Oathen (56 page)

“Stay there; I’ll
blink
us out,” Sanych
called.

A moment later, she stood beside her Oathen.
Salvor lay broken and burned at her feet. She backed up, covering
her mouth, unable to tear her eyes from his body. A moment ago he
had been winning the battle. Now, the left side of his body was
crushed and scorched, and rocks had melted into his
skin.

“Oolat died, so the golem did too…” Her voice
quavered and failed. “I should have been faster.”

“Stupid fool,” Geret said, scraping fingers
through his hair with an agonized expression. “He wouldn’t leave
the golem to me. I’m an Oathen. I should have ordered him back, or,
or…demanded his sword. Folly!”

Ahm knelt by Salvor. “You couldn’t have known
the golem would explode, Sanych. Maybe Oolat made it to
explode.”

“Is he still alive?” Sanych asked, sinking to
her knees, breathing the stench of burned flesh.

The old Scion nodded. “For now. But it’s only
a matter of time. This much damage is going to kill him, and I’d
call it a mercy.”

Sanych bit back a sob.

“No. He sacrificed himself in my place,” Geret
said. “I can’t just let him die. Sanych, get us back to the Dragon
Temple.”

Rhona sat on the white marble steps of the Dragon Temple,
binding a wound on her forearm with a strip from a dead cultist’s
shirt. If it hadn’t been for Narjin and her fire magic, Rhona knew
she wouldn’t have survived. Behind her, Narjin and the other Scions
who had survived the final battle patched each other up and shared
water. Rhona just wanted to be alone.

A tired sense of justice filled her; every
last Dzur i’Oth member had been killed in the rooms and tunnels
below. Her quest in Shanal was complete, though the reason behind
it was meaningless now. She looked down at Ruel’s body.

I have only begun to sing your
Lay
,
cousin. Every action I take now, let it be only for the glory of
Agonbloom.

She pulled the makeshift bandage tight using
her teeth and fingers, thinking ahead to reuniting with her ships,
which were raiding somewhere off the southern coast.

A flash of color caught her eye. She turned to
see Sanych on the steps, along with Geret and Ahm, who bore an
unconscious Salvor on a slim metal stretcher. Ahm and Geret laid
Salvor down, then Ahm jogged off toward the other
Scions.

“What happened?” Rhona asked. “Where’s
Meena?”

Sanych met her eyes. “Meena’s dead. The green
dragon destroyed her and the
Dire Tome
together. It was what
she wanted.”

Rhona looked at the Archivist, seeing the
emotions flickering over her face, and nodded.

Geret looked down on the dead Clansmen. “Ruel,
too?” He bowed his head for a moment, then turned to Rhona. “I’m so
sorry. I know you were very close. I’m proud to have known him—” He
stopped abruptly as Rhona’s freshly-cleaned blade snaked against
his neck. “Rhona!?”

Sanych’s palms flared.

But Geret paused, seeing the tears of
self-recrimination that spilled from Rhona’s eyes. When he stopped
moving, so did Sanych.
That scurvy-ridden bond again
, Rhona
thought.

“If I killed you,” she began, “would it make
me feel better, in the moments before Sanych kills me in return?
Would it absolve my soul from this burden of guilt? I turned my
back on my entire people for you, Geret Branbrey Valan!” She
pressed her blade into the flesh of his throat. He leaned back,
breathing cautiously through his nose.

Rhona’s gaze dropped, followed by her blade;
it hung limply in her grip. “Ruel was right about you, and he was
right about me. I dragged him into this, my foolish quest for love
and power. And now he’s dead. It’s not your fault; it’s mine. But
if not for you…” Her blade twitched again.

Geret waited silently. Sanych still aimed a
palm at her.

Rhona’s shoulders slumped; she turned toward
the slushy meadow. “I’ve met the requirements of my Age Quest. The
cult is destroyed, to a man. So I’m done. With you, with Shanal.
With dirtwalkers. All of you can rot in your stinking mud-filled
holes for all I care. As soon as I can steal a horse and wagon, I’m
taking Ruel to my ships and sailing back home. If I never see land
again, it’ll be too soon!”

~~~

Geret saw Ahm, Sosta and two other Scions
approach with swift strides, kneeling by Salvor. “You see,” Ahm
said to them, “he’s still holding on, but…”

“We will do what we can,” Sosta said firmly.
“Lend us your strength, Ahm.”

“You can have mine too,” Sanych said, kneeling
by Salvor’s shoulder. Geret felt particularly helpless as he
watched the Scions work, blending their magic potential. Minutes
passed. Everyone began to sweat with the effort they were
expending.

Even Rhona turned around to watch, bunching
her fists together. Geret couldn’t make out the mix of emotions on
her face.

In the end, the healers did all they could for
Salvor, but their skill was simply too weak to reverse all of the
damage. They told Geret they weren’t sure Salvor would make it
through the night. Geret nodded wordlessly, his eyes on Salvor’s
still, pale face, scored with large red scars, and wondered where
to find a book for Salvor to hold if he died.

The healers left Sanych, Geret and Ahm at his
side, moving on to others who needed their help. Ahm let his magic
stretcher fade, placed a wool blanket over Salvor’s still form,
then stepped away. Sanych began to weep. Geret held her close,
letting his relief, loss, guilt, shame and exhaustion blend with
hers.

Ahm returned a while later, his hair still
wild with sulfur and ash. “It’s done, Oathens. Shanal is free. The
whole world is free. Our future is brighter, thanks to you, and to
Jacasta.” He paused, raising his silvery eyebrows. “I think I might
need to get a real job now.”

Geret grinned, and Sanych hiccupped a laugh.
He turned to her and said, “I guess we need to work on finding a
way home soon.”

Sanych looked over at Ahm, then back at him.
“Actually, I’d like to stay.”

“Stay in Shanal? F-for how long? Forever?”
Geret’s old fear of losing Sanych to her magic leapt to the fore of
his mind.

“Not forever, Geret.” Sanych put a hand
against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. “You are my
forever.”

He pressed her hand against him with his own
and lost himself in her blue, blue gaze. “Then it doesn’t matter to
me where we stay.”

Sanych raised her eyebrows. “What about your
uncle?”

Geret smiled down at her, tracing her cheek
with a calloused finger.

“What uncle?”

Three Years Later

Sanych elTiera worked her knife against the
carving she held. She sat on a marble bench beneath a flowering
pink monandia, sunlight gleaming along the bright metal at her
neck. The tree was finally blooming in season, now that the
majority of Heren Garil Sa’s ash had washed out of the atmosphere.
It was the warmest spring Vint had experienced in four
years.

Behind her, the newly-built Temple greenhouse
housed a young and thriving crop of toothspice. Salvor’s gift to
her had enabled the species to survive, even when the crops on its
home island had been buried by ash and lava. The Silver Hand and
the Iron Fist had sent volunteers from Salience who were working
together to restore Ha’Hril to a habitable island that could once
again support vast plantations. Soon the plants in the greenhouse
could return home.

A gentle breeze caressed her skin and teased
the intricate knot of blonde hair that nestled at the nape of her
neck. The smell of high spring was in the air. Bees, butterflies
and beetles made their way among the blossoms, gorging themselves
upon myriad nectary feasts. She inhaled the rich scents of
sun-warmed earth, grasses, and flowers of many varieties. Their
colors sparkled in the gardens around her, distracting her from the
small carving she worked at.

He was late.

Thinking of him inevitably drew her mind back
to Shanal. The surviving members of the quest had remained with the
Scions for nearly a full season. Sanych grew more proficient with
her light magic, even without Curzon’s helpful tutelage. Ahm,
Sosta, and the other surviving cell leaders began working with the
royal family in order to reverse the damage the cult had done to
the people and the land, and Shanal emerged from its latest chapter
of violence stronger and more stable.

When she finally decided she was ready to
return to Vint, she felt Geret’s relief. Despite his choice to stay
by her side, he felt the pull of responsibility to his uncle and
his country. Sanych felt it as well.

Her final use of her magic was one she kept
secret from the Scions: she
blinked
up to Curzon’s
cave.

“Hello, Curzon,” Sanych had said, startling
him into dropping his teacup to the floor. She set a flat of stamp
berries down on a low shelf. “Ahm would want you to have
these.”

He looked sharply at her. “My window is shut.
How did you get in here?”

Sanych smiled. “I’ve learned to project light
ahead of me, then follow it. Sorry about the tiny hole in your
wall.”

Curzon laughed aloud. “I knew you were a
clever one. So tell me: how did you figure out that I sent an
avatar-twin back to the Dragon Temple with you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t. You
actually—
copied
—yourself?”

The gnarled old man lifted his chin and
smiled. “It wasn’t easy. No one else in Shanal could even grasp the
concept, let alone achieve the result. I am, after all, the
greatest spellcaster in the world.”

“That, I’ll believe.”

“How did you guess I still lived?”

“That was easy; I’m surprised no one else
thought of it. The anti-magic you infused into Ahm’s
Tome
-wrapping lasted nearly ‘til the book was destroyed, so
you couldn’t have been killed fighting Oolat. I just wanted to tell
you that I knew, and that I’ll keep my peace, so that you can enjoy
yours. I’m leaving Shanal tomorrow.”

The skinny hermit beetled his brows at her.
“Well. Goodbye then.” He paused. “And thank you.”

Sanych’s magic left her the following week,
when their galleon sailed across the outer edge of the ancient
caldera. It had been her constant companion for many weeks, and in
the blink of an eye, it was gone. She stood on the deck of the
ship, wrapped her arms around Geret and wept. He held her close as
the winter winds whipped their cloaks about them. Kemsil, who
accompanied them in the hope of finding Anjoya again, had worried
Sanych would want to return to Shanal again, but Geret knew her
inner heart.

She was weeping in relief.

Being a spellcaster had changed her. It made
her feel wild and powerful. But in contrast, all the work she had
ever done as an Archivist—the entirety of her past—paled into
insignificance.

In the end, she left because she began to
yearn for the inner peace the quest had stolen from her. As long as
she wielded the magic of light, she felt she’d be embracing the
horrific deeds she had done and counting as insignificant the
damage and death that had beset her friends.

She did not want to be that woman any longer.
She let Geret take her home.

In Salience, Kemsil had learned that Anjoya
had indeed accompanied Count Braal Runcan back to Vint. He
continued eastward with his Vinten friends. They left behind a
war-torn and much diminished House Aldib, which struggled to fight
off the enraged Swordfish Clan and its erstwhile allies—which
included House Jath. Rhona’s payback was still earning dividends,
and Kemsil could claim a proper revenge at last.

Among the eager crowd that welcomed them back
were the Magister, Addan—hale and hearty—Anjoya, Braal Runcan and
Halvor Thelios. Addan and Geret shared a secret handshake from
childhood, then embraced and wept. Anjoya exchanged a passionate
greeting kiss with Kemsil, before teasing him about living up to
the quality of her former husband: the Magister of Vint. With a
smile of utmost confidence, he had assured her that he was up to
the task.

A shadow fell across the bone carving in
Sanych’s hands. She looked up and smiled, taking in the familiar
features of her guest.

“Please, join me,” she said to him, scooting
over and setting her carving aside. The man stepped to the bench,
pivoting to sit with the aid of a highly polished and intricately
decorated cane. When at last he was settled, he sighed and rested
it against the bench beside his leg.

“Another scrimshaw of the Shanallar?” he
inquired with polite interest.

“Yes; this is her leaving me behind on the
mountain, the morning I found her.” Sanych showed her guest the
striding image of Meena, looking over her shoulder with impatience.
“How have you been?” she inquired, her voice warm.

Lord Salvor Thelios took a breath.”I’ve been
well, thank you,” he responded, turning his scarred face to Sanych
and giving her a lopsided smile.