as such,” Rezkin said, “but I do believe it is warning us of the impending danger.”

The cat looked up at him, licked its lips, and then ran through the ward into the darkness.

“We should engage them now while we are awake,” Shezar said. “The mages may drop the ward if they become too tired or run low on vimara. If we fight the vuroles now, we will be able to recover while we sleep.”

Rezkin motioned to the group that looked to be ready to draw swords and said, “Very well. It is your plan. You get to break that up and prepare them.”

 

The attack came swiftly after Wesson and Nanessy dropped the ward. Dozens of dark shadows shifted in the moonlight, their claws and fangs glinting brightly as they attacked. Wesson released a stream of flame at the front line, and then Nanessy followed it with a trail of water she had wrestled from the stream. When the water met the fire, it turned to boiling steam that cooked and blinded their attackers. The two mages tossed fireballs and caused rocks to explode in the densest gatherings, but the vuroles were fast and agile. They appeared as a mix between a wolf and a large cat with black and grey fur and sharp fangs that extended below their lower jaws. Moving with feline agility, they blended with the dark rocks around the party until ready to pounce. They attacked in numbers with several creatures jumping on a single person.

Malcius crashed into Frisha as a vurole jumped at him. He was trapped beneath the beast, and Frisha beneath him. Suddenly, Lus appeared above the creature. He drove his sword down through the back of the creature’s skull. Frisha screamed as the combined weight of Malcius and the massive creature threatened to crush her. Lus shoved the monster off them and then leapt over their heads to fend off another. Yserria reached down and grabbed Malcius, helping him to his feet.

She said, “Stop lying around, you lazy oaf.” She raised her sword to slash the abdomen of a leaping vurole, and Malcius ducked beneath her to score a second across its face. Then, Brandt charged in from the other side to stab it through the ribs.

“If I were lying around, it would not be with one of these things,” said Malcius.

“I have seen you lay with worse,” said Brandt.

“I told you to stop fantasizing about me,” said Malcius.

“Look!” said Yserria, pointing to a shelf where several vuroles were gathered, ready to pounce en masse.

Wesson shoved his way between them and thrust his hands forward as he released a spell that streaked through the air like lightning. It struck the base of the shelf, sending vibrations through the rocks, causing them to fracture. The shelf broke away from the cliff, the back side dropping first so that the front collapsed on top of the creatures.

Malcius said, “I am glad you have a steady countenance, Journeyman,”

Wesson did not reply but rushed away to lob fireballs at several more creatures.

Shezar leaned over Malcius as he stabbed a vurole through the eye. “You should take a lesson from him and learn some control.”

Malcius leapt forward when he saw Brandt go down. One of the vuroles raked its massive claws across Brandt’s torso. His screams seemed to excite the beast to a frenzy. Malcius lopped off its tail and then its jaw when it turned on him. By the time the battle was over, everyone had suffered deep punctures and lacerations from teeth and claws—everyone except Frisha, who was curled beneath a small, personal ward that Wesson somehow maintained while also engaging the beasts. While Reaylin did not overtly complain about performing her duties as healer, her voice still held an edge as she politely asked people to hold still. Brandt’s injuries were by far the worst, and Reaylin was fairly drained by the time she had finished with everyone.

“Why were there so many?” Malcius said as he attempted to tie the tattered pieces of his tunic to cover himself.

Wesson took a long gulp from his water skin and said, “They are believed to be vimaral creatures—a hybrid species created by mages long ago. Vuroles live in small packs in the desert. They will attack a lone man but usually avoid groups. Vimaral creatures are often attracted to vimara, though, so they were probably drawn here in number by the ward we were using to protect ourselves from the Adana’Ro.”

A heavy rumbling reached their ears, echoing through the canyon from an unknown distance. Rezkin turned his gaze to the stars. Those directly overhead were now obscured by a filmy haze, the more distant lights having disappeared. In that empty darkness, the black silhouette of clouds appeared and disappeared as light crackled within them. He sighed and turned to his companions.

“No sleep is to be had tonight. We must vacate this canyon before we are washed away.”

Despite the protests of his companions, he grabbed his pack and began the hazardous walk in the dark. Nanessy set tiny, floating sparks like fireflies hovering over the trail to light their way while Wesson set a weak ward to trail them, claiming it would at least prevent a stray vurole from pouncing on his back.

“But it isn’t raining yet,” Reaylin said as she crunched and stumbled over the scree.

 “Not here,” Shezar said, “but it is out there on the higher ground. The rain will fall afar and flood through the canyon in a torrent.”

Reaylin said, “I hate Ferélle.”

Malcius snagged his pant leg on a horrid, spindly plant with thorns longer than his thumbnail. He hissed as one of the spikes dug into his calf. “For once, you and I are in agreement.”