10. Evander
Evander
I watch as the sun slips behind the ominous black mountains, the last of the golden light fading fast. We’ve barely made it to the edge of the rebel camp before darkness starts to drown the world around us.
And it’s a good thing we made it—the last thing we need after today is to be defending these people again from wolves and bears, or whatever else lurks in the woods beyond our camp.
Quinn has gone ahead to speak with a few of the rebels, to ask for assistance with supplies and helping the villagers while I make sure everyone gets fully into the camp and the horses are stabled for the night.
On the ride back, we discussed where to lodge them before speaking with Helara, thinking that if we had a plan, maybe she would be less irritated with my insistence to bring them along.
The temple seemed like the best option. Given the feelings toward the priests and high priestess in the rebel camp, the temple sits unused, no one daring to step foot in it on principle.
It’s a substantial building, constructed by the old inhabitants as a show of their allegiance to the king, fake as it was.
It now sits rotting away. The symbol of Vaohr had been torn from the front of it long before I arrived here.
Probably one of the first things they did.
Tomorrow, Helara could determine where she wants the refugees to go.
We have plenty of homes and cottages with space to spare and a few that remain open completely.
But tonight, at least they will have warmth and a roof over their heads.
The town that we’ve taken on as the northern camp was nearly abandoned when Helara arrived years ago after the Uprising, the first revolt against the king.
The few remaining inhabitants were gifted, and she moved them to the rebel camp in the south once Bria came to live here.
Those people had been left behind by their families and friends who took off for fear of retribution, fear of what would be done to them if the Crown found out they were associating with magic.
Living beside them. Breeding with them. My jaw tenses at the thought of anyone thinking those with magic in their blood are worth less. Cowards.
We traveled back with about fifty people tonight, at least a dozen of them children.
Thankfully, none of the children were lost during that ambush.
Before leaving their small town, Quinn and I tried to give them a short time to grab necessities, but we hadn’t dared linger too long.
Mostly they’d gathered clothing, blankets, and some food—nothing more than what they could carry on their backs.
It took us only a few hours to get to the village this morning, but the trek back was tedious.
Having only ten horses in their village, most of them walked, letting the children ride to keep pace. It took us hours longer.
Tomorrow will begin a whole new life for these people.
Once most of the newcomers are settled, I seek out the thin man and his son.
Ronan and Silas. I made it a point to learn their names along the way and hear what happened to them to provoke the attack.
Silas had ventured from the village a few mornings prior, planning to hunt before dawn fully set in.
Instead, he found himself squaring up against a bear.
A big one, from the sound of it. Fear got the better of him, igniting that white fire in his veins, and his power erupted in that searing flash of otherworldly light.
Little did Silas know, a scout was nearby and witnessed the explosion of energy, the release of fear from his body.
Silas was embarrassed when he told the story, feeling like a foolish boy, but I knew better than to accept that.
He couldn’t be blamed for what happened only a year into learning to control his magic.
I knew enough from my mother and Bria to understand the impact that emotions like fear could have on a person’s magic.
Their family was safe now, nestled into the temple along with the two younger girls born to Ronan and his wife Tessa.
Time would tell if the fifteen and seventeen-year-old girls would emanate the same power held by their older brother.
Perhaps they would have different gifts, or none at all.
Ronan claims to have no power but his family once did.
Only dormant magic resides in his veins, like my own.
Tessa either has none or she is an expert at hiding it—no flames licked the edges of her irises.
Now, Silas and Ronan are coming with us to face Helara.
Quinn and I lead the way back to the inn to meet the captain of the rebels.
We were supposed to have returned hours ago but given our entourage, we are much later than she’s expecting.
She will be wondering where her missing commanders are and may already be in a sour mood because of it.
I’m hoping that returning with Silas, and possibly two sisters who may have magic, could help ease the annoyance Helara is sure to exhibit with my break in protocol.
There’s no time to go back to our rooms and wash the now caked and flaking blood from our skin.
No time to examine the wound that sears along my arm, the pain biting into the flesh whenever I move it.
There’s still time to clean and bandage the carved flesh before the sick of infection sets in and the grain alcohol in the kitchen will do just fine for that purpose.
I make a mental note to go there after we speak with the captain, though I wince at the thought of it. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.
We stride into the inn, the main room eerily quiet, a single sconce still lit and flickering.
The room opens to a dining area on the left where we take most of our meals, filled with large tables of dark wood.
The hall ahead leads to a parlor and the kitchen area.
Beyond that lay the rooms of the rebels who work the inn.
To the right of me is a closed door, the meeting room sitting on the other side of the solid oak.
I let out a curse when I observe the closed door and the quiet air that’s thick around us.
The meeting is already underway, and we will be walking in late.
Meaning all attention is bound to be on us.
Quinn’s eyes dart to me, narrowing before he stalks forward and pushes open the door.
Light from within pours out into the dark main room, framing me in the doorway.
Me, with a face flecked in blood, the clotting wound on my arm evident to all who look. And they all look.
The interior of the room is brightly lit.
Bronze sconces line the walls and a pleasant fire burns in the corner of the room.
The windows on the other side are drawn in dark curtains.
All but two of the high-backed black chairs are filled along the long table in the center of the room.
The faces filling those chairs stare back at me in shock, necks craning to get a good look at us before turning—almost in unison, as if all pulled by some invisible rope—to look toward Helara.
She’s staring at Quinn, his dark features somehow made deeper from the dried crimson on his skin.
Her eyes then slice to mine, taking in the state of our clothing and skin, the exhaustion that plagues our features.
I watch as she takes note of the men from the village.
Silas and Ronan remain a step behind and to either side, flanking me.
The captain quickly folds her hands in front of her, adjusting and stacking her spine to the regal posture we expect of her.
The leader of the rebels.
“Commander Foster, Commander Lansing.” She nods in acknowledgment to Quinn and me respectively without making a single comment on our tardiness or appearance.
Quinn steps forward at the greeting, his stance wide and balanced, shoulders and back broad, hands clasped behind his back as he launches into the story.
“Captain Hartgrove, our apologies—”
Helara holds up a hand, quickly cutting Quinn off before he can make any excuses. “Tell me what happened Foster.”
Quinn clears his throat, “We arrived in the small village this morning on your patrol orders when we happened upon a band of soldiers mid-attack.” Helara’s gaze doesn’t stray as he recaps our morning.
Quinn continues, depicting the events of the day with military precision, brief and to the point, giving salient details and covering the rest succinctly.
She shows no flicker of emotion when he describes the blinding white light that seared a hole in a man.
As Quinn finishes, he dips his head and steps back in line with me, one hand now resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Well?” she questions, shifting her focus to me.
Fuck.
I take a step forward as Quinn had, adopting the same confident and wide stance.
“Had we left them, more would have come. The scouts reported Silas to the Crown days ago, having seen what he was capable of.” I pause before continuing, “Captain Hartgrove, he’s only nineteen, he’s barely more than a child, just having come into his gifts. ”
Silas scoffs behind me as the comment hangs in the air. That little shit needs to control his ego . I ignore him and carry on. “We have them set up in the temple for tonight, I hope that is alright.”
“It’s a little late to be asking me Lansing,” she pauses and takes a deep breath. “Very well.” She’s not pleased with me, definitely not thrilled that I so brazenly overstepped in my decision today. But Helara knows my history with the Crown, and she understands my reasoning more than most.
After all, she is the rebel savior. At least that’s what the rest of Azudora calls her.
She’s managed to extricate and protect so many from certain death over the years since the Uprising.
Her anger toward me likely won’t last more than a few days and she’s keeping her cool right now in front of the other commanders instead of laying into me.
I figure it’s mostly because of Silas and Ronan’s presence, but I’m grateful for it either way.
And once she sees what the boy can do, she won’t be angry at me any longer.
“You’re all dismissed.” She waves a hand at the rest of the seated commanders, and they rise to leave the room, casting irritated glances at Quinn and I as they go.
“You two need to clean up. And tend to that wound, Commander Lansing.” Helara’s voice is stern as she points to my arm. “You will both come see me at breakfast and we can finish debriefing then.”
Helara looks to Ronan and Silas next as she pushes the high-backed chair from the table, rising to her full height, her hair coiled in the usual charcoal topknot.
“Welcome to our northern camp. I will escort you both back to the temple. Tomorrow we can discuss more of what your time here will look like, what will be expected of you and your people. But tonight, you will all be needing some rest after the day you’ve had.
” Her smile is pleasant and genuine as she addresses the men.
Quinn and I step to the side, allowing our captain to take her leave with the villagers. Ronan clasps each of our hands as he passes, murmuring soft words of gratitude. Silas remains wordless, his blue eyes smoldering, but nods with a sneer across his face as he follows his father out of the room.
He’s still vexed by my comment—calling him a child—I assume. The boy exudes a cockiness and naivety that I have no time for. His father seems like a good man, a solid person who will be an asset here in the camp. But I have a sinking feeling Silas is going to be a pain in my ass.