CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Rocks jolted the wagon wheels, sending spikes of pain up Deckard’s spine.
The attackers left him conscious after he agreed to come willingly.
Though everything in him wanted to fight, with Evylin bound and passed out, and his bone-deep exhaustion after the Keep, he knew there was no use.
Beyond that, he didn’t know what would happen to his disguise of the Night Relic if he weren’t awake to stay connected to the magic.
He couldn’t risk them knocking him out, too, so he complied.
However, the men had gagged him and then prodded him along while one of their other comrades flung Evylin’s prone form over his shoulder.
One of the riders oversaw the others from horseback.
Deckard marked him as their leader. In the darkness of night, his visage was obscured, but his bearing was confident, and his orders were immediately heeded.
They brought Deckard and Evylin back to the camp where they’d kept their horses, prepared to ride out of Vaura Reach.
Dozens of men milled around a large prison wagon, iron bars affixed to the wooden bed.
The Ephrian soldiers and the Calders were all bound within its confines, though they hadn’t bothered to gag the Mages, their eyes glazed over from the effects of viastasis.
Their captors were well-armed and well-managed.
A small pile of bodies lay to the side, the victims carried back from Evylin’s defense.
Deckard didn’t know how they’d missed the presence of this band.
They’d been thorough in their search of the Keep’s grounds, wary of ambush.
Yet, they’d seen no sign of them at all.
There didn’t appear to be any magical individuals among their ranks.
Did that mean they were mercenaries? Had they come to cash in on the writ?
“She’s the Warrior.” The writ hadn’t mentioned a Warrior. So how did these men know about his wife’s power?
Head down, Deckard kept his eyes and ears open as the men led him to the wagon, hoping to piece together the means of their capture.
The iron-barred door creaked open, and the men shoved Deckard forward to the short stairs that led up to the wagon bed.
Cautiously, he ascended. The floor of the wagon was covered in hay, and a guard sat on a stool by the door.
All five of their friends were bound to the iron bars that rose above their heads.
Auden and Ethenn on one side, Ilain, Thom, and Rafferty on the other.
The Mages stared ahead blankly, clearly under the influence of a drug.
The Ephrians remained awake, their gazes wide and worried.
Ethenn and Thom still bore blood and scrapes from their earlier fight, but Thom’s nose was no longer broken, the healing likely thanks to Auden. Mud caked their clothing and hair.
Following orders, Deckard carefully stepped over their feet as he moved to the back to sit next to Ethenn. Two men followed, not caring who or what they stepped on. They bound Deckard to the bars, then reached back for Evylin’s unconscious form.
Deckard couldn’t tear his gaze from her.
Meticulously, the men patted her down, removing every weapon they could find, then did another search to be sure, this time more slowly.
He gritted his teeth around the gag, working to keep his breathing steady as they touched her more familiarly than he ever had, and he was thankful she didn’t know what liberties they took with her.
Her head lolled while they strapped her up next to Rafferty.
Already, a welt rose on her temple where they’d hit her.
The end of her braid got tangled in the ropes.
He wanted to reach out and fix it, knowing it would hurt to yank the strands out later.
Breathing laboriously, he fought to retain the last ounces of strength he had, his eyes steadily fixed on Evylin.
From the moment the wagon lurched to a start, through the break of dawn, and into the present moment, Deckard kept watch.
His vision blurred as he watched the countryside go by.
He refused to sleep, his energy remaining focused on the Relic hanging around his neck.
When they’d bound him, the disguised pendant was partially covered by the rope, but it was not obscured enough to give him the confidence to relax.
The dull warmth of his magic was barely tangible.
His skull felt as though it might split in two, aching from being awake too long and overwhelming fatigue.
The whisper of power was barely audible to his straining ears.
In his half-awake daze, visions fluttered past in his unfocused gaze. White glared all around him. Ivory sand shifted around clay, forming the Time Shades.
He blinked to find Evylin’s drooped head and a dirt road before him. He fought the drowsiness that tugged at him, attempting to whisk him into sleep. Another flash of an image drifted across his vision, the memory of the white dais pedestal and the glittering diamond pendant of the Relic.
Deckard shook his head. He knew this dream—it was nearly the same one he’d had after the Day and Night Keeps. Could it be a symbol of his status as an Existential Mage? He would have to ask Auden about that . . . if they lived through this.
Along the journey, Deckard’s hands had fallen asleep, tingling behind his back.
He shifted, attempting to bring them relief.
In the open-air wagon, they’d all been soaked to the bone, though the clouds parted to reveal the sun by midmorning.
The guard in the corner watched them attentively.
Thom and Ethenn stared ahead, dozing on and off.
Somehow, Rafferty managed to snore through his gag.
All through the night, Deckard had studied their captors carefully.
He’d listened to every word spoken. He’d concluded that they were not the usual band of sellswords but an organized, efficient group of either bounty hunters or some other men-at-arms for employ.
They’d been hired to do the job by someone who told them about the Relics and Evylin’s magic.
If they were simply mercenaries after money, they would have stolen more than the Relics.
But they didn’t care about the “crest” Deckard wore or his and Evylin’s wedding rings.
A thought struck him as the first light of sunrise dawned. It was possible that Blount had hired these men. But if that were the case, then why hadn’t the prince accompanied them?
Regardless of the origin of their capture, Deckard knew they were being taken to the Night Mage.
The revelation sent his mind reeling. They were carrying five Relics straight to their enemy. Once the prince had them in hand, surely, he’d kill them all.
Desperately, Deckard worked to plan an escape.
But his brain refused to cooperate. It screamed in exhaustion, reminding him of how much he’d taxed it.
Even if he could think straight, what good would it do him?
His magic was depleted, the Calders were drugged, and at least fifty men surrounded them.
Perhaps once he, Evylin, and Ethenn had returned to full strength, they could make their move.
But with his hands tied behind his back, Deckard doubted his ability to control his magic well enough to rescue them.
Even if Deckard could cut their bonds with the crystalline shards of his magic, what good would it do them?
Neither Evylin nor Ethenn had weapons. He would be the only one with a viable offense.
No, they had to be patient and intentional when they made their escape.
Blount didn’t know that he and Ethenn had discovered their powers.
He didn’t know that another Mage and Warrior were arriving amongst the prisoners.
That gave them an advantage. But if they played their hands too soon, they’d lose that edge.
Suddenly, Evylin choked, coughing against her gag as she woke, and Deckard startled out of his planning. He strained against his ropes, wishing he could comfort her as she struggled. He settled for pressing his leg against hers in the confines of the narrow wagon.
As her splutters subsided, Evylin raised her damp eyes to his. Her braid jerked her head down, and she let out a muffled cry. Then she tightened her jaw, yanking it free.
“Hey,” the guard called to a nearby rider, “the Warrior woke up.”
The rider turned a bored stare at the wagon. “Keep an eye on her,” he instructed. “I’ll tell Caustin.”
As he spurred his horse away, Evylin settled her head against the bars. Her gaze held Deckard’s steadily. Her leg pressed against his in acknowledgment.
They studied one another in the ensuing silence, taking clear stock of each other’s safety. The cloth gag was so tight it caused her hair to bow around her cheeks, but the angry welt was her only sign of harm. Her breathing steadied, and he could have sworn she was trying to tell him something.
Ropes digging into his chest, arms, and wrists, Deckard tried to adjust his seating.
It did little good. Evylin’s foot pushed against his thigh.
By the occasional glance through the bars, he knew they’d left the rolling hills of Vaura Reach behind, heading through a mountain pass.
The presence of pines and moss-covered stones provided a monotonous background to their journey.
Shafts of light melted past the clouds, catching in Evylin’s amber eyes as they locked with his.
The corner of her mouth lifted.
Deckard furrowed his brow.
Despite her gag, Evylin managed to smirk. Then he felt the toe of her boot slip under his thigh.
Deckard scoffed in amusement. Here they were, captured and on the way to be put to death, and the woman was flirting with him. Blatantly and unabashedly flirting.