Sword of Fire and Sea (The Chaos Knight Book One) (7 page)

The muffled cry of a cat sounded over the wind nearby as the foundling grey kitten darted from cover, seeing its hay bale ripped away into the storm. It staggered, crying piteously, still half asleep and stumbling in the wrong direction—toward the door.

To Vidarian's horror, Ariadel gave a dismayed shout and dove after the creature. He shouted in denial and warning, but it was too late.

The storm struck.

All was darkness, ice, and wind as the vortex leapt at its quarry. Ariadel's hands had just closed around the terrified kitten when the cyclone lifted her from the ground. Her scream came back to Vidarian as he strove with every muscle in his body to run toward the eye of the storm—then bellowed in panicked frustration as it only drove him backward.

And then it was gone. In a single moment the wild gale had fled with its prize, leaving a thundering silence in its wake. Rain—ordinary rain—began to fall outside the barn.

Vidarian's momentum carried him out of the tack room when the resistance of the cyclone disappeared out from under him. There he fell to his knees, landing hard on his upflung wrists and clenching the sodden earth of the barn floor in shock, anguish, and rage.

Dimly Vidarian became aware of the silent eyes of his crew, who gathered around him in a haphazard half circle, questioning fear in their eyes. This alone would not have fazed him, but Ariadel's absence and the accompanying tide of guilt somehow dragged at his very soul. It took a long moment for him to master himself.

Finally he stood, shaking dirt from his hands and water out of his eyes. His haggard voice was soft but implacable.

“Pack the carts. We're going after her.”

T

Four men sat in silence on the road east, and three of them did not know where they were going. Neither did they ask.

At a tall sycamore marked along half its length with an ancient lightning scar Vidarian turned the cart onto a narrow trace that led up a steep and rocky hill. After an hour punctuated by the crackle of rocks that rolled away in the cart's wake, lush grapevines began to fill the fields around them as they passed from wild lands into tame. Now and then they caught sight of a female worker toiling among the trellises, but none offered a greeting.

They crested the hill and a sprawling but symmetrical structure of white stone came into view, mostly composed of columned terraces open to the air. Women moved among the simple courtyards and passed in and out of the buildings, but no one acknowledged the cart that trundled into their midst. The banner of Sharli snapped in the wind over the tallest column.

Swinging down from the cart, Vidarian handed the reins to Calgrath and strode toward the center building, passing undaunted through its towering supports. There, however, he stopped—he had no idea where to go from here. Long ago he had learned of this settlement of the fire priestesses, but only as a speck on a map.

More women passed through this central hall, most wearing the grey raiment of novices. They passed him a few veiled glances, but their eyes darted away when he tried to catch them. Finally he addressed them all, “I must speak with a priestess on behalf of a Daughter of Sharli. She is in great danger.” Tension sharpened his words, but it was only with the strictest discipline that he refrained from simply grabbing one of the novices and shaking them into cooperation.

He did not know when they appeared, or how long they had been watching, but there were three burgundy-robed women standing in the colonnaded threshold to one of the other buildings. They stared at him evenly and he noticed that the passing novices now gave him a wide berth. A very wide berth.

Clearing his throat self-consciously, he said, “I come to you on behalf of Priestess Ariadel Windhammer. She took passage with my ship under the authority of the Priestess Endera. This morning she was abducted by the enemy she fled, and even now is in their custody. I seek your help.”

“A clever ploy for a bandit, sir, even if you do carry the names of two of our sisters.” The priestess furthest to the right, shorter than the other two, eyed him coolly. Fury rose, but he schooled it, lifting a hand to mimic the gesture he had seen Ariadel perform to summon her life flame. As his hands moved from memory he ground down on the abrupt convulsion in his heart, the freshened recollection burning guilt into his mind anew.

He felt nothing, but when he completed the gesture the three priestesses drew back as if pulled by a single string. They stared, and he did not know whether they were aghast or merely disgusted.

Finally one spoke, her voice quick and dangerously nonchalant. “Where did you learn that?”

“I saw it performed the night before Ariadel was taken. I have a very good memory.”

She frowned. “Apparently so. Come.” With that, and no alteration in her expression, she turned, sweeping down the hallway like a ship at full sail. Vidarian hastened to follow.

The priestess's heels echoed on the marble floor as they traversed a narrow hallway. At her raised hand, the other two gave identical demure nods and turned off at a crossway, disappearing down the passages. After some thirty feet, along which the decorations that filled occasional niches in the walls grew increasingly ornate, they came to a door that swung open under the attention of a grey-robed novice.

Tall and golden-haired, the priestess turned intensely blue eyes on Vidarian as she took a seat before a heavy ebony desk. “Now then,” she said quietly. “What can we do to aid you in your quest to return my Sister?”

“You know her?” Vidarian asked abruptly, surprised to be taken at his word so easily now.

“There are fewer full Sharlin priestesses than you might think. I do know of Ariadel, and the gesture you performed was her sign.”

“I see.” He scrutinized the priestess, but found no strategy. “I need passage to the High Temple at Kara'zul.”

Her demeanor slipped. “What?”

“Passage, I said. To Kara'zul. I must speak with Endera.”

“That is impossible. Only the inducted are permitted to travel to the High Temple.” At his visible umbrage, her brow furrowed. “I myself have been there only once.” When Vidarian did not waver, the priestess spoke again, folding her hands on the desk with earnestness. “I wish to help you, truly, but what you ask is not within my power.”

“Then who should I seek?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “If you travel to the foot of the Mountains of Sher'azar, where Kara'zul lies beyond, you will find another conclave of our Order.”

“Sher'azar…those mountains are weeks away.” He spoke mostly to himself, a horrible discouragement sinking down around his shoulders, but she answered.

“Luck is with you in that much. Your crew must stay here, but there is another way for you to go, if you are strong enough.” A glint of speculation shone in her eyes, and it reminded him painfully of Ariadel.

“Show me.”

She smiled. “Go to your crew and tell them of your journey. I will bring the rest to you.”

When Vidarian returned to the cart he saw the crew in a new light. It was apparent that, throughout his passage in the halls of the fire priestesses, they had not spoken. Each sat slumped, eyes not quite focused, and he recognized their pain as his own. He cursed himself for not realizing that the crew might also blame themselves for not protecting Ariadel.

Breaking into a trot, he closed the gap between himself and the cart and swung up onto the driver's bench. Clasping Calgrath's shoulder, he shook the men from their introspection.

“The priestesses have agreed to help us,” he began, and they brightened, “but I must ask you to stay here. They have some way of giving me passage to Kara'zul, but only on the condition that you remain. I cannot ask it of you…” He trailed off, looking at them.

Calgrath glanced at the other two, then settled his eyes back on his captain. “We'll be here, sir.” With that, he reached up to clasp Vidarian's shoulder briefly, but firmly. The others nodded.

Vidarian was about to offer his thanks when all three of the other men suddenly gasped. Two of them reached for weapons. Expecting the worst, Vidarian turned.

Passing through a large archway came a trio of creatures, filing one at a time, that were straight out of a storybook. A very lethal storybook—one of those where the children get eaten at the end.

Their forequarters were of a goshawk, if a goshawk could be the size of a horse—complete with white and navy feathers and slightly unhinged-looking red eyes. The hindquarters were heavily built, something like a mountain lion's, but with claws that did not retract and which dug divots into the packed earth of the courtyard as they walked. Massive wings shifted with each supple movement and their tufted ears flicked to and fro with alertness.

Gryphons. The holy books said that each of the goddesses kept them, but he'd never quite believed it. Now he understood the statues that decorated nearly every elemental shrine he had visited before. None of them did the creatures justice.

While he was still gawking, the first of the three captured his gaze with burning red eyes. Then there was a voice in his head, coppery like the taste of fresh metal:
// My, my, Captain. You look as if you've swallowed a fish sideways. //

It was too much. It was too gods-be-damned much. Vidarian, who had ridden three hurricanes and safely navigated Dead Man's Hook four times without breaking a sweat, fell over in a dead faint.

He woke to the sensation of being gently rocked in the embrace of a soft hammock. A faint creak as of braided hemp on wooden beams vouched for this illusion, and he could almost hear the rush of the sea. Vidarian opened his eyes to the sight of a soaring sky spreading overhead in every direction.

But the rhythmic pulse that vibrated in the air was not the rush of waves against a rocky coast.

As he looked around, bleary-eyed, Vidarian found that he rested in a large basket. The contraption sloped upward all around him, and the rim was just above his eyes. Further up still, three gryphons beat strongly and regularly at the air with long speckled wings, one to either side of him and one—smaller than the other two—directly before. It took him a long moment to calculate how high up they probably were.

One of the gryphons, a long-necked fellow to his right, must have seen Vidarian's bulging eyes. //
Don't look down,
// he warned, and this mind's voice was like salt on bread, sharp but humble. //
It's a little startling if you haven't flown before.
//

Vidarian stiffened as the creature's voice echoed in his mind. For once, the grief, restlessness, and guilt he had borne since Ariadel's capture worked for him; his anger forged a forced acceptance of the situation. A talking gryphon. It really wasn't that bad.

“My men!” Vidarian shouted finally, finding that he had to work even to hear himself above the beating of the gryphons’ wings. “I remember—er—collapsing…” Fainting. He hadn't
really
fainted, had he?

//
You did indeed, Captain.
// This from the gryphon to his left, her voice female like the first, though with no resemblance whatever to a human female's voice he couldn't say how he was sure. Her voice called up the warmth of a hickory-fueled hearth in winter, spiced and soothing. //
We explained to the men that we had given you a traveling draught to ease your comfort in the air, and that it had acted faster than we expected. Fortunately, they believed us.
// Vidarian felt a flush heating his cheeks. Likely the men knew exactly what had happened, but forgave him. As he moved further into the waking world, he found himself able to cope with a strange situation made much stranger.

“In the stories, you speak like men,” Vidarian shouted over the wind. The gryphon to his right clacked his beak, a sound like timber cracking. Cocking his large head to one side with catlike pupils flaring, he somehow looked surprised.

//
What, with our voices?
// The feathers all along the creature's long neck fanned outward and he released a trilling call that deafened Vidarian momentarily. It sounded like warbling laughter. //
Speaking telepathically is not something easily explained in a children's book. But it is said once that we did speak your tongue, long ago. All things come full circle; perhaps we will speak again someday.
//