Chapter Nineteen
On the road to the Black Hills
Halithe put her fork down slowly and held her breath as Ritathan and Aramal stared at one another for a long moment.
Forterran cleared his throat. “Master Aramal, I must ask you to excuse us. We’ve guild matters to discuss. You understand.”
“I trust him,” Ritathan blurted out. “He can stay—”
“No,” Aramal interrupted with a smile. “Every craft has its secrets. I’ll make myself useful with the horses.
” He placed his napkin on the table and rose.
“My thanks, Guildmaster, Mistress Obeda, for the meal and the welcome.” With that, he walked off to where the horses were being groomed and tended.
Forterran gestured and Halithe felt a tingle over her skin. An indistinct murmur of quiet voices rose around them.
“You trust this man you knew as a boy. That was how many years ago?” Forterran asked pointedly.
Ritathan’s lips narrowed to a thin line as he scooped up both key and ring and stuffed them away.
“Does he know you faked your own death?” Forterran pressed.
“Hasn’t really come up in conversation.” Ritathan lifted his chin and glared at Forterran.
“How did you do that?” Halithe leaned forward, letting her eagerness override itemsher manners. “I’ve wanted to know forever.”
“Later,” Ritathan said.
“And scrying?” Halithe looked at them all. “How does that work?”
“Later,” Ritathan snapped again.
“Ritathan,” Obeda scolded him. “It takes but a moment to teach that,” she said, wiping a spoon clean with her napkin.
“More ale,” Forterran signaled the staff.
“You can teach me to scry?” Halithe asked as the servers approached and started to clear the dishes.
Obeda laughed. “I’m afraid you will be disappointed. I can show you how it’s done, but you must teach yourself through practice.” She held up the spoon. “Stare into any reflective surface,” she said. “Focus your will on what you wish to see. Keep your breathing deep and regular.”
“That’s it?” Halithe asked, disappointment warring with rising excitement.
“That’s it.” Obeda handed her the spoon. “Now it’s practice, I’m afraid. You can use almost anything, eventually. A mirror, a bowl of water for beginners. Later, you can try to use non-reflective items, such as smoke or—”
“Fire,” Ritathan added.
Obeda rolled her eyes at him but nodded. “Your will determines what you see and to what depth. But be careful. Some see the present, a few see a future, and rare ones can see the past.”
A soft snort came from Ila. Halithe glanced at her but the older woman was still asleep, her chin on her chest, her breathing soft and slow. The servers took extra care not to disturb her.
“Mother’s heart is not strong,” Forterran muttered. “She tires easily.”
“And yet,” Ritathan gestured toward the tent where the portal was.
“She’s keeping the portal up? In her sleep?” Halithe asked.
“Yes,” Forterran said simply, but with clear pride.
One of the servers cleared her plate, and gestured to the spoon in her hand. Halithe hesitated.
“Keep it,” Obeda smiled. “To practice with.”
“Fire is better,” Ritathan grumbled as the servers refilled the drinks, and disappeared back into the tent.
Forterran drank deep, sighed, wiped the foam from his lip, and focused on Halithe. “Tell me again about the bond-cord.”
Halithe quickly swallowed her mouthful of ale, not expecting the question. “It stretched, thin and tight, all the way up the mountain.” She tried to be as detailed as possible. “Thin and taut, golden in color, with red drops that glistened like rubies.”
“Those red drops are the life blood of the sacrifice the spell required,” Forterran said grimly.
Halithe caught her breath, glancing at Ritathan, who was nodding in agreement. She felt sick at the idea. Her Caris, bound by…
Forterran was grim as he studied the foam on his half-empty glass. “I wish I knew what Satia is up to.”
“Don’t you have sources in the palace?” Obeda asked.
“I used to have a Chained Mage in the palace,” Forterran grumbled. “Who was a far better source of information than kitchen gossip and loose talk among the guards.” He glared at Ritathan.
Ritathan shrugged.
Forterran sighed and rubbed his chin. “So a marcus, with the aid of a vore, may have smuggled a newborn out of the camp and managed to take it to the Wastes, while being pursued by a Bondmaiden assassin.”
“What happens if the Bondmaiden dies?” Ritathan mused.
“I have no idea,” Forterran said. “But she’s not dead, is she? The cord wouldn’t just hang there if she were dead.” He looked off into the distance. “Almost as if it is waiting.”
“What does it mean?” Halithe said.
“I have no answers.” Foreterran sighed. “I’m not sure that even Satia knows what happens if a bond-slave dies.
” He rubbed his hand over his face again.
“Our Guild is in mourning. We spent a small fortune in black bunting to drape over all the gates, doors and windows of the Guild Hall. I pulled all of the Guild members and their apprentices into mourning ceremonies at the Tower.”
“Wish I could have attended.” Ritathan raised an eyebrow. “Who gave the eulogy? It wasn’t Normand, was it? Did Elsena weep?”
“They both wanted your Tower chambers,” Forterran said.
“In Edenrich?” Halithe asked.
“The Guild Hall is in Edenrich,” Foreterran said irritably. “The Tower is always found where it needs to be.” He looked keenly at Ritathan. “It would be safer for you both in the Tower.”
Ritathan stared over to where the horses were.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “I found my key, yes, but not the holder. Yet the contract remains in effect.” He nodded to himself.
“The last survivor of the Airion Blood is in the Black Hills. He might know more and perhaps he has contact with the marcusi.”
“Lord High Baron Orval?” Forterran shook his head. “Hard to say if he survived his ‘honors.’”
Ritathan fixed him with a glare. “He and his family might also need protection.”
Halithe lifted her glass and drank. She remembered Orval.
She’d been in the throne room when he and his lady had been invested with their titles.
That poor man, looking so pale, with that limp.
She frowned for a moment, thinking there’s been gossip about his lady too, something to do with their twins.
“I know you cared for Tithanna and Xykahn,” Foreterran said. “But don’t let your heart rule your head…or other parts of your body.”
Halithe choked on her drink. Obeda just rolled her eyes at her husband.
Ritathan drew himself up. “I am offended.”
“Lucky for you, I don’t care.” Foreterran rose. “Walk with me, Ritathan.”
Halithe watched them go.
“Bring tea, if you would,” Obeda called over her shoulder. “I want to rouse Ila.”
Halithe reached out to touch Ila’s hand, but Obeda stopped her. “No dear,” she said, shaking her head. “You never want to startle a mage awake.” She smiled. “Talk and tea will rouse her soon enough.”
A server brought a tea pot and cups on a tray and set them before to Obeda. As he walked back to the tent, Halithe leaned forward. “Might I ask you a question?”
“Of course.” Obeda smiled, pouring a steaming cup and placing it before Ila.
“I thought—” Halithe forced herself to take a breath. “I was told that using magic made one…sterile. That a woman who chose magic sacrificed everything for it.”
Obeda grew serious. “We let those outside the Guild believe that for good reason. The truth is that the use of our will to practice our arts does not render a woman sterile.” Obeda poured another cup and offered it to Halithe.
“But pregnancy changes a woman’s body, Halithe.
It also changes a woman’s focus.” She glanced at her husband.
“I am a mage, true enough, but I made a choice to have children and in doing so, I walked away from greater powers. Most women mages do not have children; for they place the desire for power over the desire for family. There is no right or wrong choice in this. It is up to each woman who enters the Guild.”
“But Ila,” Halithe gestured. “She’s—”
“Incredible,” Obeda smiled. “Incredibly gifted in the use of portals, and incredibly vicious with destructive magics, especially once she had grandchildren. But those powers didn’t come easy and she didn’t develop them until after Forterran came of age.
” Obeda leaned in. “In time, you will make your own choices. For now, use the babysbane I gave you, and let me know if you need more.”
Choices? Halithe blinked as a pressure rose from her chest. She could make choices? People…and the vore…kept telling her that, and she wanted so much to believe it. But her life, so far, argued against it.
“Your name,” Halithe blurted out. “You were supposed to be—”
“Obedient? Yes.” Obeda gave her a steady look. “I wasn’t.” She settled back and tapped her spoon on the edge of her teacup.
Ila gave a little snort, lifted her head, and opened her eyes. “Tea? How nice.”
Forterran led Ritathan down a small path to a stream that ran nearby.
“We don’t have to go this far,” Ritathan grumbled as he slapped a bug off his sleeve.
Foreterran sighed. “Ritathan, I hate to say this, but the longer Satia is on the throne and the more she rewards her supporters, the more her strength grows. It’s against my better judgement to portal you to the Black Hills.
The new Lord High Baron and his wife might already be dead for all we know, lying in a ditch with their throats cut.
The Black Hills are filled with men and women who have lived hard lives and hold no love for the Blood of Xy. ”
“Which was why Satia sent him there,” Ritathan’s voice was cold and hard. “And you aided her.”