CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cresting the top of the hill, Deckard surveyed his home.
Ephria City sprawled across the valley by the sea, looking just as they’d left it eighty-six days ago.
The early evening sun glittered across the water.
Farmsteads dotted the land in small pockets around the city like the sheep of Estshire, while tightly packed buildings filled the walls’ interior to overflowing.
“I guess you were right,” Thom admitted somberly, pulling up beside Deckard on the hilltop. “It took us eleven days to get here.”
“This is one time I don’t welcome congratulations,” Deckard said with a sigh. “We didn’t account for the divergence of the tunnel. If we could have cut straight across the border—”
“We couldn’t.” Thom met his gaze. “You know that, right? This isn’t a failure on your part. If we had tried the more direct route, we would have wound up dying at the border.”
Deckard nodded but couldn’t accept that truth. “What if Blount has already come and gone?” he asked quietly.
“Then we’ll find another way,” Thom said confidently.
Appreciative of his brother’s encouragement, Deckard clapped him on the shoulder, then spurred his horse into a gentle trot. At the head of their troop, he and Thom guided them toward the city’s gates far below. He kept his back straight, working not to betray his worries.
Over the past eleven days of travel, Deckard’s apprehension of their plan hadn’t waned. It was clever, and it was potentially perfect. But there were too many opportunities for failure; too much could go wrong. One slipup, and they handed yet another Relic over to Blount.
Nudging the band of his moonstone ring, Deckard worked to maintain his casual manner.
He’d gotten better at controlling his emotions, keeping them subdued enough not to disturb Evylin.
It wasn’t that he intended to keep things from her.
It was simply frustrating, having her deduce his feelings before he’d even had the chance to process them himself.
And he had lots to process these days. His opinion on the Alliance, his fears over their mission, and the development of his powers.
All of them scratched at the back of his brain like a hound seeking its bone.
As if Auden and Isla’s concerns about his ability to control his magic weren’t enough, Deckard was struggling to find time for the books Obel had sent with him too.
Of the four, he’d only had the time to truly study one.
Granted, that one had already taught him a great deal about the basics of Space magic, giving him a rudimentary understanding of the resource he wielded.
Space was beyond anything Deckard had anticipated. The magic could create and destroy. It could alter the very fabric of the world, should a Mage connect with it deeply enough. However, the practical applications of those things were still a mystery to him.
Obel had insisted Deckard start with the book, The Immense and Infinitesimal Expanse of the Heavens, as it was a primer of a sort—if you could consider a seven-hundred-page tome a primer.
While the other two books on Space magic appeared more useful at a glance—their pages filled with discussions of magical application and use—Deckard stuck to Obel’s instruction, learning about the foundation for his connection to Space and building his relationship with the resource through the Path of Vieran.
But the fourth book haunted Deckard’s thoughts the most.
The thin text provided a basic education on the appropriate methods for summoning and releasing ghosts. When Deckard had asked if there was a chance he might fail in releasing Hewitt’s ghost, Obel laughed as though he’d asked the most ignorant question in Terraeus.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re not good at Night magic, to begin with, and if you don’t read that book, there’s a chance you’ll wind up tethering him to the grave or the forest around it rather than his body and leave him to wander aimlessly for eternity.”
The suggestion left Deckard anxious. There were too many chances for Hewitt’s release to go wrong.
Obel made it clear that if Deckard harbored any hesitancy about releasing the ghost, then the attempt was likely to fail.
And Deckard could readily admit that he felt more than a little hesitation.
He didn’t want to release Hewitt for his own sake, having grown close to the man over the past few months.
But more than that, he knew truly losing her uncle once and for all would cause Evylin further pain.
Their shared reluctance lingering in the back of his mind, Deckard grew increasingly worried that his attempt wouldn’t work.
He feared that he’d end up locking Hewitt in limbo, his soul trapped in a state of perpetual wandering.
That thought was nearly as frightening as the idea that they’d fail to defeat Blount.
As they neared Ephria City’s gates, Vayden, Isla, and Brea split away from the rest of the troop, as they’d discussed the previous evening.
Since they needed to maintain their cover with King Ephren, they had to return as they’d left, sans Hewitt.
It wouldn’t do for the king to become suspicious of them or question their extra party members.
So the Alliance trio would ride into the city on their own and meet the troop at Deckard and Evylin’s house.
Meanwhile, as Order of the King members, the seven of them would report to the barracks as would be expected.
The towering gray stone walls of Ephria City loomed above them, and Deckard straightened as they approached the expansive, open gate.
Guards were positioned at the entrance, casually observing the activity around them, a stark contrast to their time in Wauld.
They felt no fear in approaching the guards, nor did they hesitate as they clomped onto the city streets.
Evylin pulled up alongside Deckard, a bright smile on her lips. “The last time we arrived,” she said merrily, “you made sure to be at my side. This time, I won’t miss the chance to be by yours.”
Deckard’s taut muscles eased at the cascade of warm feelings emanating from her. “How different things were then,” he said and reached over to take her hand. “We’re wholly new people.”
“And yet,” she squeezed his fingers in hers, “we are the same as ever. Just together.”
“Together,” he confirmed.
Under the massive gate, they passed into Ephria City.
Its bustling interior was just as he’d remembered.
People hurried through the streets, the clatter of hooves and cart wheels ricocheting off the stone buildings.
Street merchants hawked their wares while clerks hurried to and fro with their missives and paperwork.
Here, by the entrance to the city, the houses were smaller and more spaced out.
As they neared the heart, they’d grow closer together, often interconnected, like a dense forest of stone.
Deckard had been raised as a farm boy, but he’d never felt quite at home in the countryside. It was beautiful, and he’d loved his childhood. But it wasn’t until he came to Loclight as a soldier that he truly found his home.
Though his assignments often kept him from the city, Deckard had jumped at every opportunity to be stationed there.
When he was a sergeant, he’d had his longest stint within Loclight, as the locals called it.
A few years later, he’d earned the rank of lieutenant and a house to go with it.
To his great disappointment, he spent far less time in the city than he liked, and the house had remained practically vacant throughout his entire ownership.
Taking the familiar path to the barracks, Deckard’s thoughts drifted.
Could his wandering lifestyle change after they completed their mission for the Alliance?
If Evylin and Thom were right and his fears were unfounded, could he and Evylin retire to Loclight and live out their days in their home the way he’d always hoped?
Would she be happy with such a meager existence? Would he?
Through the cobbled streets of the Military District, the troop returned to the very spot they’d departed from more than two months ago.
They passed through the gate to the barracks and into its large courtyard.
A smattering of soldiers trained on the far side, while others strode about their work.
The stable hands and soldiers manning the gates all gaped at them, recognizing the Calder siblings with hair like fire and the first female soldier, Private Evylin Deckard, who was now evidently a legend among the ranks.
Suppressing his amused smile, Deckard dismounted and took charge as a good officer should. He ordered their horses to be cared for and sent Thom, Ethenn, and Rafferty with them to gather their saddlebags and supplies. Then he scanned the courtyard, finding the nearest officer.
“Lieutenant,” he called, stepping forward.
The man, on course for the barracks stairs, came to a stuttering stop. Short and stocky with deep brown skin and thick curly hair, he was no doubt from the lower Shires. He scanned Deckard upon his approach, likely looking for an insignia of rank. “May I help you, sir?” he asked, not finding one.
Deckard pulled their folded orders from his inner coat pocket and held them out to the lieutenant. “Good afternoon, I’m Colonel Deckard of the Order of the King,” he explained, doing his best not to take undue pride in the officious title.
The man blanched, his eyes flickering from the page to Deckard’s face and back. “Blimey,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. He bowed and offered the orders back. “Lieutenant Silvaa at your service, Colonel. How may I help?”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Deckard said. “My troop and I have returned to the city for a short reprieve from our mission for the king. We can’t stay long, but I need to get word to His Majesty so that we may debrief with him during our short stay.
Could you see to it that a page is sent with word to the palace? ”