Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (14 page)

Trevin strapped the blade to his side and grasped the highest rung he could reach. “If I don’t return—”

“You’ll return.”

Trevin turned his gaze upward. “I’ll return,” he mumbled and began climbing.

By the time Trevin neared the top of the plateau, his arms ached from clutching the rungs. He had looked down only twice to see Pym standing beside the horses. After that, he could no longer look down without growing lightheaded, but he knew Pym would watch until he cleared the top of the plateau.

At the highest rung he paused and wished for his shield. Anyone waiting above would find him an easy target.

He took a deep breath and peeked over the edge.

revin grasped the trunk of a nearby sapling and hoisted himself onto the plateau. The only movement atop came from bees droning among the tiny purple blossoms that speckled the grass. True-heart. A reminder of Melaia. And Varic.

Hurry
, Trevin’s heart beat.
Find answers and get back to Redcliff
.

A grove of red-flowered trees stood a bow’s shot away, but Trevin saw no house, hut, or shelter of any kind. He paced the perimeter of the plateau, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Maybe someone had lived here in ancient times, but it seemed uninhabited now. Where better to hide a harp?

A delicate fragrance drifted from the grove. Trevin wandered into its shade, eying the ground and trunks for a hidden harp or the entrance to a cave. Nothing.

Seeeeeker
. The deep, breathy voice spoke behind him.

Trevin turned on his heel but saw no one. “Oracle?”

I’m heeeeere to meeeeet with you, Seeeeeker
.

Trevin scanned the trees. “How do I meet face to face with someone I can’t see?”

“Here,” said the voice, clear, resonant, and warm. “Outside the grove.”

Trevin wove his way between the trees. Beyond them an image wavered in the sun, rippling like a reflection on the surface of a breeze-blown pond: an old man with long white hair and a billowing cloak. The man stepped into the grove and vanished.

Trevin stopped, his breath so shallow he feared he wasn’t breathing. He tried to step back, but his feet felt rooted to the ground.

The wavering image appeared again only a pace away. The man held up
three fingers, the sign of the Tree. “Welcome,” he said in a clear, full voice no longer swept thin by the wind.

Trevin raised three fingers and knelt, his head bowed. He found his throat dry and his face warm with shame at the way he had yelled into the wind at Windsweep. It seemed disrespectful now that he faced the ancient Oracle.

“You may rise,” said the Oracle. “You have reached me.”

Trevin looked up but did not stand. “I was instructed to ask your counsel.”

The Oracle gazed at Trevin’s chest, and Trevin realized the ancient one was looking at his right hand, held against his heart in the sign of the Tree. “How did you lose your finger?” asked the Oracle.

“I don’t remember,” said Trevin. “It happened early in my childhood.” He shrank under the Oracle’s gaze. “Is something wrong?”

“On the contrary, everything is right. Which means you may remove your sword.”

Trevin stood, unfastened his sword belt, and placed it on the ground.

The Oracle motioned for Trevin to follow, but as soon as Trevin stepped forward, the man vanished. Trevin paused, and the Oracle came back into view four paces ahead.

“Forgive me,” said the Oracle. “I’m accustomed to my own pace. It’s not easy to slow down.”

As Trevin walked toward him, the Oracle turned and strode across the grass, slowly this time. Trevin followed him to the edge of the plateau, but when the Oracle stepped off into the air, Trevin stumbled back.

The Oracle halted. “You expected the Oracle to spend his days sitting on a stone, spinning wise words into the world?” He chuckled. “To some I’m the Oracle. Others call me Windweaver.”

Trevin stared at the ancient. He should have known. Melaia had described each of the Archae who came to her at Aubendahl, but he had thought she was describing a dream. Now he dug his nails into his palms to make certain it wasn’t he who was dreaming. “You’re Windweaver?” he asked. “The Archon?”

“One of the guardians of the world, yes. At present four of us are active: Flametender, Seaspinner, Earthbearer, and me. And I know you’re Main Trevin of Camrithia. Now come, Main Trevin. Walk the circle of the wind with me.”

Trevin’s pulse shook his entire body, and his knees felt as weak as water.

“You’ll never know unless you take the first step. Don’t think about it. Just come.” Windweaver looked south toward the mountain ridge. “As we walk, we’ll discuss your quest.”

“As we walk.” Trevin crept to the edge of the plateau.

“Don’t look down.”

Every muscle in Trevin cringed; every ounce of reason cried,
Turn back!
He looked Windweaver in the eye. And stepped off the plateau.

The wind beneath Trevin’s feet sprang like a rain-soaked meadow, but it supported him. He felt strangely light as he matched Windweaver’s stride, yielding his feet to the buoyant currents. Swiftly they walked, each step covering a half-day’s journey for a land traveler.

Windweaver gathered strands of air, thin and sheer. Some he twined together; others he untangled. Then he sent them on their way.

“Winds tend to be unruly,” he said. “Sometimes I allow them to dance as they see fit. At other times their wildness is unwise.” He drew out a strand and blew it west. “Tell me what you seek.”

With effort Trevin drew his mind away from the wonders of the wind and the view of the world from on high. “Harps,” he said. “Melaia—Dreia’s daughter—believes she must unite three kyparis harps to restore the stairway and the Wisdom Tree.”

Their next step took them to the top of the highest tower of Redcliff. As they circled the parapet, a snatch of melody drifted around them. Trevin paused and looked down into Melaia’s garden, where she sat on a cushioned bench, playing the kyparis harp, Serai at her feet and—he smiled—Varic nowhere near.

Trevin started to call to Melaia, but Windweaver held up his hand in warning, and Trevin’s shoulders slumped. He longed to trade places with Serai. With her wings she would walk the wind with ease, while he, in her place, would be content to bask in Melaia’s presence.

“Dreia’s daughter is right,” said Windweaver. “She must unite the harps. As you see, she already has one. So what do you seek?”

Melaia stopped playing.

“The two remaining harps.” Trevin watched Melaia set aside her harp and walk to the side wall. “Also”—he paused, distracted by her intense, searching
eyes—“I seek allies for Camrithia and five comains who disappeared more than a year ago. And King Laetham wants a prophecy or a sign from the Oracle.”

Windweaver studied Trevin. “You answered questions I didn’t ask. You told me what Melaia seeks. You told me what King Laetham seeks. I asked what you seek.”

Trevin bit his lip. Didn’t Windweaver understand? The king’s comain sought what the king told him to seek. He sought what the princess wanted.

Windweaver motioned to him, stepped off the parapet, and strode northwest.

Trevin hesitated only long enough to glance back at Melaia, then caught up with the Oracle. Their pace quickened, but Trevin felt no strain, no weariness in the distance they covered. He recognized Ledge Rock ahead.

Windweaver paused at the mound of granite. “You want to know where the harps are, is that it?”

“Yes.” Trevin breathed easier. “Do you know?” He scanned the sky, looking for the veil. The sunlight hid it, but he could hear its hum floating on a strand of breeze that Windweaver snatched and sent spinning south.

“One touches skies.” Windweaver stepped off the ledge and headed east. Trevin struggled to keep up. “One sleeps again in stone,” said Windweaver. “Hold the edge of my cloak.”

Trevin snagged Windweaver’s hem and felt as if they flew. Moments later they stood on a peak of gray stone overlooking a clearing surrounded by boulders and leafless trees.

“The Dregmoors,” said Windweaver. “Where the dead enter the Under-Realm.”

Trevin’s right hand began to throb, and he rubbed it as he looked around. Below them a waterfall tumbled from an outcropping. Ahead, the clearing ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff, providing a bird’s-eye view of a wooded landscape beyond.

Windweaver shoved the wind on its way. As it whipped past the waterfall, Trevin felt the spray. He heard the wind rush through the bare trees, though not a branch swayed, not a bough tossed.

Suddenly the wind changed direction and whipped back at them with a shower of stone dust and the unmistakable odor of landgash.

As Trevin shut his eyes against the stinging dust, a haze of images flooded his mind. A glint of gold on green. A figure cloaked in black. A smile. A dagger. White light. A bloody tunic.

Trevin fought to open his eyes, but his terror-dream reigned. A jolt of pain pierced his hand. His knees buckled. As he tried to regain his footing, he stumbled and plunged off the peak into the whirling gale.

Windweaver uttered a thunderous command. Trevin didn’t understand the words, but the authority was clear. The wind pressed against him on all sides and dropped him into a pile of brush in the center of a broad field of standing stones.

Trevin crouched there, hugging his aching hand. The cliff edge lay a dozen paces behind him; water cascaded in the falls a dozen paces ahead.

“Perhaps I should have warned you.” Windweaver appeared, striding across the stone field. “Rogue winds frequent these mountains.”

Trevin flexed his right hand and grimaced as he rose.

“We stand where the Wisdom Tree once grew,” said Windweaver, “a kyparis so tall its top was not visible from the ground, so wide it extended across this field from side to side and from here back to the waterfall. You could feel the energy of the stairway within it, a flow of light bridging the near and the far, the now and the always.”

Trevin tried to envision the Tree engulfing the spot where he stood. “The place seems desolate now.”

“Even the trees have turned to stone.” Windweaver gazed at the clouds as if he were trying to remember the Tree. Then he strode to the edge of the cliff.

Trevin ran after Windweaver and grabbed his cloak. Within moments they were again walking the wind, and the pain in Trevin’s hand vanished.

For a while Trevin simply watched as Windweaver swept some air currents out to sea and reeled some in. He heard no sound but the roar of wind and the rush of waves.

Then Windweaver paused. “What were we discussing?” He caught a wisp of breeze and sent it north. “Ah, yes. You wished to ask about the comains.”

“Five of them,” said Trevin.

At once they paced the air above the battlements of Alta-Qan, the castle at Qanreef on the Southern Sea. Another few steps and they strolled above the
Durenwoods, where the Archon’s winds set the treetops dancing. “Do you seek anything else?” he asked.

“A word or sign for King Laetham,” said Trevin.

A few more strides returned them to Eldarra, Prince Resarian’s realm. Then they strode across the Dregmoors again. They moved so quickly that within another step they reached Qanreef. Again and again they paced a giant circle with Redcliff at the hub.

Windweaver motioned to the lands they circled. “Do you desire all this?”

“All this?” Trevin laughed. “That’s nonsense.”

“I’m not in the habit of talking nonsense.” Windweaver calmly paced the wind. “Do you desire all this?”

Trevin let his gaze roam the countryside, cities, towns. One circuit, two. Night was falling, leaving the land below in shadow. He shook his head. “I’ve no desire for these lands.”

Windweaver nodded.

“If I may ask—,” said Trevin.

“You may.”

“Is all this yours to give?”

“It is not,” said Windweaver. “But a man’s desires show his true nature, don’t you think? Many seek outwardly what they can find only within themselves.”

With one more step they returned to the plateau. Windweaver disappeared into the grove. Weary, Trevin lay back in the grass among the purple true-hearts and inhaled their rosy scent. He wished Melaia were here to watch the stars appear. But she wasn’t, and as the stars brightened, his hopes faded. He had expected Windweaver, the great Oracle, to give him some direction, some answers.

Windweaver returned carrying a bundle and a flask. “The heavens are best viewed from your angle,” he said. “Unless you walk into them. But we’ve done enough walking for now. We’ve completed many cycles of the wind. Three days’ worth.”

Trevin sat up, tense. “We’ve been gone three days?”

“Time passes differently when you travel the edge of it as we did,” said Windweaver. “You’re in a hurry?”

“I have to be back at Redcliff with news of allies and comains and harps and some word or sign for the king before harvest moon.”

“As for the king’s sign, you are that sign.”

Trevin frowned. “I could get myself hanged telling him that.”

“You won’t have to tell him.”

Trevin could feel the Archon studying him. He shifted uneasily.