Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (12 page)

* * * * *

Silbane watched his apprentice leave, troubled by the mix of emotions that flashed across Arek’s face. Oh, it was gone in an instant, but the boy was hard to read. Harder still because of his peculiar Talent, which blocked the empathic sense adepts usually employed when teaching their apprentices. With Arek, he could get surface feelings, but the boy’s Talent clouded anything deeper. And now, he thought, we will use him... I hope for a greater good.

Gathering his notes, Silbane left for the council chamber. Behind him, the sun finished its graceful demise into the west, the sky flaming orange in its fading light.

Journal Entry 2

The vision granted to me by the dragonkind gives me an advantage. I can see particles of thought, like small points of light. They flow and weave at my every gesture, as if they know I am here.

Anything is possible, it seems. The land is beautiful, but empty. I will first find a safe place to make camp, and from there a way to survive. I hear creatures around me, scurrying things I cannot see. Their presence fills me with unease, as if they hunt.

Supplies should not be an issue, so long as nothing steals them. Many a fool has ventured into combat without adequate provisions for his men. If I am to do combat here, I must first fortify a camp, but somewhere safe. These small points of light gather and glow around dangers, making them easy beacons against my inattention and inexperience.

My very thoughts are sustenance, and merely the wish for food or water (within reason!) brings it forth from the ground around me. I sleep, and upon rousing find myself surrounded by a bounty of fruits and vegetables. Yet no plants have sprouted and no obvious source shows itself. Something, it seems, wants me alive. Still, I must stockpile. I do not know yet if the lean wolf of starvation may stalk my nights.

But my mission has not changed. I must free our world of these Aeris.

T
HE
P
RINCE

In a drawn out or extended combat,

Pay attention to your breathing.

Exhale when you strike, conserve your energy.

Victory will be achieved only if,

You can continue to fight.

—Tir Combat Academy, Basic Forms & Stances

N
iall descended the stairs and exited on one of the archers’ balconies, his face set in grim lines. “Supplies? It would have been more dangerous with my mother,” he whispered to himself.

Around him, the signs of siege showed themselves in the soldiers camped on the balcony, just inside and above the main gates. In times of war, they took rest wherever and whenever they could.

Weaving his way between sleeping forms, Niall ran down a small flight of stairs spiraling down the inside wall of the keep, then crossed the inner courtyard with determined strides.

He soon found himself near the Warriors Hall, a place reserved for unit drills and training. The square building stood near the back of the fortress, separate from the main buildings and quarters.

Behind the training hall was the pool of Shimmerene, its luminescent surface glowing faintly with a light of its own. Something about the water created the effect, though it looked like nothing more than plain water in a cup or hand. The glow was not so bright as to block out the moonlit sky. The waters reflected it with quiet dignity.

Ancient stonebinders had fed this pool, cut from the very earth, through carefully redirected underground streams. The runoff from the waters flowed down Land’s Edge and joined with the real Lake Shimmerene, a much larger body of water with the capital city of Haven nestling along its southeastern side. Somewhere along that journey the waters lost their luminescence and became ordinary, but no less refreshing to a weary traveler. Niall took a deep breath, smelling the water in the air, and made his way for the Lady’s Hands.

The Hands were a thin strip of rock extending to the center of the pool, ending in two cupped hands in the act of scooping water out of Shimmerene. The bowl shaped by the Hands was large enough to comfortably hold a small ceremony inside it. Niall often wondered why the dwarves had built the Hands, envisioning secret rituals or sacrifices to the glimmering waters. But the secret of the Lady’s Hands, along with the fate of the obdurate dwarves, was lost with their disappearance over two hundred summers ago. Niall came here whenever he needed to think, the stillness of the mirror-like surface making him feel as if he floated on a sea of stars. Now was definitely one of those times.

He was not surprised to find his cousin, Yetteje, already there. They had agreed to meet at moonrise, eager to discuss Niall’s station assignment for tomorrow, though that was before he’d talked to Jebida, he recollected. He walked up the wide pier to the Hands, stepped down into the bowl, and seated himself on one of the benches carved into the rough granite palms. “Don’t even ask, Tej. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Yetteje Tir smiled, her amber eyes filled with mirth. She was the daughter of King Ben’thor Tir, lord of Bara’cor’s sister stronghold, EvenSea, which lay thirty days’ ride to the east. Yetteje looked at Niall, almost matching in height, and brushed some hair away from her face. Then she asked, “I’m sure my mother spoke to yours long before this.”

Niall pursed his lips, “You can’t be serious. Why?”

Yetteje shrugged, “You’re her favorite. If it wasn’t tradition, even the Walk of Kings would be chaperoned.” She plopped down next to her cousin and added, “At least our fathers won that argument, else you’d be stuck here when I leave.”

“Like anything is getting out of the fortress now.” He sighed then leaned back, looking at the stars. The Walk of Kings allowed the heirs of each fortress to meet and learn the different aspects of governing their respective domains-to-be, and served to renew the ancient peace the four fortresses shared. It also tested their resolve and forced them to survive on their wits and strength. Thirty days in the Altan Wastes was no easy journey.

As cousins, the heirs of Bara’cor and EvenSea formed a fast and strong friendship, given they were of equal station and “suffered” the same things as most would-be rulers. It had been almost three months since Yetteje had heard any news from her father however, a fact that had brought faint lines of worry to her usually carefree visage.

Before the nomads laid siege to Bara’cor, Niall had planned to return with Yetteje to EvenSea to begin his own three-summer long tour of the land, one summer spent at each of the other three fortresses that ringed the Altan Wastes. It now seemed nothing was getting in or out of the stronghold, further disappointing him.

Heaving another dramatic sigh, Niall said, “I’m assigned to Fenrith and supplies, can you believe it?”

“Are you surprised?” Yetteje moved to the opposite end of the bowl, “You didn’t really expect to fight, did you?” The expression on Niall’s face obviously told her this was
exactly
what he had expected. Yetteje seemed to regret the words, though a part of her still had to smile at the humor of it.

“I’ve earned my third blade, one of the best in the class.”

Yetteje arched one delicate eyebrow at this, “Indeed, almost a bladesman then.”

Niall quickly put up the open palm warding gesture, and spat out his next word with distaste, “Traitors.”

“I’m sorry,” laughed the princess, “I just can’t believe you would think your father would risk you to some stray arrow. You’re a
prince,
by the Lady, and the only heir to his throne. Plus, imagine every recruit trying to keep you alive. They’ll be jumping over each other to be the one who saves you.”

Niall shook his head, hating that her words echoed the firstmark’s sentiments. “You assume I’ll need saving.” He climbed to his feet, thinking about the absurdity of soldiers actually putting themselves into harm’s way for him. “Why would anyone do that?’

Yetteje shook her head. “You really don’t get people, do you?”

Niall looked around a bit before continuing, ignoring her last comment. He began slowly, “You know, Father speaks of Haven, some sort of retirement.” He carefully avoided Tej’s inquisitive stare.

“Why does that...?” Then her eyes brightened and laughter she couldn’t help spilled out. “Wait, you think he’s going to leave
you
in charge?”

“What?” Niall replied, exasperated, though now it sounded a bit stupid when he heard it out loud.

“You are going to be in charge of the greatest military and civilian bastion in the world... at sixteen?”

Niall cursed, then vaulted lightly over the lip of the bowl, landing on the stone walkway. His patience with his cousin was close to its limits. “Leave it, please.”

“He’s going to skip over the Firstmark, the Armsmark,
all
the officers, and put you—”

“Just drop it!” he exclaimed, not looking back.

* * * * *

Yetteje smiled at Niall’s retreating form, then followed him down the walkway in silence. She didn’t want to poke more fun at what was obviously something important to Niall, but surely he knew better.

His desire to fight now made a little more sense, in that he thought to prove to his father that he, too, was a fighting man. She could empathize, but unlike her cousin, had no qualms about staying as far from the fighting as possible. It was not fear, for Yetteje had spent countless hours training with blade, bow, and staff, as any royal heir would. She was just more pragmatic about her role in life, and her aspirations were higher than being a soldier of the line.

Though her participation in the siege was involuntary, as a ward of Bara’cor, her participation in the defense was not expected. The king had made it quite clear she could not stray onto the wall without permission.

“You know,” Niall said, turning to face her, “sometimes soldiers are promoted in battle, right on the spot.” His finger stabbed down in emphasis.

Clearly, thought Yetteje, he had continued the argument between them in his head. She decided not to respond directly, Niall wasn’t listening anyway. She was curious, however, about why he was so set on fighting
now.
The nomads didn’t seem to be going anywhere. After a moment’s consideration, she asked him just that.

Niall stopped, then turned and said, “No one will respect a ruler who hasn’t fought, no matter what people say and no matter what royal lineage we’re from. People follow heroes. Plus, aren’t you sick of being thought of as kids? Even my father and the firstmark treat us like children.”

Yetteje stopped at that, considering. It had not occurred to her that combat might be a prerequisite of leadership, as Niall had said. Her thoughts narrowed with focused intensity.

* * * * *

Niall, for his part, looked back at Shimmerene, trying to articulate how he felt. He hadn’t been entirely truthful. He also sought fame and glory. But combat was the only way he could see to get that, too. His cousin would never understand. Her gaze seemed to be focused on the Warriors Hall, not far from where they stood. He smiled and shoved her shoulder a little harder than playfully, but still in jest. His anger at her was never long-lived. “Never mind. How about a little sparring before we go to sleep?”

“Sure, unless that might endanger your upcoming promotion.” She quickly ducked as Niall swung at her, then ran up the slight slope leading to the Warriors Hall.

As they neared, they could again hear the faint clack of the wooden practice bohkir striking each other. Motioning Niall to be silent, she moved closer to one of the portals looking onto the training grounds. She felt Niall come up behind her, cursing softly as he jostled for a better view.

“That’s Ash! What’s he doing?” In answer to Yetteje’s annoyed look, Niall added, “I know, stupid question.”

Still, it was unusual for the man who was second-in-command of all of Bara’cor’s forces to be out on the practice grounds at this hour. Pushing Yetteje and her muffled curses out of the way, Niall pulled up close to the portal to get a better view.

In the center of the torchlit ground stood Armsmark Ash Rillaran, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He held two bohkir, low and away from his body. Stripped to the waist, Ash’s lean form was sheened with sweat. Dark, close-cropped hair glistened from his exertions. Circling around him ranged his three opponents, their sashes marking them as captains of different companies. They held their weapons in front of their midsections, the blades angled up. Even as the prince and princess watched, two switched their stance and attacked with their bohkir held high, the third thrusting in at Ash’s neck.

Ash ducked inside the first overhead strike, shoving his muscular shoulder into his opponent’s stomach and driving him into his comrade. As they went sprawling in a tangle of arms and legs, he charged the third, heading straight for the bohkir’s tip. At the last possible moment, he twisted his left shoulder forward, the sword passing inches away from his neck, and struck with his own bohkir to the captain’s wrist.

The wooden sword fell from nerveless fingers, even as the captain dived into a roll to avoid Ash’s second strike as it whizzed by his ear.