Mythborn (42 page)

“Someone’s ahead,” she whispered. “I can hear him breathing.”

Malak must’ve heard her because he gave out a very soft sound, not quite a whistle but more like a breeze. Two “rocks” detached themselves and moved forward slowly into the gloom. It was only moments later when they heard a scream and a scuffle.

Sparrow exploded forward along with three others, racing for the sound. The rest of the elves drew weapons but let discipline reign, holding for the firstmark’s command. Malak waited, clearly wanting to see what his scouts had found.

Soon the five elves emerged from the dark with a figure caught between them, still struggling though a curved dagger was held to his neck, below a hand clamped over his mouth. They dumped the figure down in front of Malak.

Before the firstmark could say anything, Bernal laid a hand on his arm and said, “I know this patch.” He motioned at a crest sewn into the man’s doublet. He moved closer to the man and let the torchlight fall on his face, “Do you know me, Sergeant?”

The man looked to have been on the verge of screaming, no doubt the sight of blue-skinned elves holding him at blade point more than suitable incentive. He turned wide, uncomprehending eyes on the king, searching Bernal’s face for who knew what? Madness lent his face a look of desperation and all he seemed to be able to sound out came in the form of gasps. Then, slowly, recognition seemed to dawn and he whispered, “M-my King?”

“How come you to this place?”

“The step, my lord… we were ambushed by demons,” he cried. He held out a hand, clawing at the king’s armor. “Her Grace fell—” He collapsed in on himself, sobbing.

Bernal stiffened at what the man was trying to say. Did he mean Yevaine was here? He grabbed the man and shook him. “What do you mean, fell?”

The man pointed at the cliff’s edge and the rope ladder leading down. The king looked at Malak and snapped, “I need your fastest with me.”

The firstmark gestured. Sparrow and another scout came up, waiting for their orders. To both of them the king said, “We’re going down that rope ladder to the first step to see what’s going on.”

Malak began, “You should stay—”

“Don’t,” warned the king, staring at the firstmark until the man dropped his eyes. Then he gestured to the two scouts. “Come on.”

They made their way down the rope ladder quickly, scanning the ground below for signs of anyone. Elves from above had dropped a few torches, which clattered down to lay at the bottom. Though one had gone out, two still cast flickering light in small orange pools, their dying embers needing attention. As soon as Bernal’s boot touched solid rock he snatched a torch up and coaxed its flame back to life. Sparrow and the other scout soon joined him, doing the same.

A pit of dread had formed in the king’s stomach since the man’s talk of Yevaine falling. The fact that the man wore the patch of the Haven regulars and was here with someone of noble birth narrowed the choices to a very few, if not one. With the exception of Yevaine, Yetteje, and Ilandra Cadon, none of the ladies of the major houses were martially trained. Yevaine had gone to Haven to get the capital city to commit reinforcements to Bara’cor. He felt sorry for whomever had to face her wrath, but had no doubt she was the one the man referred to. Now he needed to know if she lived or… he wouldn’t let himself finish the thought.

They moved forward quickly, searching the area. The second step lay some distance ahead, but this landing was expansive, with crags and rocks that cast long shadows and hid detail. Soon, he couldn’t stand it and called out, “Yevaine!”

“Hsst!” warned Sparrow. She looked at the king and he could see murder in her eyes, but he didn’t care.

He moved forward until he heard a
click
, the sound of a crossbow locking, freezing him in his tracks. He slowly held out his hands and said, “It’s Bernal Galadine.”

There was silence, as if someone was verifying his claim. Then he heard, “The Lady be praised!” from a voice to his left. He swung over and saw the glint of one eye: Kalindor!

Bernal rushed forward, not caring now what Sparrow and her scout did, but he said, “Don’t shoot, Captain. I’m with friends.”

When he neared, the scene was ghastly. Everyone looked injured and what could only be black blood coated the rocks around them. Most of it came from—he surged forward, “Yevaine!”

“She’s out cold, but alive,” assured Captain Kalindor. The man watched the two elves approach, his finger never leaving the trigger of his crossbow. Then he said over his shoulder, “She staunched the wound herself, but lost a lot of blood.”

The captain didn’t have to say what Bernal knew, that her life hung by a thread. He stroked her face, a sickly white pallor he hoped was from the dim light and not from the loss of blood, then turned and searched the darkness. When his eyes met Sparrow’s, he said, “Help.”

Sparrow seemed to consider his request, then said, “Doing so will mean I cannot heal others that may be more useful.”

Bernal stood up, facing the blue-skinned woman, and said, “She’s useful, more so than a dozen of you.”

The expression on Sparrow’s face with one eyebrow raised showed her doubt of that claim. She blinked, looking around as she surveyed the scene, then said, “How will these six change the balance of what we must do? They are inconsequential.”

Anger boiled up, but he held it in check. Sparrow would not be intimidated, of that he was certain. Instead, he nodded and said, “You serve House Galadine, yes?”

“You state the obvious,” Sparrow replied.

“Then here lies your queen, mortally wounded. Malak said this was a one-way trip. In this world, who do you serve?”

Sparrow’s eyes dropped, her countenance reflecting thought. When she looked up it was with resignation. She nodded but warned, “Know that my ability to heal is not limitless. You were near death and took much of what I can do. Saving these folk will mean others
will
die. Let that rest on your conscience, my king.”

Bernal nodded, not caring, and moved out of the way. Sparrow knelt and placed a hand on Yevaine’s leg and another on her chest. Her head bent down in concentration, and as it did so a soft blue glow emanated from her palms. He heard gasps of wonder from the men around him and knew what Yevaine must be feeling. That itchiness of healing, the soft warmth that suffused her skin and bones.

In a moment, Sparrow moved back and said, “It is done.”

The king moved a torch closer and looked at his wife, seeing the flush of new blood pinking her skin where before it had been pale and white. Yevaine took a deep breath, unencumbered by pain, but her eyes did not open.

Bernal looked at Sparrow, who shrugged and said, “She will wake when she’s ready. I cannot change the need for rest.”

A quick check amongst the men found that those who had survived had mostly minor wounds. Sparrow declined to waste her healing ability on most, with the exception of Kalindor. The man had not spoken about a gut wound that had been slowly leaking his life away. He’d cinched up a makeshift bandage across his abdomen, but it was clear he’d not survive without intervention.

Sparrow went to work on him, and if expressions could be believed, the experience for Kalindor was welcome. He must have been in considerable pain. The moment Sparrow’s hands touched him he let out a long sigh that seemed endless, a testament to something being unknotted within his gut. When she was finished, Kalindor put a hand on her shoulder and said, “I thank you, lady.”

Sparrow, normally stoic insofar as the king had seen, seemed flustered by the attention. She nodded once brusquely, then pulled herself away with obvious hesitation. Bernal kept that observation to himself, thankful that they had been able to find and save these few.

A hand clasped his then, and when he looked down it was Yevaine, smiling up at him. “I thought you were dead.”

He laughed, but tears crept into his eyes. “Still here, causing trouble as usual.”

Yevaine smiled back, then propped herself up, looking around. Clearly she was trying to piece together exactly what had happened. She looked at Kalindor, who nodded in return. Then her gaze was drawn to the two blue-skinned elves, watching her from the edge of the torchlight. She took a breath, then graciously said, “Thank you.”

Sparrow inclined her head but did not say anything. She took a quick glance at Kalindor, then back at the king. Finally, she said, “We need to move. The firstmark will be waiting.”

At the mention of the firstmark Yevaine said, “Jeb is here, too?”

“There’s a lot we need to talk about,” Bernal said. “But first, are you six the only ones here?”

Yevaine pulled her legs in, then with his help slowly stood on shaking legs. “We’re the advance party, there’s a company of Praetorians behind us.”

Two hundred men! The king shook his head, amazement at his wife’s deeds slowly giving way to admiration. He smiled and said, “Leave it to you.”

Yevaine shrugged. “They were bored. I gave them something to do.”

Sparrow piped in then, “Those men have no weapons that will turn the tide. You only bring them to their own slaughter or possession, two hundred more for Lilyth’s army. We have to rejoin the firstmark, now.” She met eyes with the king, then made her way to the rope ladder and started ascending.

Bernal looked at his wife and asked, “Can you climb?”

She nodded, looking up the cliff face and the fading form of Sparrow. “No doubt there’s a story there.” Then she looked back at him and asked, “Where’s Niall?”

The king’s heart dropped into his stomach. He met her eyes, and something in his gaze must have told her what was in his heart. He shook his head and told her, “Niall’s alive, but as I said, we need to catch up.”

Yevaine looked at him, her gaze becoming as hard as the rock around her. She moved automatically to the rope ladder, then looked over her shoulder and said, “We have a long climb ahead of us, so start talking.”

Gods, if I’ve ever been favored, let the Aeris attack now, prayed the king. He’d rather face a horde of them than the conversation he was about to have with his wife.

Plans

Trust and truth are often confused.

Ofttimes ‘tis better to trust but remain silent,

Than to speak the truth into unknown ears.

-
          
Argus Rillaran, The Power of Deceit

D
ragor and Jesyn had spent much of the night planning with Dazra and a small group of dwarven scouts. At first they’d advocated sending as many as possible into the caves of Dawnlight. However, Dazra had revealed that this tactic more often than not created more missing persons, as would-be rescuers also vanished without a trace. It was finally Dragor who asked the question they must’ve both been thinking.

“Why now?” When Dazra raised an eyebrow to that, Dragor clarified by saying, “You’ve been in hiding for almost two centuries. Now you decide to look for your people. Why now?”

It was Tarin who answered, “You act as though this is our very first recovery attempt. What do you think happened after the Demon Wars?”

Dragor shook his head, and into that silence Dazra said, “My grandfather, King Bara, saw a second gate open. It shone like a star at the peak of Dawnlight. Fearing the worst, he sent a company of axers to confront whatever treachery the demon-queen had planned.” Dazra looked down and then said, “They did not return.”

“You’re long lived,” commented Dragor dryly while studying the map spread before them, only realizing after Jesyn hit him lightly that what he’d said might sound callous in the wake of what Dazra had just offered. He cursed inwardly for his own callousness, his only intent to underscore Bara being Dazra’s grandfather. Somehow he and the dwarven leader were out of synch, like two people who kept stepping on each other’s toes while dancing. It was frustrating. No sense in apologizing, he thought, it would only make things worse.

Instead, Dragor said, “So rescue operations were sent and these too disappeared?”

Dazra stared at the adepts until Tarin nudged him. Then he looked back down at the table and said, “We do not attempt half-hearted efforts concerning our people. King Bara led a full legion from Bara’cor to confront whatever happened to the lost company at Dawnlight. He left behind Thorin Hayden, a man of singular honor.”

“We know the history from our side after that,” Jesyn said, “but what happened to King Bara and your people? It was rumored he sought the Sovereign. Is that true?”

Dazra shook his head and smiled ruefully. “History may create mysteries out of nothing, but our tale is both more and less tragic.”

“Did you get lost?” Dragor said, jokingly.

Jesyn touched his hand and mentally chastised,
What’s wrong with you?

Dragor looked around and was met with unsmiling faces at his attempt at humor. So much for trying to lighten the mood,
he thought.

After a moment, Tarin picked up where Dazra had left off, the latter just staring at Dragor. “Our king made a vow that we would not return until every man had been recovered, dead or alive. Vows are important to our people, as you’ve witnessed. Our
entats
record them and bind us to them, so we do not give it lightly.”

Jesyn swung her eyes from Dragor’s still silhouette and said, “We have something similar, called the Oath of Binding. It keeps us honest.” The younger adept smiled apologetically. Then she leaned forward and addressed Dazra, “Please accept our apology. We are both tired and amongst strangers with different customs, but we mean no offense.”

Dazra seemed about to say something to Dragor but Tarin laid a hand on his arm and said, “Accepted.”

The dwarven leader nodded slowly, as if the acceptance were being pulled grudgingly out of him by Tarin’s mere presence. Then he said, “You asked, why now? We found ourselves becoming the hunted, the legion dwindling to only a few hundred survivors, but Bara’s Vow held us. At the same time, Sovereign’s forces began sending our own people back against us, collecting us for some purpose. As a result, our efforts to rescue became instead a protracted evasion. Hiding in the version of Dawnlight that exists in phase was our solution. It kept us near our people and true to our word, but protected us from Sovereign and Lilyth.”

“What happened to Bara?” asked Dragor.

“My grandfather and father have been lost to the mountain,” the dwarven leader said, his eyes down. “I must ascertain their fate and rescue them if that’s still possible.”

“And now, because we’re here in Edyn, we’re exposed. Correct?” Jesyn asked.

“We don’t have a lot of time, so I’d like to use whatever information you’ve gleaned from the assassin to attempt the mountain.” Dazra paused, looking at Tarin. At her nod, he looked back at Dragor and added, “You’ll want to contact your people—tell them you’re safe.”

Dragor looked up, surprised at this, and said, “Yes, we would.”

“Do so,” offered the dwarven leader. “Tarin has impressed upon me the need for allies. We must know the extent of any support you’ll provide ’ere we plan entry into Sovereign’s domain. There will be no easy escape if we make a mistake.”

At that, the man stood back from the table and said, “We’ll leave you to yourselves. When you’re ready, ask the guard outside to bring you to my tent. My experience tells me we go with a small group at first, followed by a larger force, but I’m open to suggestions.”

Tarin looked at them both and said, “Our hope is that you will join us where the assassin is held. With your permission, we wish to interrogate him.”

“The information I’ve pulled is getting clearer,” Dragor said.

She acknowledged that with a nod but asked, “Can you share these visions with us?”

The adept shook his head. “I do not know how with someone not trained in the Way.”

“Then your insight is useless,” said Dazra matter-of-factly. It was not delivered with any ire, his retort more factual than accusatory. Yet its bluntness felt harsh, as if the man did not particularly like the adept.

Dragor looked at him a moment, then decided it would be better perhaps to concede. It would be the first building block to a better relationship with these dwarves, so the adept said, “All right, you can interrogate him provided he’s not killed and you share whatever information you gain.”

“Very well.” Dazra didn’t wait for either of them to acknowledge that, simply nodded curtly and walked off. His bearing was clearly one of frustration, but Tarin stayed behind a bit longer and met their eyes with sympathy.

“Not everyone meshes at first,” she offered, looking at Dazra’s retreating form, “but he’s a good man. Give him some time.”

Dragor met her eyes and said, “I can’t say anything right around him. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

Tarin raised an eyebrow at that, then said with a wistful half-smile, “Neither did I, and now he’s my husband. Stranger things have happened, Adept.”

Evidently she was amused by their shocked faces. She smiled and said, “Do you think he has a personal healer
just following him around?” She let out a small laugh and moved to the door. Then over her shoulder she added, “I’m his conscience. We’re trying to trust you, so don’t make us regret that.”

A moment later, they were alone.

Jesyn spun and hit Dragor on the shoulder. “Seriously, what’s the matter with you?”

“Oww! I was trying to lighten the mood,” he offered lamely, for a moment feeling as if he were the student.

“Stop! You’re acting rude, and I don’t have the energy to get in between you and Dazra all the time.”

Dragor nodded, not sure exactly what to say. Then he motioned to a chair that looked more comfortable than the stools arranged around their table and moved over, sitting down. The furniture here was large enough for both of them to sit on, making him feel more like a child.

“Do you need any help?”

“No,” he replied, thinking she meant sitting in the chair. It was only after he’d taken his seat that he realized she meant help with communicating with the lore father. He gave her a chagrined smile then said, “No, I can create the bridge to Giridian.”

He saw the concern on her face and remembered how he’d felt when Giridian had tried to access the lore father’s memories. He held out his hand and smiled, squeezing hers reassuringly. “Thanks, just stay nearby. Your presence is comforting.” It was only then that he realized Giridian must’ve done the same thing for him, and a sheepish look crept onto his face.

He cleared his mind again and then reached out to the Way. He could feel the connection when it completed and the lore father was with him.

Dragor! I take it you’re safe?

Both Jesyn and I, and we’ve found the dwarves.

The astonishment that flooded through their connection was unmistakable, so Dragor quickly corrected,
Actually, they found us.

He quickly went on to relate their travel north through Morninglight and Westbay. Their tracking of the assassins and eventual capture of one, only to be in turn “escorted” by Dazra and his people. Now they found themselves on the slopes of Dawnlight, preparing to enter the mountain in search of Armun. Dazra offered his help if they could combine their efforts and find out the fate of his missing people, as perhaps the two were linked. Finally, he asked if there was any help that could be provided, perhaps Tomas could join them as another adept would be welcome.

There was silence from the lore father at first. Then, haltingly, Giridian shared the revelation of Thoth and the war between Lilyth and Sovereign. He shared Arek’s birthright and rescinding the termination order he’d given Kisan. He spoke of the Phoenix Stone lying deep in the Shattered Sea, requiring the Heart of the Phoenix to raise, and their lack of knowledge on exactly what the Heart was. He even shared with him the new candidates who had come to the isle, including Kimora, who looked to be a promising addition.

Dragor smiled, then asked, And when can Tomas come? His power will be much needed for this effort into Dawnlight.

The pause that followed felt uncomfortable, as if the lore father did not want to speak. Dragor’s eyes widened and he said out loud, “No…”

He failed and left… still a Brown, correct? Dragor demanded, hoping.

The silence from the other end told him it was far worse than that. His gaze flicked up to Jesyn and his eyes began to well up, so he squeezed them shut.

When the lore father spoke, it was slow and heavy, as if the man dragged the weight of Tomas’s fate entirely on his own shoulders.
He fought bravely and would not quit. In the end, I did not prepare him well enough.

Dragor was quick to say, No, you can’t blame yourself.

He could feel the lore father smile at that, but not with humor. Can’t I? Who then carries the blame for the fates of our students, if not me?

Dragor received the lore father’s tacit agreement that they were free to do whatever they thought best to recover Armun, as that was the highest priority. They should also stay aware of any clues as to the nature of the Heart. Perhaps it was something the dwarves knew about? As their communication began to fade, Dragor received a burst of energy from the lore father, replenishing him greatly. Sudden clarity lifted the fog his mind had been under, something he’d not noticed until this welcomed gift.

A final note, said the lore father, we were approached by a dragon—

The lore father’s voice became faint before vanishing entirely. Strange. Dragor looked up, the connection breaking. What would have caused that, he wondered? Then he saw Jesyn’s eyes, and the lost communication with the lore father was forgotten.
Tomas
. He wondered how to begin.

Jesyn made it easy, perhaps suspecting something already. She said, “Tell me.”

Dragor nodded, then pulled her into an embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

“He didn’t pass?”

She pushed back, as if wanting a verbal confirmation. Then something happened. Maybe it was his own expression or his inability to explain. Something within her discerned the truth of Tomas’s fate. A hand went to her mouth, an unconscious gesture to stop from saying anything, as if uttering the words would make her worst fears come true, but there was no denying the truth. Her body shook as a sob broke through. Then another, and finally her control broke as she buried her face back in his shoulder, her grief palpable.

Dragor sat there, stroking her head, hoping they could find a way to achieve everything the lore father had asked without losing any more of their precious children.