Chapter 55
Placing one hand on the roof for stability, Ian swung his lower body over the edge, then dropped to the ground below as quietly as he could.
Scaling the castle wall with the biters had proved to be a simple—albeit physically taxing—task. He and Lane had made it to the top of the wall as planned and, between the two of them, had easily hauled Robin up after them.
The back courtyard was relatively empty; fortunately, everyone’s focus was on the commotion happening in front of the castle. No one looked up to see them on the roof of the barracks. Or into the shadowy corner where Ian had dropped to the ground.
Reaching back up, he caught Robin’s waist as she jumped down beside him. He was attempting to help break her fall, though she managed the jump gracefully on her own.
“It is my arm that is injured, not my leg,” she whispered in his ear, leaning in close to him as she stood back up from her landing.
“You are welcome for saving you from an additional leg injury, then,” Ian whispered back, reluctantly dropping his hands from her waist.
Lane landed beside them a moment later. Ian waited for a moment when the courtyard was empty, then led them to the old eastern hall that had become the unofficial meeting place for any conversation the royal family wanted to have away from prying eyes.
Ian pushed open the door to the hall and led them to the left, going up the spiral stairs of the tower.
They had no guarantee that Ashlin would be in the turret room, but based on Mistress Cedrice’s words, she had been up here all night and day using the magically restored needle to work on the tapestry.
The door at the top of the staircase was closed, and Ian rapped gently against the wood before he slowly pushed it open.
Ashlin stood on the far side of the room behind a large makeshift table, the tapestry spread out before her. Holding up the iron needle like a sword, she appeared poised and ready to attack.
She visibly relaxed when she recognized him. “Ian!”
After setting down the needle—which was attached to the tapestry by a long thread—she practically ran around the table.
Ian caught her in a crushing hug. He hid his face against the top of her head for a brief moment as he let his relief flood through him. He had been so aware of the danger his family was in during every moment they spent at the castle with Gareth there. Ashlin was still here.
“You are well?” she asked, pulling back from the hug to study his face. “Onric said there was a battle? But Zimri will not tell him what happened.”
“You are well?” Ian asked the same words in return, letting his eyes run over her to ensure that she was not in any way harmed. “There was a battle. Gareth did not slaughter the Majis. Yet.”
Ashlin moved past Ian and threw her arms around Robin. “You are hurt!?” she cried, gently touching Robin’s shoulder above the sling.
“I am well,” Robin replied, pulling Ashlin back in for a hug with her good arm.
Ashlin returned the hug before turning to Lane. “Lord Efta?” A real smile came to her face as she looked between him and Robin. “You are part of River’s Talon? I never would have guessed!”
Lane bowed the dramatic bow of a nobleman. “A lowly nobleman’s second son who wastes his coin on taverns and travel? What better disguise?”
“Well done,” Ashlin said. “It is good to see you again.”
“The honor is all mine,” Lane said.
Ian glanced between them. He had noticed something familiar about Lane when they’d first met, but he had never asked for the man’s family name.
He shook his head to himself. But he had no time to admire Robin and her extensive network at the moment, as much as he wanted to.
He looked to Ashlin. “You have news for us?”
Ashlin immediately turned and led them back to the tapestry. “The needle worked,” she said. “I was able to restore elements on several panels, and I think I have deciphered some of what really happened one thousand seasons ago. The story is all right here, woven into this tapestry.”
Ian stepped up beside her, looking down at the beautiful, if ancient, piece of art.
The panel in front of him depicted a group of tall figures standing together in a circle.
Their hands were outstretched toward a smaller figure at the center.
The colors were soft greens and warm yellows that created a deeply inviting image.
The smaller figure appeared to be in pain, hunched forward and broken, but the circle of tall figures—whom Ian guessed were Majis—created a sheltering barrier around the small one.
Their mouths appeared to be open, as though singing.
In the elaborately detailed framing around the panel, a small figure stood restored in each corner.
“The Majis were not the oppressors, as we already found out,” Ashlin explained, moving to the end of the table and unrolling another length of the long tapestry.
“They were the original rulers of Iseldis, and they used the magic of harmony to heal, grow, and maintain peace.” She smoothed her hand across the ancient threads, her practiced fingers careful and reverent.
“But I kept asking myself—if the Majis were so powerful, how were they overpowered and sent into exile?”
She pointed to the next scene on the panel she had just unrolled.
Tall, hooded figures moved through a battlefield, their hands raised in sharp, angular gestures.
They held no weapons, but stitches of dark purple and red thread connected their hands to the shorter soldiers on the battlefield.
The jagged lines seemed to tear at the fabric itself, reminding Ian of the zaps of lightning he had seen play off the chaos magic on the ships.
From the image alone, Ian could not tell if the chaos magic users were drawing the chaos into themselves from the battle, or if they were the ones causing the battle itself.
Not that it mattered—they knew chaos magic worked both ways.
Ashlin continued describing what she had discovered. “It seems that certain nobles discovered they could distort the harmony magic, turning it inside itself to exert other forms of control.”
The next scene was instantly familiar. It was a repeat of the green-and-yellow image, with the Majis wielding their harmony over the broken figure again.
Only in this new panel, the hooded figures stood above the Majis, sending their lines of chaos magic down between them and attacking—or draining—the smallest figure in the center.
“The chaos wielders used this new form of magic to destroy the Majis from within, separating the harmony users from each other to break down the combined power of their magic. In exiling and silencing the Majis, the chaos users ensured that the chaos would always be more powerful.”
Ian looked at the ancient scenes, trying to parse each one to understand the full weight of what Ashlin was saying.
The history he had grown up with—that the Majis were dangerous sorcerers and the exile was a necessary act of protection—had been a lie so deeply woven into the fabric of their kingdom that no one had thought to question it, even though Ashlin had pointed out the question that should have been so obvious.
If the Majis were so powerful, how were they overpowered and sent into exile?
“But the real truth that they wanted to hide,” Ashlin continued, “is that harmony truly is more powerful than chaos.”
“Harmony is the one thing that can negate chaos,” Robin said.
Ashlin nodded. “But the weakness of harmony magic is that it is amplified by the number of people who are in harmony together. If one person wanted complete control, he could amass a large store of chaos magic . . .”
“And no longer need to work with anyone to grow in power,” Ian finished for her.
He stared at the tapestry, reaching down to carefully trace the lines of chaos magic that divided the Majis.
“Gareth continues to be deceptively brilliant,” he said.
“We knew he was sowing fear, but he has also been slowly breaking us down, trying to separate us. Every attempt he has made to kill me and Erich and Father—it was him doing this.” He pointed to the tapestry.
Ian looked back up at Ashlin. “My father?”
“Still lives,” she replied, her face taut. “But he is getting worse. His breathing is shallow and grew labored last night. The physicians are concerned but can still do nothing for him.”
Ian nodded. “Gareth is draining him somehow. Where is Onric?”
“In the council room,” Ashlin replied. “Gareth has placed Zimri in charge of the castle defense and has been keeping Onric busy with unimportant work.”
“And that makes him inaccessible to us without us running into Gareth,” Ian said, looking to Robin.
“What do you need?” Ashlin asked.
“It is time to take back the castle,” Ian said, dropping his voice to be barely audible though no one else was in the room. “Sol is in the forest with an army of Majis. I am here to open the gates.”
Ashlin’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “You are here to bring the fight inside the castle?”
Ian nodded. “I did not want to bring death inside of our home, but Gareth has brought it here regardless. This is our only chance to surprise him and force him to reveal his true self to the people.”
Ashlin nodded in understanding, but her eyes were still pained.
“I need Onric to be ready to signal the loyal guards when I open the gate,” Ian said. “Can you reach him?”
“I will try,” Ashlin said. “We have avoided each other entirely here so that Gareth will not discover our connection. But I think we are beyond the point where that safety matters.”
“I am sorry,” Ian said.
“It is necessary,” Ashlin stated. “If Onric is not there to give the signal, then we risk more lives.”
“Thank you,” Ian said. “Be safe. Or your father—and my brother—will have my head.”
Ashlin sent him a small smile. “Same to you.”
Ian turned to Robin and Lane. “Now we just need to find a way to open that gate.”
“Easy,” Robin said, turning to the door.