Exile (31 page)

“There is the leader.” Cadmar spoke in a low voice, as though worried they might hear him over the din of their passage.

She glanced over the horde. They all looked much the same to her, but as she was about to question Cadmar further, she spotted him. He rode near the center of the army, nearly parallel to them now. It was not so much the man himself, for his fierce expression matched that on the faces around him. It was the careful consideration of the riders near him. They didn’t crowd or jostle positions near him as they did throughout the rest of the fluctuating mass. Upon closer observation, the men surrounding him also wore a darker armor, indicating that they might be a special guard of some kind.

Curious, she reached out with ascard, intending to feel through the army for any adepts and wondering absently how many workings she could maintain without risking the integrity of her own masking. She recoiled with a small gasp of surprise.

Cadmar and Ian both looked at her, faces drawn with concern.

“There is a shield over the entire army,” she explained. “A very strong one.”

Ian grimaced. “I didn’t sense any strong connections, so I assumed there weren’t any. Apparently, they’re just hidden well.”

“There must be several strong adepts to create a shield of that magnitude.” She scowled at the passing army. If she dared drop any of her current workings, she might be able to breach the shield and learn more, but the finesse required to do so undetected would require a great deal of her strength.

“Can I help,” Ian asked, guessing at the direction of her thoughts.

“Can you spare some of your ability without jeopardizing our concealment?”

Ian nodded.

“I’ll let you feed into me then, so you can control how much I use.”

When she felt his strength feed into her through their link, she drew upon her own connection, resolving to use his as a backup only. Closing her eyes to increase her focus, she snaked a tendril of ascard out to the shield, masking it as she went. With the utmost care, she drilled her way through the barrier, feeling a sudden release of pressure when she broke through. In seconds, she discovered not a few, but hundreds of adept-level ascard users among the thousands of men, including the man she believed to be their leader. Extraordinarily, the power of all the adepts except the leader was being fed into one adept who combined it seamlessly to create the barrier.

“Indigo.”

Her eyes snapped open. Ian pointed and she looked out at the army to find the leader staring in their direction. Startled, she drew back the tendril of ascard. The man smiled then, a cold, unkind expression, and faced forward. She shuddered. Ian rested a hand on her shoulder, perhaps for comfort though he looked at least as distressed.

When the army was well past and the dust beginning to settle, Ian dropped the concealment around them and took a deep, shaky breath.

“So the army is real,” Cadmar muttered.

Indigo thought his tone much too casual for the situation.

“That doesn’t bode well for what lies ahead.” Ian was still staring after the mass of warriors growing smaller in the distance.

Weary, Indigo retracted her control over all of the horses except Tantrum. With one last glance after the army, she urged her horse to a walk. The other horses followed with little encouragement.

The combining of power among the adepts troubled her, but it was already too late to investigate it more and there was little point in worrying her companions with something she couldn’t confirm.

“It doesn’t bode well for Lyra either,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “All we can do now is hope the suac survived their passage. If he knew they were coming, there’s a decent chance of it.”

The other two said nothing more and she urged her horse up to a swift trot. There was no time to waste.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

While Myac much preferred to cause suffering without prejudice, it irritated him some that he found himself facing yet another Lyran. He had hoped to take his frustration out, ideally, on some soft, spineless Caithin captain, though he would have settled for a Kudaness or a captain of mixed blood. Of late, he had spent far too much time using his abilities against his own people. That would be understandable if he were still in Lyra, but here it was becoming ludicrous.

The Lyran captain, Murchadh, glared molten fury at Myac from where he sat in a rough wooden chair, hands and feet bound. Only a few candles in the large training room provided light and those were set upon the table between them so the man couldn’t see much of his surroundings. They hadn’t decided yet whether to let him go when they finished with him or kill him as a precaution. As such, Myac retained his Caithin disguise. How much worse would the man’s anger be if he knew one of his captors was Lyran?

“Why are you a ship captain?” Myac asked, staring at the captain while Serivar stared at him in turn.

“Because my father was,” Murchadh finally answered.

Reasonable enough.
“Why do you sail the Gilded Straight?”

Confusion warred with the anger on the captain’s face. He started to respond, but Serivar cut him off.

“How is this relevant?”

Myac searched his mind for some way to express his frustration that the other adept would understand and that wouldn’t reveal too much about him to their prisoner. He shouldn’t be questioning a Lyran ship captain, not in Caithin. What pureblooded Lyran captain in his right mind would work the Gilded Straight by choice? So many other lucrative routes wouldn’t require dealing with the people who enslaved his kind. It made no sense at all that he would be interrogating a Lyran man in this situation.

He finally threw up his hands. It didn’t matter. It was vexing, but not relevant.

“Never mind then,” he snapped. “You recently helped a fugitive cross to Yiroth. A young woman by the name of Indigo Milan.”

Murchadh’s expression calmed as though knowing their purpose erased his worry. He tossed his head so his long braid whipped back over his shoulder. “Perhaps. I have the odd passenger. I don’t pay much attention to who they are so long as they pay.”

Myac smirked. He felt the spike of nervousness in the captain at the mention of Indigo despite his bold display. “This one you would remember. A young Caithin woman. Very beautiful. I imagine she would have approached you with a sense of urgency. When did you drop her in Lyra?”

The man set his jaw and said nothing.

Myac grinned. If the captain resisted a little more, he would have reason enough to use his power against him.

Serivar stood, leaning on his fists on the table and staring intently at Murchadh. “Why protect her, Captain Murchadh,” he argued sensibly. “She’s Caithin. What is she to you?”

The odd hint of remorse and affection that came off the man almost broke Myac’s careful control.

How did she do that? She couldn't have been in the man’s company for more than a couple of days at most. How was it possible for her to have instilled such fondness in him in such a short time?

The captain was watching him warily, perhaps concerned by the rage in his expression. He looked away when Myac glared at him and said, “I dropped her in Yiroth four days after your King Jerrin died,” he admitted, voice thick with resignation. Regret poured off him.

Myac and Serivar exchanged puzzled looks.

“That isn’t possible,” Myac countered. “She was here that night. It takes more than a day to cross the Gilded Straight. Do you think we’re fools?”

Murchadh smiled then, a slightly crooked, smug smile. “Under normal circumstances, that is true.”

Myac drew on ascard and closed off the air around the captain. The look of defiance turned to one of gratifying terror as he struggled to breathe through the invisible barrier that would suffocate him if Myac chose to let it. After a short time, Serivar cleared his throat and Myac released the barrier. The man sagged forward gasping and Myac walked up to him. He placed a hand on either side of the chair and leaned close to the captain’s ear.

“I would love to kill you,” he whispered. “You would do well to keep that in mind.”

Turning away, he sat on a corner of the table and waited for Murchadh to catch his breath. After a minute, Myac returned to push him back in the seat, since the captain now lacked the strength to sit up on his own. He did have enough strength to pull his shoulder away from Myac’s hand once he was up again, glaring black hatred at him. Myac smiled in response, more than ready to draw on ascard again.

“Lady Indigo paid for her passage by speeding my ship across the Gilded Straight in less than a day,” Murchadh said, his voice strained. “No captain would turn that away or question someone who could provide such a service.”

Myac scowled. After everything she had done that night, it stunned him that she still had the strength to manage such a feat. She must have arrived in Yiroth drained near to passing out. That would have slowed her down, but she still had a significant time advantage over him.

“And if I made you the same offer?”

“I would throw you off my ship,” the captain snarled.

Myac grinned and leaned over him, taking the captain’s chin in his hand to force him to meet his eyes. “I’d love it if you tried.”

A shudder racked the captain, the shame of his potent fear clear in his eyes. The pureblooded Lyran people were so proud. Myac supposed he suffered from that same arrogance, but at least he could back it up with his power as well as his lineage.

Straightening, he turned to Serivar. “I’ll take him to his ship tonight and cross to Yiroth. I’ll need secondary keys to the remaining Serroc prisons.” Not that he intended to bring either Indigo or Yiloch back alive, but he needed to keep up appearances.

Serivar frowned. The Headmaster still didn’t approve of Myac chasing Indigo any more than he approved of him trying to court her. He had relented to the idea with some persuasion; admitting that following her might be their only chance of finding and recapturing Yiloch. Things in Demin were proceeding as planned and would continue to do so if they could tie up the loose ends. Myac looked forward to doing exactly that.

Drawing on ascard again, he incinerated the ropes that bound Murchadh’s wrists and ankles. The captain hissed in pain, his skin blistering from the sudden heat. Myac smiled satisfaction, ignoring the chastising look Serivar gave him.

•

The sound of growling woke Yiloch. The evening was still warm, though nowhere near as stifling as the heat of day. His hand went to the sword, the strange hilt one of many things that brought the misery of his situation into stark relief. An echoing growl rose in his own throat as he looked around. There were several wild dogs nearby, tearing at something that looked disturbingly familiar. It only took a second to recognize that the something was his pack of supplies. The exhaustion of many days spent walking through the desert without Ferin’s skills to ease the burden were telling on him. He had slept hard enough for the dogs to drag his pack away without waking him. They could have easily gone after him instead. All the food and water he had were in that pack.

Drawing the sword, he rose and went after the dogs. They darted away, keeping a wary distance, but still lingering much closer than he would like. They were cautious of him, not afraid. He used a touch of ascard to speed an attack, bringing the curved blade around to cut deep into one dog’s mottled flank. The animal let out a piercing yelp and darted away. The wound gaped open, blood flowing free. That one would die a slow and painful death unless another predator put it out of its misery. The other dogs backed away, giving him more space.

A burning hunger to make something suffer—for his plight, for the loss of Ferin—pulled at him, compelling him to go after more of the dogs. The exhaustion he felt from the small exertion, however, was enough to counter that desire. He simply didn’t have strength to waste right now. Reining in the bloodlust, he turned to the remains of his pack. The dogs had decimated it with remarkable efficiency. Both of the water skins were torn, bleeding life out into the dry soil. He picked up each one in turn, hoping to preserve some of the water. It was too late. All of his food was gone as well.

He hurled one of the useless water skins at the nearest dog. The animal darted out of the way and came back almost instantly to investigate the item, watching him as it licked at the moisture. The wounded dog was laying a short distance away, panting hard. It had given off licking the still-bleeding wound. Some of the other dogs were milling around it now, sniffing at the injury.

Glancing up at the sky, he determined which direction he needed to continue. He didn’t have the ascard skill necessary to search out Kudaness villages. Without Ferin, he would have to walk north and hope he got lucky enough to come across a village or, at the very least, a water source. He glared at the dogs. It was more than possible that they had killed him by destroying his supplies.

It was hard to move on. His arms and legs felt tied down by the same weight that dragged at his chest and made his head feel heavy. It was a feeling he knew, one he had hoped never to feel again after escaping his father’s prison. Despair.

Turning his back on the dogs, he began to trudge north. As far as he knew, he wasn’t even in Murak lands yet, though he had no way to tell without coming to a village. The landscape was much the same throughout the region. Rock and coarse sand spotted with thorny bushes and peculiar cacti alternated with infrequent open stretches of only sand. The terrain here was hilly, but the hills were gradual, hills he might not have paid much attention to at another time. In this setting, with all of his supplies gone, each rise stole precious energy and increased the core heat of his body, wearing him down faster.

The dogs followed. They knew vulnerability when they saw it. They were a small pack, only six animals, so they weren’t as aggressive as they might be otherwise. They would follow and wait for him to falter. When they came too close, he yelled and brandished his blade. The dogs darted away, though never more than a few feet before coming back to resume their patient pursuit. Eventually, the wounded dog lay down and the rest continued on. He suspected the animal would never get up again. It occurred to him to wonder if the wounded animal didn’t have the right idea. Settle down and accept fate when fate had been decided.