Wytchfire (Book 1) (15 page)

He had his wagon, his horses, his coin, and his dragonbone. Better yet, he had his life, which was saying something, given the chaos starting to spread through Cadavash. The best thing to do was to get out of here while he still could. If the squire was dumb enough to wander off in a place like this, he was in Dyoni’s hands.

The stable boy was gone, so he readied the wagon himself. Left accepted the harness willingly, as though anxious to be gone from here, but Right nipped at his fingers. Hráthbam scolded the mare and pretended he was about to strike. The horse recoiled.

“We’ll have none of that, Right. I want to get out of here as bad as you!”

Right gave in, and the merchant finished yoking them to the wagon. Then he climbed into his seat, adjusting his scimitar before he sat down. As an afterthought, he fetched a crossbow from the back of the wagon and kept it loaded. He doubted the guards would stop a simple merchant disembarking from the outskirts of the temple town, but on nights like this, it made sense to be cautious.

Hráthbam sat immobile in his seat, holding the reins, listening to the shouts outside the stable. He could make out snippets of what was being said. Most of it amounted to nothing more than the panic and rejoicing of fanatics who thought one of their long-dead gods had just plummeted out of the sky. But he heard whispers of some sort of disturbance in the temple, too. Fighting in the lower levels. Men dead, guards in a panic.
And Locke right in the middle of it, I bet!

Still, he did not move. After a few minutes, Right pawed the ground nervously while Left craned her neck to look at him.

“Don’t look at me like that, girl. I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll have none of it.” Hráthbam started to snap the reins, then stopped himself. He cursed and hopped down from his seat. “Damn you, Left!” He tied off the reins and left the stable alone. Covering his scimitar with the folds of his extravagant robes, he slipped through the crowds, most of which seemed to be fleeing the gorge, and wondered if they had more sense than he did.

At the end of the vast chamber, Rowen tripped over a slain priest of Zet. Straightening, he saw four more—all dead. He examined the bodies. Most had died wide-eyed, but their bodies bore no obvious wounds. Whatever had slain them had not used steel to do it.

Ahead of him, a few broad marble stairs led up to a small interior chamber containing more carvings, tapestries, and what looked like a well. Beside the well lay a motionless figure.

Rowen ascended the stairs and entered the room, looking left and right for assassins, but he saw no place for a killer to hide. His pulse quickened.

At his feet, a nude woman face lay down on the marble floor. Long hair spilled around her luxurious platinum tresses. Her bare, pale skin shone bright in the strange torchlight. He knelt beside her, his head spinning. Knightswrath nearly burned his palm as he laid it on the floor within easy reach. He reached for the young woman’s shoulder.

He gently turned her over, and the breath caught in his throat. He could tell by her almond-shaped eyelids and angular features that she was not Human. He glanced back at the floor paintings.

A Sylv?
He shook his head, trying to steady himself. He saw her breasts rise and fall and realized she was still alive. A pulse fluttered faintly beneath his fingertips.

She’s alive—but not for long
.

He searched her body for wounds. But like the slain priests of Zet, she bore no obvious injuries. He frowned.
How in Jinn’s name did she get down here?

“Look inside the well.”

Rowen leapt to his feet, snatching up Knightswrath as he whirled toward the speaker. A stooped figure in a ratty cloak, hood drawn, stared at him from the steps just a few feet away. Two hands covered in sores and welts rose to the hood and lowered it.

Rowen recoiled from the ghastly, familiar face. “You...”

A faint, sad smile played across deformed but angular Sylvan features. “A poor way to greet an old friend. But given more pressing matters, I’ll forgive you.” He clumsily ascended the stairs.

Rowen drew back a step, raising his sword. “Stay back,” he warned.

The Shel’ai cocked his head, regarding him curiously. “Are you defending yourself… or the girl?”

Rowen glanced down at the woman, still motionless at his feet. “Both,” he said.

The Shel’ai smiled at his answer. “Good. The Light chose wisely. Now, look in the damn well.”

Rowen kept his eyes locked on the figure before him.
He could kill me with a wave of his hand. If he attacks, I must be quick.

The cloaked figure smiled again. “Yes, Human, I could kill you with a wave of my hand. But I won’t. Need I remind you that I saved your friend’s life?”

Rowen’s eyes widened. “You can read my thoughts...”

“Only because you think so loudly.” The Shel’ai glanced behind him then focused his gaze on Rowen again. The former squire shuddered as the man’s ghost-white pupils bore right through him. “My patience exceeds our time, I’m afraid. Now look where I told you before I have to force you.”

This time, something in the man’s voice left no room for refusal. Rowen turned, confused, and glanced into the well. “I see darkness and water. Is this your idea of—”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Shel’ai wave his hand. Rowen feared that he was about to be blasted into cinders. Instead, something wrenched his gaze back to the well. He could not look away.

It’s just a well.
It’s just water...

Then, as though a curtain fell away from his vision, he saw the well for what it truly was—not a well at all, but a window. His eyes widened.

“Gods...”

Light washed over him. Despite its intensity, he did not blink. The light flowed into him, filling him utterly. He forgot his name, forgot everything. For a moment, Rowen knew peace. Then it was gone.

Rowen recoiled. “What… what have you shown me?”

The Shel’ai’s taut features seemed to soften. “You
know
what I’ve shown you. A better question is
why
. But I have no time to answer.” He glanced over one shoulder. “Someone is coming... someone I must face alone. If I can, I will find you later and answer all your questions. Now take Silwren and go.”

But Rowen did not move. “Who is this woman? Why should I help her?”

“Because we both already know you’re going to, Isle Knight. Because you’re twice the man you think. Because I’m entrusting the hope of all races into your sole care and protection. Now, stop staring and go!”

Even without touching Knightswrath’s hilt, Rowen felt waves of heat roiling off the sword. He considered running, but the crippled man was right—his honor would not allow it. Before he knew what he was doing, he gathered up the fallen woman in his arms. Her skin felt so hot that he nearly dropped her. Blushing, he faced the deformed Shel’ai and asked, “How do we get out of here?”

The Shel’ai did not answer, nor did he need to. Even as Rowen gathered the unconscious woman in his arms, all around him, the world began to shimmer.

“El’rash’lin!” Shade spat the word and broke into a run, sprinting down the narrow corridor and turning out of sight before Lethe could ask what he meant. As the Shel’ai left, he took his wytchfire with him, and Lethe was plunged into darkness. Cursing, he ran after his master, groping blindly down the stone hallway until he spied the wytchfire again, blazing in the distance.

By the time Lethe caught up, Shade stood at the center of an enormous chamber, seething, both hands clenched into fiery fists. Lethe saw another figure using the wall of a stone well to push himself up. The figure wore a ratty, stained cloak. But it was his face—blistered, covered in sores—that sent a chill down Lethe’s spine. “Gods, what is that?”

Shade took a step toward the deformed figure, wytchfire crackling around his wrists as though he were poised to unleash it. “Where did you send her?”

The deformed figure smiled faintly, straightened, took a few inelegant steps down a short series of stairs, and stood before Shade. “Not far enough, I suspect.”

Shade howled in rage and engulfed the man in violet flames. Lethe’s eyes widened. He had never seen a Shel’ai unleash so much power at once.

But more amazing still, when the flames dissipated, the deformed man stood unharmed. “We should talk.”

“We have talked too much already.” His voice resounded with hate but something else as well.

Lethe smiled.
Lord Shade of the Shel’ai, second in power only to Fadarah… afraid?
But Shade wasn’t just afraid. He was exhausted, too. The Shel’ai had just unleashed nearly all of his magic at once, yet his opponent stood unfazed.
If this one kills Shade, then I can die, too!

But the deformed sorcerer did not attack. “Leave her alone, Kith’el. This has gone on long enough. Don’t you see that she came here to give it back? She doesn’t
want
it, you fool!”

Shade said, “She can’t give it back. She can
never
give it back! Fadarah warned her. She’s just confused. But she accepted the risk. Disbelieve in her if you wish. But I never will.”

The deformed sorcerer shook his head. “You believe in her like a soldier believes in his sword. Call that
love
if you want to. I don’t.”

Shade shuddered—from rage or hurt, Lethe could not tell—then turned and stalked back the way they’d come. Lethe followed, so stunned by the anticlimax that it took him a moment to feel despair.
Looks like I won’t be dying today after all.

Chapter Eleven

On the Road to Lyos

S
unrise broke over the amethyst waves of the Burnished Way and unrolled across the Simurgh Plains. Hráthbam’s wagon was already well on its way, following the same rough northerly road it had been following all night. The horses sweated from exhaustion. When Hráthbam nodded off at the reins, Rowen nudged him. They had no way of knowing what had happened in Cadavash after their escape. He wondered if the clerics of Zet were still employing their guards to scour the temple depths for intruders or if they had extended their search to the plains beyond.

We have a head start, but that won’t last long if they come after us on warhorses
.
Gods know our trail is plain enough. Then again, what reason would they have to follow us?

Rowen rubbed his tired eyes. The events of last night seemed as confusing and unbelievable as ever. Somehow, the deformed sorcerer had magicked him and the unconscious woman out of the temple, just outside the gorge. They appeared amidst a crowd of terrified dragon worshippers, violet mist dissipating from their bodies. Eyes widened. Women screamed. Men howled. Some fell and worshipped. Others reached for weapons. Still hugging Silwren against him, momentarily forgetting the awkwardness of their bare skin touching, Rowen had tried shoving his way through the crowds. When that seemed impossible, he considered drawing Knightswrath and cutting his way out. Luckily, Hráthbam appeared.

Incredulous, the Soroccan acted quickly, wrapping the naked Sylvan woman in his own oversized robe and carrying her back to the wagon while Rowen drew his sword and followed, warning the crowds to stay back. Somehow, they reached the wagon unharmed then fled Cadavash as quickly as they could. Crowds started to follow, shouting and wailing, until Rowen fired a crossbow bolt into the earth.

Throughout it all, Silwren had not stirred. Though she still breathed, they could not wake her. Rowen had already shaken her and considered shouting in her ear before Hráthbam stopped him, reminding him that a startled Shel’ai might not be their greatest ally.

Rowen glanced over his shoulder at the beautiful woman still locked in troubled sleep in the back of the wagon. He sensed somehow that she was the cause of all of this. The scream. The flames.
But she’s no dragon. So what is she?

At last, Rowen sighed and hauled in on the reins. “Enough. Let’s stop and rest.”

Hráthbam nodded wordlessly. He half hopped, half fell off the wagon and stretched. “No need to set up camp. I’ll sleep quite happily on the ground.” Settling his great weight on the earth, Hráthbam wrapped himself in his cloak. “Wake me when the world makes sense again.”

Rowen climbed out of the wagon and stretched. “You may have to sleep more than a day for that,” he grumbled and then saw that his employer was already fast asleep. Rowen unhitched the wagon then brushed and fed the horses. Right and Left nudged him with affection, as though relieved to be far from Cadavash.

“It’s over,” he reassured them. “Whatever that was, it’s over.” Rowen brushed them a while longer then gathered firewood. They did not need a fire, nor did he wish to give off their location to any pursuers, but he doubted he could sleep yet and knew they’d need the wood eventually.

As he worked, he eyed the wagon, imagining the lithe, platinum-haired figure inside, still asleep in Hráthbam’s robe. He remembered the sight of her in Cadavash, how her beauty had momentarily banished even the horrors of that wretched place. Shaking himself, he gathered more firewood than they could possibly need, keeping a watch on the southern horizon in case the priests of Zet were pursuing them after all.
But there are always others to watch out for,
Rowen reminded himself.

With Hráthbam asleep, it was up to Rowen to guard their makeshift camp, but he could not possibly stay awake for long. With his limbs growing heavier by the minute, Rowen returned with the last batch of firewood, tied the horses to the wagon, and built a small fire anyway, hoping that would deter predators. Then, after retrieving Hráthbam’s crossbow from the wagon seat, he sat facing south and closed his eyes.

He wanted a blanket, but he did not want to be so comfortable that he would not wake at the slightest sound, so he resigned himself to a warrior’s sleep instead, telling himself that he would wake every few minutes to check for danger. But the moment he closed his eyes, exhaustion overtook him, and he tumbled headlong into nightmares.

Rowen woke with a start. He fumbled for his sword and looked around, uncertain where he was. Dark plains spread before him. Above, the sky was clear and star filled, Armahg’s Eye blazing with brilliant indifference.

“Easy, my friend,” Hráthbam called out to him. The Soroccan sat by the fire, adding seasoning to a pot of bubbling, sweet-smelling stew. “It’s night. We’re safe. So long as you’re still willing to trust my cooking, that is.”

Rowen rose stiffly, only a little heartened at the thought of more of Hráthbam’s spiced vegetables and rice, and joined him by the fire. Hráthbam had dragged two chests from the wagon to use as chairs. As soon as Rowen sat, the merchant offered him a bowl of stew as well.

He placed Knightswrath on the ground beside him. As he did so, he felt a hint of warmth emanating from the hilt.
Just like in Cadavash.

Could Silwren’s presence be causing it somehow? He thought of stories he’d heard about men who could feel the presence of underground water through tiny vibrations in sticks they called divining rods. He wondered if Knightswrath acted the same way in the presence of magic. Frowning, he unsheathed the blade a little and stared down at the rust.

Whoever heard of a rusted magic sword?
He slammed the blade back in its sheath and turned his attention to his bowl of stew.

“There’s wine,” Hráthbam offered, gesturing. “I’d ask you what kind of nightmares had you bellyaching in your sleep, but if they were anything like mine, I doubt you want to speak of them.”

“You had them, too?”

“Dragons, fire, dead men...” Hráthbam nodded. “I wonder if it’s just coincidence or some kind of warning from the gods.”

“I would not have taken you for a believer in omens and prophecies.”

Hráthbam chuckled. “Nor I, had the past few days never happened.” He gestured. “She’s awake, by the way.”

Rowen tensed.
You could have told me sooner!
“The wytch?”

“Wytch, Shel’ai, Sylv, Dragon, Dragonkin, Goddess… whatever you want to call her. She woke up a little before you did.”

Rowen lowered his voice. “Did she... speak?”

Hráthbam shook his head. “Hasn’t left the wagon, either. But I heard her wake up while I was sitting here...
felt
her might be more like it! Like someone stabbed my heart with a red-hot poker.” He took an empty bowl and filled it with stew, jabbing a crude wooden fork into the brightly spiced mass. “Take this to her if you like.”

Rowen took the bowl but hesitated. “Not sure you pay me enough for that.”

“Not sure it’s my responsibility to feed every demon you rescue, either.”

Rowen winced. “Understood.” He stood and reluctantly made his way toward the wagon. He made it halfway before he regretted not bringing his sword.

The campfire illuminated her face as she sat cross-legged and still at the mouth of the wagon, watching him. Rowen shuddered. Her eyes were like those of the disfigured Shel’ai, the pupils not black but white as sun-bleached bone. Rowen felt dread creep through him.

Steeling himself, he bowed slightly. “Good evening, my lady.” He held out the bowl of stew. “Are you hungry?”

She watched him closely but did not answer. She’d wrapped her body in one of Hráthbam’s robes—this one so dark blue that it was almost black.

“Do you... understand me? Can you speak my language?”

The woman said, “I speak all languages.” Firelight played through her platinum tresses as she slowly accepted the bowl of steaming stew from Rowen’s hands.

Her voice was soft and beautifully cadenced but edged too with something that frightened him. Rowen forced a smile. “Good. I’m afraid my Sylvan is a bit rusty.”

The woman did not respond to his joke. She ate slowly, her face expressionless. If she liked or despised the taste of the stew, she gave no indication of it. Rowen wanted to leave, but he could not wrest his eyes off her.

“There’s wine,” he managed. “Would you like some?”

Taking her silence as an answer, he went and fetched one of the wineskins, avoiding Hráthbam’s scowl as he did so. He brought her the wine. She accepted it and drank without comment.

“Do you... know where you are?”

She chewed, swallowed, and answered stoically. “I am beyond Sylvos, far from the World Tree, in the Wyldlands.” Her eyes settled on him. Rowen tried to focus on the violet irises instead of the white pupils. “The land of Humans. I assume my kind are still not welcome here.”

Rowen nodded uncomfortably. “We found you in Cadavash. My name is Rowen Locke. That’s Hráthbam. There’s more, but he’ll have to tell you the rest of his name himself.”

Hráthbam watched closely from the fire but offered no greeting of his own.

“The other one mentioned your name, but I’m afraid I missed it,” Rowen said.

The woman faced him, eyes narrowing.

Rowen drew back a step.

“The other one?”

“Yes... the other one. Like you. Well,
not
like you, exactly. He had white pupils like yours, and he could work magic, but he was covered in scars and sores. He was dressed like a beggar, all hunched over—”

“El’rash’lin,” she interrupted. “His name is El’rash’lin.”

Rowen nodded. “And your name?”

“Silwren,” she said. “That much, at least, I still remember.”

Rowen frowned. “What do you mean?”

Silwren tugged the silk robe around her body and said nothing.

“Can you tell us what you were doing in Cadavash, at least? Or why you summoned me?”

“I did not summon you,” Silwren answered curtly. “Even a Human does not deserve to be endangered for no reason.”

Rowen hesitated. Should he push her further?

Silwren had apparently finished with her supper, because she returned the bowl. Then she said, “I have no more answers… and probably more questions than you ever will. Let me sleep until dawn, if it pleases you, then I will be gone.”

She climbed into the back of the wagon, taking the wineskin with her.

Rowen’s relief turned to curiosity. “Where... where will you go at dawn?”

She was quiet for so long that he thought she meant to ignore him. When she finally answered, he immediately wished he had never asked. Turning her ghostly eyes to face him, she answered his question with a single word: “Lyos.”

Despite their intentions to leave that night, as soon as they were rested and fed, neither Rowen nor Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas could summon the courage to hitch up the wagon and start off again while Silwren was sleeping. Rowen still hoped that El’rash’lin might appear as he’d promised to answer at least some of the questions plaguing him.

But there was no sign of the sorcerer. So they milled about and spoke in whispers as the night wore thin around them, drawing conjectures about what the Shel’ai woman intended to do once she reached Lyos.

“My brother always said only fools believe in coincidence,” Rowen whispered. “Of all the people she could run into, why me, who happened to grow up in the same city she’s heading to?”

“A lot of people grow up in Lyos,” Hráthbam reminded him. “Besides, you said the other one could read your thoughts. Maybe that’s just what she did—although I’ll be damned if I can guess why!”

It was on the tip of his tongue to speak of the well, but he had no idea how to describe the experience, and the very thought of it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Whether they were tears of anguish, he could not say.