Chasing the Prophecy (Beyonders) (18 page)

“I’d sense a lurker,” Corinne said. “I could hear the one that attacked Father. If one reached for us mentally, I’d know.”

“Best not to discuss such things,” Aram said with an air of superstition. “The less our thoughts turn their way the better.”

Jason decided not to add that the best way to get him to focus on something was to tell him not to think about it.

The moon slowly moved across the sky. Corinne leaned back and closed her eyes. Jason tried not to stare at her. Weird that she could totally take him in a swordfight. He had seen her practicing with her father, and she was out of his league.

Jason folded his arms. He glanced at Aram, who had settled on the ground, his broad back to the boulder. Hypothetically, would he have a chance against Aram in a duel? No way. The half giant had such a long reach and swung so hard. What about Jasher? Or
Drake? Not if they were really trying. He could spar with them, but if it came down to it, life or death, they would certainly beat him. What if he was using his torivorian sword? No, not unless it shattered Jasher’s blade, and then the seedman tripped or something. Farfalee had never taken a big interest in hand-to-hand combat. Jason thought he might have a chance against her if she didn’t put an arrow through him from a mile away.

Corinne breathed softly, her elegant features bathed in moonlight. Jason shifted around, trying to get more comfortable on the boulder. He was definitely a better fighter than he used to be, but if every member of his team could defeat him in combat, didn’t that make him the weakest link? When things got bad, what was he supposed to contribute?

He understood how Rachel would help. As her Edomic abilities increased, her value grew exponentially. He remembered her sending that flaming table across the main room at the Last Inn. That was some serious power. He could picture her making a difference on her mission. He just didn’t understand why the oracle had paid so much attention to him.

Maybe he was stressing too much. Maybe he just needed to relax. Hopefully, if he stayed ready and tried his best, he would manage to make himself useful when the time came. Why did he feel like he was totally kidding himself?

Aram began to snore. Farfalee, obviously restless, came and went a few times. And then the sound of approaching hoofbeats brought Jason, Corinne, and Aram to their feet.

“That has to be good, right?” Jason said. “Horses?”

“I don’t sense anything bad,” Corinne said, wiping her eyes.

“They’re coming right at us,” Aram whispered. “Jasher or Drake would never have given us up. Let’s take cover just in case.” He drew his enormous sword, from pommel to tip about as long as
Jason was tall, the blade heavy and sharp. Aram held it casually in one hand. Most grown men would struggle to heft it with two.

The threesome ducked into the cover of some bushes. Farfalee joined them after a moment, an arrow nocked and ready. Aram pried the lid off one of the buckets of orantium.

Eight horses with six riders trotted into view. Four of the riders were drinlings. “All clear,” Jasher called from astride his mount.

Jason and the others emerged from hiding.

“We made four new friends,” Drake said. “They’re well provisioned.”

“I only count two spare mounts,” Farfalee observed.

“Two of us will now make our way afoot,” said one of the newcomers, his words accented.

“We’d hate to strand you,” Aram said.

The drinling speaker smirked. “If we raced to Durna, the two of us on foot might beat you. Horses need rest. We don’t. A drinling can cover a lot of ground running at a full sprint day and night. All he needs is food.”

“Helps when he can eat dirt,” Jason said. “Or grass, or squirrels, or pinecones.”

“Sounds as though you know our ways,” the drinling said.

“Nia never fails to amaze me with what she can eat,” Jason said.

“She may amaze you again with the team she assembled,” the drinling replied. “Good people. We drinlings will get you on the water. We’ll defend you as best we can. The rest is up to you.”

Jason glanced at Corinne. She looked relieved. Hard times might be coming. But maybe not tonight.

CHAPTER
5

A
cold rain sheeted down relentlessly, pattering against the roof of the old storage shed and making the puddles outside appear to boil. Seated on a wooden cask, Rachel drew her cloak closer about herself to help against the chill. Across the yard three lanterns hanging under the eaves of the stable brightened the rainy night.

Beside her sat Galloran, blindfold in place, his sheathed sword resting across his knees. At her other hand crouched Bartley of Wershon. Yesterday the husky viscount had been full of blustering bravado. Today he was much more subdued, rubbing his lips regularly as he stared soberly outside.

Rachel noticed her fingers trembling. Was it the cold or her nerves? She tightened her hands into fists. Weeks of travel and anticipation had led to this night. Much time and effort could be saved if the meeting went well.

“They’re late,” Bartley whispered.

Rachel had only seen the viscount briefly on the day when Jason had faced Chancellor Copernum in a battle of wits. But she knew that he had helped Jason. And according to Brin and Nicholas,
he had quietly proven very useful ever since Jason had departed Trensicourt months ago. At present he had really stuck his neck out, offering his estate as the location of the upcoming meeting.

“Tardiness is probably a good sign,” Galloran said. “If this were an ambush, they would have taken care to be prompt.”

“Instead they elect to insult us?” Bartley asked softly.

“The weather is harsh tonight,” Galloran replied calmly.

Tark suddenly ducked into the storeroom, water streaming from his cloak. “I saw the signal. Three quick flashes, evenly spaced.”

“Then our guests approach as requested,” Galloran replied. “No evidence of foul play.”

“Aye,” Tark confirmed, and slipped away into the darkness.

Rachel knew that Nedwin, Ferrin, Brin, and Nollin were scouting the area. Tark and Io were stationed in a neighboring outbuilding with horses ready for a getaway. They had worked hard to defend against a potential ambush. The visitors thought the meeting was taking place up the slope at the manor. At the last moment one of Bartley’s sentries would divert them to the lower stable, where Kerick awaited to greet them.

After riding hard from the jungle’s edge to the outer boundaries of Trensicourt, Rachel had spent two days living in a remote barn while Nedwin arranged the particulars for this meeting. Yesterday morning, before sunrise, she and her friends had arrived at the Wershon estate to temporarily take up residence in a large mill at one corner of the property. If this meeting went well, she might sleep in comfort before much longer.

“You’re sure you want me at the meeting?” Rachel asked.

“Certain,” Galloran replied. “These are men accustomed to solving problems through negotiation, but they will not be eager to surrender the kingdom. We must appear strong. A talented Edomic adept is a unique and intimidating weapon. Remember,
if the opportunity arises, show your power by exerting control over them. Petrify them, put them on the ground—anything to make them feel vulnerable. The talent to command men is extremely rare and bespeaks a deep reservoir of power.”

“All right,” Rachel said, trying to sound like somebody he could rely on. Did Galloran suspect how terrified it made her to think that the outcome of this meeting might depend on how intimidating she seemed? Was he hearing her insecurities as she thought them? Maybe his attention was elsewhere. Or maybe he was kind enough to pretend he couldn’t sense her anxiety.

Rachel noticed Bartley warily eyeing her acolyte robe through the gap in her cloak. At least they seemed to have an effect on him. He turned his attention back out the door and softly cleared his throat. “A lone rider approaches.”

“We invited three guests,” Galloran said. “Have they only sent a messenger?”

Rachel watched the hooded rider pull up to the stable, dismount, and lead his steed below the overhanging eaves. Not far from one of the dangling lanterns, Kerick approached the man and engaged him in conversation. After words were exchanged, Kerick took the reins and gestured for the man to enter the stable. He then faced away from the storage shed where Rachel hid and waved his arm twice over his head.

“There’s the signal,” Bartley whispered. “I suppose this means at least one of them came.”

“How could they resist?” Galloran asked. “Trensicourt is currently run by strategists and compromisers, not men of action. Strategists need information. Compromisers require meetings. They had to send someone.”

“Strategists also like traps,” Bartley added. “These compromisers have an untrustworthy reputation.”

Galloran gave a nod. “We’ll remain on guard. Rachel, at the first sign of trouble, don’t be afraid to use force.”

Rachel told herself that she had trained for this. She had used Edomic in dicey situations before. But she had only commanded a person under pressure the night Kalia had attacked. Those commands had been urgent and reflexive. This would be a different sort of challenge: commanding a powerful enemy to prove a point. Would she be able to get it right?

Rachel raised the hood of her heavy cloak and took Galloran by the hand. She led him out into the downpour, with Bartley close behind and Io joining them. Rachel kept her eyes on the stable, but there was little to see. Kerick and the visitor had disappeared inside. Rain drummed against her hood. She tried to help Galloran avoid the worst puddles. By the time they reached the overhanging roof of the stable, their boots were caked with mud.

As Rachel led Galloran through the entryway, she got her first clear look at the visitor. An open area before the stalls had been swept, and a large table had been brought in. Food awaited, and drink. The smell of fresh rolls mingled with the inevitable odors of pent-up horses.

The visitor stood near the table. Tall and thin with stooped shoulders, he had a prominent, bony nose and wore a stern expression. A dagger hung from his belt, but no other weapon was apparent. He had hung his cloak on a peg and had replaced his hood with a large tricornered hat.

“Who has come?” Galloran whispered.

“Chancellor Copernum,” Bartley and Rachel murmured in unison.

Kerick had led Copernum’s large steed into a stall and was now rubbing it down. Copernum regarded the four newcomers in silence, his body still, his alert eyes in constant motion.

His gaze made Rachel uncomfortable. He was renowned for his clever mind. He had tried to have Jason killed.

“Welcome, Chancellor,” Galloran said, doing his best to sound upbeat with his raspy voice, ruined by the same caustic powder that had blinded him. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“How could I ignore an opportunity to meet the renowned heir to Trensicourt?” Copernum replied dryly. “Bartley, good of you to host the evening, although the accommodations leave something to be desired.”

“Lay the blame on me,” Galloran insisted as Rachel led him to the table. “The viscount offered his home. Considering the purpose of our discussion, I opted for discretion over comfort.”

“An option to which you have undoubtedly grown accustomed,” Copernum replied.

Io took Galloran’s wet cloak. Galloran sat down, and Copernum mirrored him on the far side of the table. “I have endured some trying years,” Galloran agreed amiably, as if missing the condescension behind the remark.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your companions,” Copernum said.

Io collected Rachel’s cloak.

“This is Rachel, a Beyonder and a skilled Edomic adept,” Galloran said.

Copernum turned his shrewd eyes to her with sudden interest. “She wears the robe of the oracles.”

Galloran had suggested she wear the fine robe because it might make her appear more impressive. She hoped she wouldn’t come across as an imposter instead.

“Rachel has trained with multiple masters,” Galloran said. “The man hanging our cloaks is Io, future chief of the wild clan of drinlings. And you met Kerick, of the Amar Kabal, who is tending to your horse.”