... I've had personal problems. I'm sorry. I should have been able to write more in the months between the last chapter and this one, but again; personal problems keep popping up. My mother has been in rehab, the friend/relative with cancer died, another one died last Saturday, and there have been other issues giving me trouble, and my mood affects what you see on this website; I'm depressed-characters die. I'm happy- hot centaur+man... sex. (I have not figured that out yet. I don't think I can do it without killing my brain...) And yes, I know the chapter is short. I'm also trying to get some time in on Fellowship.
Kestrel– yeah... I thought I fixed that... but I will... eventually... Thanks for noticing.
Thanks to Wizard116, Fireblade K'Chona, Shadowfax, Moondance, Firelance, Deb Sampson, and Fimbrethil. And the ever-so-charming beta, Mischa Kitsune. Without her, this would be shit.
"Winter that year was strange and gray.
The damp wind smelled of Apocalypse,
and morning skies had a peculiar way
of slipping cat-quick into midnight."
–The Book of Counted Sorrows
Chapter 22: The Damp Wind Smelled of Apocalypse
Only the calming presence of the Healers and the help from the delegation from Iftel were keeping the castle from descending into complete chaos. The Healers were going immediately to anyone they thought might start a Situation that could break the tenuous peace in the castle, and the Iftelans were working around the clock with the Kaled'a'in to find the new assassin, even though Tremane hadn't exactly been assassinated... yet.
The fact that the Empire was mounting a full–out attack on the Eastern border wasn't helping the situation, and things were teetering precariously on the brink. The army attacking the border was small, by Empire-sizes, but it was enough to alarm the Council, so they'd dispatched a section of the standing army to deal with them, and had sent out men and women to recruit new soldiers from around the country, fearing an all-out war.
Tremane was no longer in his body– poisoned by magic, so Chief Healer Trancesk Shomoru said. Nothing that the Healers had tried had worked. Julian had even tried to 'take a walk' in the King's body, but where Rowen's mind had been a deserted city, Tremane's mind was a void, pulling everything toward it. Julian had almost been drawn in, but Masaan had thrown a bucket of water onto Julian to make him snap out of it. He'd woken up freezing and shaking with reaction on the floor of the King's bedchamber, Rowen and Masaan standing over him with unreadable looks on their faces.
Since then, none of the Healers had tried to go into the King's mind, and let the mages take over, to good use. One of the gryphon–Adepts from White Gryphon had identified what it was that was preventing Tremane from coming back into his body; a spell that the Kaled'a'in weren't very familiar with, but their Haighlei allies were. A spell that removed the victim's soul from his body, and trapped it in an item, usually a gem of some sort. The only ways to break the spell were either to kill the caster or to retrieve the item, upon which a reversal spell would be performed. A gem was small; impossible to find, and the caster could have buried it or dropped it into a pond by now. And even if they could find it, the spell would take an Adept to reverse the spell, and now it would drain the mage for weeks. No leylines meant that the mage would have to use his or her own personal power. There were no Adept mages at the castle, and there were none within a week's ride; Tremane would die by the end of the week from starvation. Their only option was to find and kill the caster– not an impossible task, but a daunting one; the caster was somewhere in Hardorn. The origin of the spell had to be within a five–furlong radius of the victim, and the second Tremane's soul had been kidnapped, a shield had clamped down about Hardorn, preventing escape by anyone, friend or foe. No one could get out, and no one could get in. It seemed that the Earth was working with them as well; three days ago the diameter of the shield had begun decreasing in size, passing over houses and living things. Tashiketh pral Skylshaen mentioned that he had heard of this phenomena once before in Ka'Ven'Ush'Ta, occuring in the very beginnings of Iftel, when a convicted murderer had fled the city with a sacred relic that was the equivalent of several of the largest Mage–Storm compacted into a small wave of power. If it were released, it would destroy everything in Iftel, fusing everything together in a burst of energy not unlike that of a lightning bolt hitting a patch of sand. It had chased the woman back to the city to face her fate, and she'd chosen to surrender herself and the object in exchange for living in a small cell for the rest of her life. Tashiketh said he hoped the effect would be the same here, forcing the perpetrator right back to the castle, hopefully in time for them to deal with the massing attack on the border. And hopefully in time for the King to be saved; it was impossible to take over Tremane's body and use it to make sure the King ate and drank– the only way would be if Tremane had a Companion or a Firecat that could use the bond between them, and the King of Hardorn- for all of the other miracles he'd achieved- had neither.
Rowen ducked under a low lintel and hurried down the hall to Julian's suite. He and the young Bard had made up a few hours after the fight and after Rowen had let off some steam against the practice dummies in the castle's salle, deserted now that many of the extra soldiers guarding the Castle had been sent to the Eastern border to join the forming army.
"I'm sorry," Julian gasped out from where he'd stumbled onto the new wooden floor of the salle.
"No, Julian," Rowen said, crossing the floor to where Julian was standing. "I should be sorry. You were tired and injured, and I just kept pushing you. I shouldn't have." Guilt washed through him as he stared down at Julian's drawn face, and a vision of the scars bleeding again flashed though his mind. Why couldn't he stop thinking about the Bard, even when he was somewhere completely unrelated to Julian or anything remotely resembling the other man?
"I was a brat." Julian smiled faintly even though the creasing of the skin on the scarred side of his face obviously hurt him.
"Let's just not do that again," they said in unison, then smiled nervously.
"Jinx," Julian said, and the smile on his face grew into a grin.
"Jinx?"
"Eh!" Julian tutted, waving a finger at Rowen. "You can't talk until I say your name ten times. Every time you say something, I have to say your name another time." He smiled mischievously, and Rowen knew he was joking. Even while the King lay dying, they could still find humor in small things.
He knocked on the oak door, and Julian's muffled voice sounded from inside. "Enter!"
Rowen pushed the door open to find the sitting room empty. He ducked through the doorframe and passed into the bedroom. Julian was on the floor in the middle of the suite, legs crossed, elbows propped on his knees. His hands were pointed away from his body, and his fingers were splayed in the OK sign. His right side was turned toward Rowen, and the tear–scar was unnaturally white. The Changechild couldn't help but stare.
"Julian... what are you doing?"
Color flooded into the Bard's face, contrasting oddly against the white of the scar, but to his credit he didn't budge. "Meditating," he said hesitantly. "One of the mages told me about it, and I decided to try to 'find' the King's soul."
Rowen kept himself from rolling his eyes. "Any luck?"
"None." The blind man sounded gloomy. "I've only been at it for a few hours, though. We have to get that caster back."
"A few hours? And you don't have a reaction-headache yet?"
"No," Julian said. "Ever since the Healers put the new shields on me and taught me that new shielding technique, I've been able to test the limits of my power. I honestly don't know how far it goes or how to use it, though. But... Rowen, it's almost like seeing again!" He sounded excited; he hadn't been very enthusiastic about anything lately, and Rowen was slightly worried. Julian was getting thinner and paler by the day. "I can't see what things look like, but I can kind of sense people and walls now. They've got a sort of glow of life-energy around them, and I haven't walked into anyone or anything once since my Gift expanded, not even while I was trying to find the salle on the day Tremane fell!"
"That's great, Julian!" Rowen said. He himself was still slightly afraid of his own power, and hadn't sought more training than necessary to be able to control it. Firestarting was a dangerous thing; the tale of Lavan Firestorm had migrated down to the Plains– he'd destroyed what was almost an entire army! And Shin'a'in feared fire like they feared no living thing. It was almost unheard of for one of the Plainspeople to have the Gift of Firestarting, mainly because they were such a peaceful people, except for those who became mercenaries and those who were Kal'enedral. But for the latter, was it possible that they had left the Plains because of the Gift? If it ever got out of control—
He knew the stories of grass–fires by heart. They swept across the dry Plains in summer, faster than a man or a horse could run, and there was no way to escape them except to cover yourself in a wet tent, bury yourself in the dirt and hope the fire passed over you without killing you. Rowen went a little cold when he tried to imagine one fueled by a Firestarter. Lavan had been able to burn wood even if it were wet or green; would a Firestarter–born fire pass over even a pond, or would it remain on the surface of the pond and steam and boil away the water until the bed was as dry and cracked as a desert? The Shin'a'in wouldn't have a chance.
Julian shifted a little. "Are you having any success with your Gift?"
"Er– no. I mean– I really haven't tried to do much."
The Bard seemed surprised. "Why?"
"I think– it's probably– at least in part– because Shin'a'in are leery of magic in general– only shamans are allowed to use it– and also because we're taught to be very, very careful around fire. On the Plains, it's a killer. And... I'm a warrior, Julian. I'm not one of your Heralds, and I prefer to fight with weapons I can see and hold, and that I can know– something I can understand or pull back. Even though I'm no Lavan Firestorm, this Gift is still fairly powerful, and I don't want to kill using it. You can pull the blow with a weapon; you can't stop from burning a person from the inside-out. I don't want anything to do with it, and I still don't know why I toasted Ormus. I didn't even know how to use the Gift–"
Julian interrupted him then, with a slightly panicky look on the side of his face that Rowen could see. "Oh, Masaan and I have discussed it, and we think that my Empathy triggered a sympathetic reaction in your Gift and it did the only thing it could do– burn."
x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X
Julian almost fell over with relief when he Felt that Rowen was buying the story. Rowen would never accept the truth– that the lifebond had triggered Rowen's Gift to burn Ormus into a smoldering pile of ash. Hence the lie. He felt the vague twinge of guilt at the untruth, but Rowen truly would never understand... Even in Valdemar most people were wary of anyone who was shaych– something that Julian couldn't understand. Why was it that 'normal' men always assumed that they were irresistible to a man who was shaych? Valdemar was said to be one of the most accepting countries known. So how could a Shin'a'in accept the bond between himself and another man? Julian bit his lip.
"Something wrong?" Rowen asked.
"No," Julian said quickly. He got to his feet. "Nothing is wrong. Do you want to go see if we can find some lunch?"
"Alright," Rowen said, suddenly aware that he was ravenous. They left the suite and took the direct route to the dining hall.
As they walked down the hallway, Rowen turned to his companion. "When do you think the caster will be back?"
"Soon, I think. I've just got that feeling."
"Woman's intuition?" Rowen teased.
"Yeah," Julian mumbled, turning his face away from Rowen.
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?" the Changechild repeated.
"I– yes," Julian said. "I'm just tired, that's all. Sometimes I just get this feeling of distress rushing towards me from far away, and I feel impending doom coming from overhead." (A/N: This would be a good time for a dead gryphon to come crashing through the ceiling...)
Great explanation, he thought dejectedly. Now he's going to think you're pessimistic and paranoid.
But all Rowen said was, "Oh."
The menu was fresh deer or pork for the gryphons; herb grass and vegetables sufficed for the dyheli and Companions. Chicken-something was available for the humans who cared to eat with those who were not. The courtiers and servants ate either the chicken dish or more refined meals in other, smaller rooms that were available if one did not wish to watch a gryphon bolt down still-bleeding chunks of meat. Rowen piled his plate high with grass and the chicken dish, and Julian selected a small chicken breast to pick at.
"Aren't you hungry?" Rowen asked when they found a table that was high enough for him to sit at without either hunching or kneeling.
"Not really," Julian mumbled once he'd managed to balance himself on the high stool across from Rowen. He truly wasn't. Hunger hadn't been much of a concern concern as of late– really, ever since he'd found out about the lifebond, he'd been eating less. He knew he'd lost weight, but he wasn't concerned about it. He could afford to lose a few pounds, and Rowen wouldn't notice, he told himself again with a pang of anxiety. Julian sighed. He was getting paranoid about the Shin'a'in, wasn't he?
They finished the meal without any more inquiries on Julian's appetite and left the hall, intending to visit Masaan on his lunch break and inquire about the status of the shrinking shield.
On their way down, though, Rowen stopped abruptly.
"What is it?" Julian asked, worried that the Changechild might have suddenly discovered the presence of the lifebond.
"Some of the guards on the walls are yelling for mages. Something about a horse with a rider running full-speed toward the castle. And– oh, sheka!" he exclaimed suddenly.
"What?"
Rowen started moving faster than before, this time in the direction of the castle entrance. Julian followed as fast as he could, relying on the Empathy to tell him when he was about to run into a wall.
"They say there's a rippling wall of what looks like thick air following the rider. It's the caster!"
x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X
Both men sped up and reached the front doors just as a phalanx of guards and mages did. There was some confusion as the massed group tried to get through the door, then they were all out in the sunwarmed air, proceeding to the second, lower wall that was between the main castle wall and the plains surrounding the castle. The mages were all conferring as they climbed the ladders leading to the top of the wall, Herald-Mage Shensa seeming to be the leader. She nodded at the rest of the mages, and they all arrayed themselves on the wall. Rowen pushed his way over to her. "What are you planning?" he called up from his place on the ground; ladders were not his friend.
"We're going to use what power we have to lift the horse off the ground. For all we know, the rider is a decoy and the caster is approaching from another direction or is even still here in the castle. The decoy could try to use the mage's version of a Final Strike while the caster kills Tremane. If he dies, we think the shield will, too. The whole Earth-taking ceremony deal."
"The King is guarded, right?" Julian asked from his position next to Shensa. His arms were braced on a block of stone and he seemed to be staring off into the distance.
Shensa nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes. There are gryphons, kyree, and the Shin'a'in Envoy."
Rowen felt relief wash over him. The Shin'a'in Envoy was also a Swordsworn. Nothing would get by the man, not even a Cold Blade.
He scanned the horizon, hoping to spot the rider. "Who initially saw the rider?"
"One of the gyrfalcons. She said he was a few leagues off, coming in from the East on a light–colored horse."
Rowen stared at the long plain that stretched away into the East. "That makes a good indication that he was fleeing toward the Empire," he said thoughtfully.
"We know."
He looked again and saw a small white dot moving at a pell-mell speed directly toward the castle and pointed it out to the others. "What kind of horse can keep up that kind of speed for so long?"
"Something from the Shin'a'in, maybe?" Shensa suggested cautiously.
"Perhaps. But we don't sell the horses to people that don't come to where we sell them, and there would have been rumors of Empire men coming in to buy horses."
"Who says that those who sold the horses weren't silenced?" Shensa said somberly.
He leveled a glance at her that clearly said, 'Don't even think that.'
The horse closed to within three furlongs of the castle, and Rowen could make out that the rider was wrapped in a concealing brown cloak. He could also see the shimmering wall of 'air' that followed the horse at a steady pace. It didn't look harmful, but it didn't look like it wasn't going to crush the rider if it had to.
"Mages!" Shensa cried. "On my mark, lift!"
The archer–guards trained their arrows on the fast–approaching form of the horse.
"One!"
The horse was two furlongs away.
"Two!"
One furlong.
"Three!"
The horse suddenly lifted off the ground by some invisible force. It squealed and pumped its legs furiously and kept moving toward the castle more slowly.
"That shouldn't be happening!" Shensa exclaimed. "Is someone pushing from the back?"
"No!" "Not me!" "Nope!" came the negative answers from the arranged mages.
"So then what?" Rowen wondered out loud.
The horse- now Rowen could see that it was a stallion– was within ten yards of the group of men and women on the low wall when it stopped and eyed the guards, mages and Rowen warily. Rowen couldn't seem to see its eyes very well, though. Was there some magic cloaking the horse and its rider?
Shensa made a down motion with her hand, and the mages let the stallion down gently. The rider was unmoving in the saddle, and Rowen wondered if he or she was unconscious.
The horse let out a loud snort, legs splayed and shaking. He raised a weary head to look Rowen in the eyes, and the Shin'a'in realized–belatedly– that its eyes were the bright blue of a summer sky on the Plains. A Companion?
Cautiously, one of the guards reached up and pulled the concealing cloak off of the figure atop the white stallion. When it came away, a large purple jewel came into view around the rider's small neck, glinting with a light that was not natural. Large violet eyes that matched the jewel stared in abject fear at Rowen, and a pouting mouth opened to cry.
Rowen decided that hitting his head against the nearest wall was a very enticing idea.
The caster was a four–year old boy.