Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DRYSTAN
King Saros’s high priest is alive and in my custody. I’ll come to you when I know more.
Drystan – Western Sultira
Iwiped my nose on my tunic. The dry, loamy scent of horse hooves lingered in my nostrils, causing them to drip. Two hours had passed, as I marked the inches of sunlight traveling beyond the small chip I’d made on the trunk of the fragrant pine tree. Ezrich and Windsor had yet to return.
I wandered back into the small cabin after tending to the horses, and I scanned the living space.
I peered through the open door to the small bedroom in the back, the fractured forest light spearing through the open window and cutting a sharp line across the long wooden panels.
My eyes caught on the third panel in, a slightly lighter shade, and I remembered my own words from months ago.
Don’t let curiosity get the best of you…
My thoughts sprang to Lyvia, my nosy friend, always ignoring her, or rather my, better judgment and giving in to the impulse to snoop.
My chest constricted at the thought of her.
Was she all right? We’d had no word of her or the others after Mount Telum had turned into a massive nullifier.
She had looked so shocked when we appeared in that cave…
and then that scream… Had something happened to them?
What was that archway in the center of the cave?
Why had it felt like something terrible was about to happen?
Guilt scraped my insides. We’d left. I’d just left her…
My fingers buzzed with anticipation. We had to find the edge of the rubelline zone. Not only to determine how far the magic nullifying power extended, but also so that I could return to her and the others. So I could ensure they were all right…
I turned back to the kitchen, doing my best to shake off the twisting grip of shame and ignore the growing urge to peek around in the old man’s room.
My blade sat sheathed, leaning against the wall near my pack in the corner.
I’d cleaned it last night, but it couldn’t hurt to sharpen it once more before we hit the road again.
I dug for the whetting stone I’d been using, shuffling my things around and cursing as I came up empty. Had Ezrich taken it?
I strode across the room to where his things sat, passing the open door to Windsor’s chambers once more and pausing. My attention cut to the faded panel, noting the wear marks on its outer edges.
Leave it be, I reminded myself. Any normal person would have a space to hide their valuables. You are not a criminal. There is no need to look.
I rubbed my fingers together. A nagging feeling swept through me, an itch I couldn’t scratch.
An instinctual awareness that arose when danger was near.
I’d had it almost my entire life, that unnerving sense that arrived just before the threat made itself known.
It came before the blow, before the anger.
I’d felt it for the first time when I was a small boy in Krestwood. The first time I realized I had ears that didn’t work. My gut flipped at the memory, at the pain that followed because I had yet to learn to listen to that feeling.
Godsdammit.
I pulled my gaze away and strode quickly to the front door, swinging the curtains wide.
The late morning sunshine draped a wide blanket of light across the dingy floor and up the opposite wall.
I’d need a signal, a little warning, in case Windsor or Ezrich returned.
Peeking behind me once more to ensure I was still alone, I crept into the old man’s quarters.
What was wrong with me?
The answer to that was clear. I’d spent too much time with rebels, elves, and pirates. My mouth twitched, and a painful ache ebbed in my chest as Isla’s face popped into my mind.
I angled myself to the side, keeping an eye on the light coming in through the door window, while my fingers slid along the edges of the wooden panel. I followed the wear marks and pressed gently until a click vibrated through the pads of my fingers, and the wooden panel popped.
The panel slid out, and I lowered it gently to the floor before reaching into the concealed space.
I felt around and pulled out a sheathed dagger before grasping a glass bottle.
I frowned and adjusted my spectacles as I examined the label…
Celosia powder was meant for raising individuals to consciousness. What would he need this for?
I set it down, pulling out a few more unmarked bottles. Their contents were dark and coagulated. I reached in once more, and my hand paused as it hit parchment. Keeping my eyes on the light in the other room, I removed the scroll.
A fresh wave of awe washed over me as I ran my fingers over the ancient, caramel parchment. Now, where did the old man find this?
I pulled a rag from my pocket and quickly scrubbed the grime and natural oils from my skin before gently unraveling the scroll. My heart quickened as an elaborate drawing of swirls and symbols unfolded before me.
Whorls of ink swirled through a large circle and two straight lines that cut through an eight-pointed star in the center.
I squinted at the fine lines jutting out from the edge of the circle, like hundreds of razor-thin spokes on a wheel.
My eyes swiveled from the scroll to the light beyond the room.
My heart picked up its pace as I did my best to examine the ancient parchment and watch for Windsor or Ezrich’s return.
Text lined the page in a language I couldn’t read, written in the same red-black ink of the illustrations.
I shook my head, pursing my lips as I tried to understand what I was looking at.
Darker script was scratched in the common tongue at the bottom, the ink brighter, the lines crisper.
A disgusted scoff left my lips as I realized someone had written this recently.
Years of handling ancient documents and artifacts had taught me enough about the proper handling of materials this old.
I repeated the words in my mind in hopes they would make sense and I wouldn’t forget them:
Elevation to the threads. Intimate connection to the gods. Sacrifice. Final gate.
I inspected the whorls weaving through the illustration. Was this an illustration of threadsight? Why would Windsor have this? He’d given no indication of his knowledge of the lost arts, but there were many in Sultira who’d discovered it anyway, despite King Saros erasing magic from history.
I glanced once again at the light in the next room as I carefully rolled up the scroll, burning the image in my mind with repetitive practice, a skill I’d used during my studies with the Death Scholars. As I slid the objects back into the compartment, my fingers brushed against smooth leather.
My hand gripped the old binding of a concealed book, and I pulled it free, my gut tightening in angst as the countdown to Windsor’s return neared zero. I flipped open the journal, scanning the pages and dates, trying to identify who it belonged to.
The journal was familiar. The dark brown leather and celestial etchings on the cover were the exact same as those used by the scholars at the Temple of the Sky in Aedrialis.
The pages blew a dry, yet loamy puff of air in my face as I riffled through it, skipping through months until I paused at a long list.
My mouth went dry as I read one of the descriptions:
#87: Female, age 43. Signs of distress when Obscura Stone placed in close proximity. Shrieks upon direct contact. Able to maintain coherent conversation for approximately 3 minutes before her mind broke.
I scanned the date and location at the top of the page, and my stomach threatened to drop out of my ass.
77th of Winter, 071.3E. Stynguard.
Nightmares I fought to forget lunged forward as phantom leather restraints pressed against my wrists and ankles.
I blinked against the encroaching tunnel vision, my head lightening in a soft fog.
A rush of panicked tremors raced through my hands, and I hastily snapped the journal shut and shoved it back into the hidden compartment.
My eyes locked onto the light filtering in the other room as I slid the wooden panel over the top, feeling for the vibrating click once it was secured.
My heart banged against my ribs, and as I strode out of Windsor’s room and back into the small living area, the light moved. A small shadow stretched across the wall before the door to the cabin swung open. Windsor shuffled inside, his long white hair swaying.
My feet stopped moving, and my eyes snapped to the dagger resting on top of my pack before darting back to the eerie, opaque blue of the old man’s irises. The lines along his lips deepened, and his mouth cracked into a slight smile as he took me in.
A quiet rage sparked behind the wall my power pounded against, and I forced my face to relax as I offered the monster across the room a feigned smile. The monster lurking in the back of the lecture hall of my dream. The monster who had tortured me for months in Stynguard.
High Priest Helmar.