Keystone (Gatewalkers) (20 page)

Be alive
. The thought broke through his battle haze.
Be alive
. Each of his strides covered twice the distance of a normal man’s, in half of the time. He feared it would not be fast enough.

He feared. For the first time in nearly a decade, he feared for someone else.

Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, the aftermath of his handiwork.

Rhys followed the drag trail, punctuated with spatters of blood.

Charlotte screamed.

Magenta hair against dark foliage. A writhing body painted with crimson.

Rhys dropped Jack, his spear flashing into his hands instead. Rhys scythed through the shadow spawn attacking her, like the specter of the lord of death himself.
 

Charlotte curled around herself, torn arm covering her face. Lightning crawling across the angry sky painted her figure sharp blue and white. The air filled his mouth with the thick taste of blood.

Rhys’ spear dropped from his hand. He lifted her up, one arm behind her back and one behind her knees, her head cradled against his shoulder. Blood stained her abdomen through the shreds of her shirt and dripped warm from her leg and arm. One of her shoes still clung to her foot, but the other had vanished.

Charlotte’s eyes flashed open, blindly searching the dark. She trembled in shock and pain, her skin cold to the touch. Her abraded arm still clung doggedly to the bowl of pixies. Relief made Rhys’ legs weak.
Alive. Still alive.
For now.

The sky grumbled, displeased with his interference.
 

A chitter sounded from the night. Some of the spawn yet survived.

Jack moaned and coughed. Spat.

Rhys knelt to grasp his spear, but he could not fight with Charlotte in his arms.

Charlotte’s damaged leg would not carry weight even if she had the strength to stand. She still bled and that weakened her further. Calling down another lightning bolt would kill her.
 

Rhys could call a Gate.

He had not called a Gate in years, but with the Keystone shattered and the Gates opening and closing of their own accord, he thought he might be able to summon one even without the Keystone itself. But. His Gates only led to one place: the bridge between worlds. Every bit as dangerous as shadow spawn. But what choice had he?

Rhys heard a distant crashing through trees and brush. Large. Two-legged.

“Here!” Rhys bellowed, caring only that it was not spawn.
 

Chitters and shrieks rose up, accompanied by startled shouts and the sounds of mage fire. Light broke through the trees.

“Here!” Rhys sent up an arc of lightning into the trees, a beacon for them to follow. He felt the shiver of a mage’s locating spell.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Angels

Charlie gingerly prodded her shin. The shadow spawn had made a pulp of it, but now she could barely tell by looking. The encampment’s Healer had set her muscle and skin back where it belonged, what was left, and magically induced new tissue to grow. She discovered through exploration that there were also a few numb places where she couldn’t feel anything at all. The tissue regrowth must not have included all the nerves. Deep purple scar tissue marked the worst tears and her flesh felt deeply bruised, but for all that, she had to be deeply grateful for the fact that she would be able to walk again. Maybe even without limping.

Her arm was in similar state, though the damage didn’t seem to be as extensive. Most of the chewing had been done to her leg.

Sometime while she was unconscious, someone changed her into an undyed cotton tunic and loose trousers. They’d taken her last sneaker, leaving her barefoot. She knew blood must have dripped into it, so it was probably just as well. At least the tunic had a back.

Charlie lifted the tunic hem to continue the inventory of her scars. Most of the gashes on her stomach and back were superficial and had vanished completely. Only a few were left to tell the tale.

Battle scars. Her first, and she hoped they would be her last.
 

A fresh burst of rain hissed against the canvas of the Healers’ tent. It hadn’t stopped since they’d reached the encampment.Now the air felt damp as well as cold, and the canvas let out a wet cotton smell.
 

Charlie hadn’t seen Rhys or Jack since she was pried out of Rhys’ grip. She’d lost consciousness then, waking up later here in this tent.

Charlie dropped her hem and curled up on the cot with her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. No one had seen fit to tell her what was going on, or who these people were, besides that the Healer had seen to her wounds. She had to be grateful for the rescue, but what had they gotten themselves into?

***

“Name?” the uniformed officer demanded. He had a stern, square face, the short ear points of an imperial elf, and the stiff bearing of a career military man. His bars identified him as a captain, and the name he went by was Meryl. His narrowed gold eyes bore unflinching into Rhys’ across the table.
 

Rhys resisted reaching through them into the man’s mind. The captain was suspicious and on his guard; he would not be as susceptible to mind magic and Rhys could not risk betraying his secret.
 

Yet.

“I am known by Rhys,” he said. “My name belongs to me alone.”

“Your name belongs to your High King.”

Rhys’ upper lip twitched, faster than any could see.

“What is your business in the Northern Reaches?” Captain Meryl said, eyes unrelenting. As were Rhys’.

Rhys lifted his hand to display the contract around his wrist. Its ink remained sharp and black, informing him Charlotte lived. Either of their deaths would break it.

Meryl’s mouth narrowed with disdain. “A sell sword. Who is your master?”

“Lady Charlie, Manager on Duty for the Order of Lady Dragons.”

The captain tipped his head slightly, as if listening to a soft sound, and it confirmed Rhys’ suspicions. Someone had cast a truth spell over the tent; a powerful one at that. While Rhys had not lied about the identity of his contractor, he doubted there was a true “Order of Lady Dragons.” Only a master mage could cast a truth spell sensitive enough to detect such a small detail.

Rhys needed to tread carefully.

The captain nodded to one of the two guards at the door, who stepped out to brave the pouring rain.

“Were you the one who called down lightning and caused this mess?” Meryl said. His tone said he knew the answer. Not that there were many options; of the three of them, Charlie was nearly unconscious of blood loss, Jack was the guild mage - with a notation on his medallion signifying his aptitude for fire, not lighting - and Rhys was the only one remaining.

“There is a mage in my company,” Rhys said; truthful, but not the answer the captain wanted. It nearly amounted to a confession but the words could not be held against him.

“Are you aware of the penalties for practicing mage craft outside of a royally sanctioned mage guild?”

“Yes.” At the very least it would be a period of imprisonment, during which his secret would without question be found out, which would result in his death. If the authorities decided to be spiteful, they could try to strip him of his powers, which would fail and result in deeper inquiries, which would result in his death.

Rhys leaned forward, this time adding the barest touch of compulsion to his words. “Why are we being treated as prisoners?”

The answer rolled off of the captain’s tongue almost too easily. “Anyone found in this area must be considered potential conspirators in the Princess Maelyn’s abduction.” Either he did not consider the answer important, or his mind was more malleable than Rhys thought. Rhys knew it to be the former.

“I can assure you we had nothing to do with Princess Maelyn’s abduction,” Rhys said.

Meryl’s eyes narrowed, not quite believing despite his truth spell. “Yet you refuse to state your business here.”

Rhys remained silent. Of the answers he could give, most were false. He did not care to share the truth.

“I will say it one last time. State your business in the Northern Reaches.”

Rhys did not break from the captain’s gaze, and did not answer.

***

Charlie heard the tent flap open and looked up, watching the play of a silhouette on the canvas “walls” of her cubicle. Before, the people coming in and out of the main part of the tent simply went about their business, but this time someone pushed through the curtain “door” to Charlie’s little space.

The young woman wore deep burgundy robes and a large bronze medallion on a thick chain. Those seemed to be the marks of a Healer – burgundy robes (probably so blood wouldn’t show), and the medallion engraved with a rank symbol. This woman was different from the Healer that Charlie half remembered treating her wounds. This Healer was younger, with frizzy brown hair that hid her (presumably pointed) ears. She also carried a clay mug.

“Ah, you’re awake. Drink this,” the Healer said, pressing the warm mug into Charlie’s hands. Charlie noted gratefully that she could hold it steady herself. “It will help with any lingering pain. That was quite a scare you had.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said. The mug contained a translucent beige tea that smelled like steamed paper, peppered with fine, pale floating bits. She took a cautious sip. It
tasted
like paper too, with a hint of bitterness and a gritty texture.

“Your contract,” the young Healer said, her eyes on Charlie’s wrist. “You aren’t here against your will, are you?”

“Oh, no,” Charlie quickly assured her. “It’s my contract. He’s contracted to me, that is. Not the other way around.”

Puzzlement replaced the concern. “But what in the worlds are you doing in the Northern Reaches? Surely you knew how dangerous it is.”

Charlie grimaced over the tea. “I do
now
. But come to that, what are
you
doing here? Not that I’m ungrateful for the rescue, but I thought this part of the world was uninhabited.”

The young woman paled. “I am not authorized to give that information.” She turned to go.

“No, wait, please!” Charlie reached out and caught the woman’s wrist, the hot tea sloshing over Charlie’s other hand. Charlie flinched but didn’t let go of the clay mug or the Healer’s wrist. “Just one question, please.”

The woman hesitated, looking nervous.

Charlie pressed ahead before the Healer could make a break for it. “What do you people want with us? Where are my friends?” Ok, so that was technically two questions. But she hadn’t asked the bigger question: friend or foe? She didn’t think anything could be taken for granted anymore.

The Healer’s eyes flicked around, either looking for rescue or to see if they’d been overheard. The tent was quiet and still.

“I should not be speaking to you,” the Healer said in a low whisper.
 

“Please,” Charlie said, hearing the edge of pleading in her voice but not caring. She had to know what was going on with the guys. She hadn’t seen so much as a flicker of the pixies either.

The Healer scraped her lower lip between her teeth. “Briefly then.” Clutching her medallion, she leaned toward Charlie to ensure they would not be overheard. “Your men are well. They are being questioned. We’re searching the Reaches on High King Edouard’s orders to investigate the princess’s disappearance. If your business here is innocent, you will be gated to Iomara, where you will be released.” Her eyes begged understanding.

Charlie’s stomach flipped. No way was she being sent all the way back to the middle of Seinne Sonne after coming this far.
 

The Healer tugged on her captured wrist. “Please understand this is all I can tell you.”

Charlie released her. “Thank you,” she said as the woman fled.

She had to make an escape of her own. Charlie swung her legs down and cautiously pushed to her feet. Her shin ached, but considering what it looked like mere hours ago, it was a miracle she could stand. She cautiously did some stretches and took a few easy paces around her square, not wanting to push the new muscle too far before she knew her limits.
 

She hoped the guys wouldn’t be too hard to find.

***

Thunder rumbled as the tent flap opened, admitting a man in mage robes who was perfectly dry despite the pouring rain.

Rhys felt cold prickle down his spine, the predator within him awakening to a renewed sense of danger.

The master mage’s smile barely thinned his lips. He looked down at Rhys with sharp, dark eyes. His hair was a receded ring around the back of his head, barely clearing his short imperial elf ears, his bald top polished and shining. One hand rested on his symbol of rank – a three tiered gold medallion – and the other clasped a staff topped with a gold sunburst. If ornamentation were anything to go by – for mages it usually was – this man was half a step from becoming a Grand Master, the highest rank attainable below the Archmage.

His cheeks were flushed with the evidence of a recent feeding.

Adrenaline shot through Rhys’ veins. He recognized this man’s face from years ago. In fact, he knew it very well. In those days he had not been a master mage, he had been one of Rhys’ failed tutors. This man suggested more than once that Rhys be locked away for the safety of others, believing that Rhys would never fully control his magic.

Master Mage Dragus must have been bitten after attaining his status or else he was very, very careful. Especially since he didn’t look very old for his age. How Dragus remained unnoticed and well fed, Rhys did not care to guess, but the presence of a vampire in the midst of an expedition hand chosen by Edouard to find Mae did not bode well. It was possible, given his rank, that this man was even the leader of the expedition.

Captain Meryl offered Dragus a bow fitting his rank. “Master Dragus. Thank you for attending to this matter promptly.” His eyes fell on Rhys. “It should be simple enough to ascertain the truth of this.”

“Indeed.” Master Mage Dragus’ lips stretched thin. Rhys refused to meet his measuring eyes, focusing instead on the flashing medallion on his chest. Did Dragus recognize him in return? That was the burning question.