I was fascinated by it. It didn’t seem to matter whether the wood was wet or dry. If it went out, like when I swam underneath some low overhangs, I just had to think about seeing the torch alight, and it burst to life again. Was it me? Was it the fire? Was it the wood? I had no idea. But, I was fascinated. Almost to where I went stretches of river where I didn’t think about Rahn, Marshaan, or Telluras at all.
Almost.
The only thing I could think was that I would run into them somewhere along the way, or that maybe they had been washed all the way back to Estemere, where Daina and Peata were waiting to fish them out. That was the only thing I would allow myself to think. Anything else was unimaginable.
The torch, though, became a game of sorts. I would purposely douse it, just to see if I could still light it again. I could. (Or, it would. I still wasn’t sure who was in control of what.)
Was it real, or was I hallucinating the whole thing? I ran my hand over the flame, just to see. The fire conformed to my hand, bending around my fingers and waving this way and that as I batted at it. It took a minute for the realization to hit me: My hand didn’t feel the sensation of heat, nor did it burn or blister.
The water was cool in spots and warmer in others.
The rock surrounding me was hard and scraped my skin when I dragged my hand across it.
But the flame of the torch was . . . well, it was more like what it wasn’t.
I curled my hand around it, like you would a bug or a baby bird, trying to capture it. I closed my hand, and the flames wrapped around my fist. I pulled my hand away and opened it. And there was a small flame, dancing in my palm. I yelped in surprise and dunked my hand in the water, and the flame died.
What in all the Cyneþrymm was happening?
I did it again and, sure enough, another little flame danced in my outstretched hand.
I doused the torch in the river then held it up, holding out the flame in my hand beside it. Like an eager little mouse, the flame jumped from my hand to the torch, and it exploded to life.
I grasped another flame and threw it against the wall of the cave. Like the popping of tree sap, it hit with a snap and burst into dozens of tiny embers, floating down with a faint hiss as they reached the water.
Then I thought, What if . . .
I held out my hand and thought of the tiny, dancing flame.
Who really is in control here?
With an audible puff, a flame appeared in my hand, bending up, looking almost as if it were staring back at me, waiting for me to tell it what to do next. I flicked my gaze up to the torch head and, sure enough, the tiny flame jumped up to join with the fire there.
I passed through another low overhang, the one that looked like a mouth with a few missing teeth. I had to douse the torch once again. And that’s when I saw a faint light from the distance in front of me. I’d reached Estemere. I’d reached Cierra, and home.
I called out, but no one answered.
I called a second time. Silence.
Maybe I was too far away. But, as I got closer, even over the burbling of the river surrounding me, I thought I could hear the distinct sound of uncontrollable crying.
“Daina?” I called.
“Caden? CADEN?!!”
“I’m here.”
“Oh, thank the gods, Caden. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Are Rahn and the others with you?”
“Oh gods, Caden . . .” And I heard her voice dissolve into tears again.
It took me another long minute to reach the mouth of Estemere, and I ducked through. Daina was there. Her eyes were red and her hair was matted; tears streaked her cheeks, and her bare legs were red, raw, and scratched in places.
I waded over and hauled myself to the ledge, dripping and shivering despite the tepid Waters, to sit next to Daina. She immediately wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close, smothering me with sobs and kisses while repeating over and over, “You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.”
Finally I pulled myself away from her. “Tell me what happened.”
So she did—everything from the Waters rising, to the crashing through of Telluras, Marshaan, and Rahn. The helplessness. The raging river. The looks on their faces. The receding Waters. And her frustration at being filled with both overwhelming fear and impotence.
I set my jaw and looked to the far side of Estemere, the last place Daina had seen the three of them disappear.
“Caden, no!” Daina pleaded, reading my mind.
“I have to, Daina.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, grasping my arm. “Now that you’re here, I can run for Peata. He’ll know what to do.”
“We already know what to do,” I answered. I put my hand over hers. “I know you blame yourself for not going in after them, but don’t. You can’t.” I looked back to the far side of Estemere. “It is the right choice, though. Like you said, the Waters have calmed. It won’t be such a fight against the current to follow them.”
“Caden—”
“I have to, Daina,” I said again as I stood. “I have to find them. We have to know.”
“But, what do I do in the meantime? I can’t just sit here, waiting to see if any of you make it back alive.”
“Find Peata. Tell him what happened. Tell him I went after them.”
She struggled to her feet and stood beside me, pulling me into another fierce hug. “I can’t lose you too, Caden.”
“You won’t, Daina. I’ll be fine.”
I thought of this newfound fire thing I’d discovered, and I said again, “I’ll be fine.”
She held me at arm’s length. “You didn’t see their faces, Caden. They were truly terrified. I had never seen Marshaan with that look . . .” Her eyes spilled over, and I gave her another hug, hoping it was reassurance enough.
Then, I let her go as I stepped to the ledge. “I’ll find them, Daina.” I lowered myself in. “And we’ll all come back as soon as we can.”
“Promise?” she asked, wiping away her tears and trying to put on a brave face despite her fear and frustration.
“No.” I shook my head, willing some of my own meager confidence into her. “Guaranteed.”
And, with that, I ducked under the far ledge and out of the torchlight of Estemere, leaving Daina sniffling at the Water’s edge until I was well out of sight. Only when I’d gotten around another bend in the river did I realize that I’d forgotten my torch, lying next to Daina at Estemere. I lit a small flame in my hand and continued on. This would be a little hard to explain to Marshaan, Rahn, and Telluras, but I wasn’t worried.
I’d have to find them first.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
They were alive: cold, in utter darkness, only the gods knew where, and with no idea how much time had passed.
Telluras had been the first downstream, gaining his bearings just enough to grasp at a small ledge barely wide enough to pull himself out of the Waters’ current. He’d struggled up and sat precariously on the edge, heaving a great sigh of relief, when he felt something brush past his leg in the inky black Waters. Instinctively he reached for it, grasping hold of a handful of soaked clothing with the weight of whatever else almost pulling him back in. It turned out to be Marshaan, sputtering and flailing as he realized he’d been snagged.
“Ho!” Telluras hollered, fighting to hold on to the thrashing man. “It’s me.”
“Tell—” Marshaan started to say, but he was wracked by a coughing fit. Finally, he asked, “Telluras?”
“Yes, brother.”
“Thank the gods,” Marshaan said. “Is Rahn with you? I saw him fall in after us.”
“No, I—”
Something thudded into Marshaan, knocking him free of his brother’s grip. He reeled back but was able to hold his footing as he wrapped his arms around whatever had staggered him. It was a body. Marshaan could feel the size, the shape, the face, and he knew: It was Rahn. What he couldn’t feel though was life. Rahn’s body was limp and heavy with water.
“Rahn! RAHN!” Marshaan bellowed, shaking him. “RAHN?!!”
There was nothing. He held Rahn with one arm and reached around him with the other, feeling for his brother. “Telluras, where are you?”
“Here.”
“I have Rahn, but he’s not responding.”
“I’m on a ledge,” Telluras said. He felt around him. “It seems long enough to get him out of the Waters. Bring him to my voice.”
Marshaan followed the sound of Telluras’s voice, and the two of them hauled Rahn onto the narrow ledge beside Telluras. Marshaan waded up to Rahn’s limp body, feeling along his chest and his torso, ensuring he was as flat as possible. Then he began to compress Rahn’s chest rhythmically—press and release, press and release—trying to force whatever water was in his lungs out, and air in. He held Rahn’s nose, covered his mouth with his own, and breathed, feeling the young man’s chest rise. He did it a second time. Then, a third.
Finally Rahn coughed, convulsing, turning sideways, and retching into the Waters between him and Marshaan.
“Thank the gods,” Telluras said.
“Rahn, are you okay?” Marshaan asked, coming beside him after his retching had stopped.
Rahn groaned and coughed.
“Can you sit up?”
Rahn groaned again but, with Telluras’s help, Marshaan felt him sit. Marshaan lifted himself out of the Waters and sat heavily beside him. He rested the back of his head against the hard stone of the cave wall and breathed out a long sigh.
“Where—where are we?” Rahn asked weakly.
“I have no idea,”
“Are you two okay?”
“Battered,” Telluras said. “Bruised. Gonna hurt like Hades in the morning.”
“But we’re alive,” Marshaan said.
“And lost,” Rahn added.
“And lost,” Marshaan agreed. He raised his head and looked down the blackness in the direction of the river’s flow. “I don’t know if it’s better to follow the river to wherever it leads, or to try to fight our way back upstream. I have no idea how far we’ve come.”
“Nor do I,” Telluras said. “If we follow the river, are you hoping for an exit?”
“It has to surface beyond this damned cave somewhere.”
“What if the river rises again?” Rahn asked. “And what in the world was that?”
“I don’t know,” Marshaan answered. “I’ve never seen the Waters behave like that before. I don’t know if that’s new, or if it’s something the river has always done and we’ve just never been there to witness it.”
“So what if it happens again?”
“That’s why I’m wondering if it might be better to follow the Waters rather than fight them.”
“We can’t very well stay here,” Telluras offered.
“We can for a bit,” Marshaan answered. “Rahn? How are you feeling?”
“Better. Like Telluras said—beat up. Battered.”
“So, let’s rest up a bit. Then . . . upstream or down? Which is it?”
“I would vote down,” said Rahn. “Follow the river.”
“I do as well,” Telluras added. “I don’t relish the thought of a second blast. Like you said, I have no idea how far we were carried by this first one.”
“There’s no guarantee there won’t be a second,” Marshaan said. “But we’ll try and prepare ourselves the best we can if we hear one coming.”
And so they rested their heads against the stone, their eyes closed and their feet dangling in the ever-moving Waters. They were glad to be alive, but wished they were dry and in the warmth and comfort of Cierra—neither of which, they knew, would be coming anytime soon.
23
A Last Chance
Rhiana watched it all as if in slow motion.
Arteura’s shackles dropped to the floor, her hands at her sides, unsheathing her weapons.
The guard behind her, the one who’d manhandled and humiliated her, was late to react. Arteura spun and, in one fluid motion across her body and across his throat, sliced the arteries deeply and cleanly, almost severing his neck as he gurgled and dropped.
She twisted and crossed to her right, toward the guard behind Rhiana, who was frozen by the sight of his partner crumpled in a crimson pool. She cocked her arm, stepping through, accelerating and shattering his nose with her elbow and an audible crunch. Snapping his head back. He stumbled, and she stepped again. This time with a backhanded roundhouse. Driving the thick pommel of her right-hand sword into his temple, and he too dropped.
Arteura rocked back, spun her swords, and turned to face the Rectors. She set herself, with one blade straight out and the other cocked to her side.
“Coming, Mother?” she hissed.
Rhiana stood, her eyes wide, her mouth agape. Paralyzed in fear. Her daughter had just—
This was nothing like the practice sessions she’d watched from the shadows. There was no tenderness, no compassion. Arteura was all fury now. She was a killer. A murderer. With weapons that Rhiana had given her. Gifted her.
“These are simply instruments,” she’d said. “They are lifeless metal. Only when placed in the hands do they take on any semblance of life, any meaning, and then, only that of the one wielding them.
“You can wield these in the way of Sigquaya, the way of peace and life. They can be instruments of healing as much as they can be instruments of destruction. Not to strike first, but to strike with finality, for the good of all . . .
“Do you understand?”
Oh gods, she thought. What have I created?
“Mother!” Arteura barked.
Rhiana snapped from her daze, and everything returned in sharp focus. The crumpled guards at their feet. The clamor from the Rectors. The savage look from her daughter . . . looking intently at her.
“Arteura . . . I can’t . . . I—you . . .”
Arteura merely shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said. “They want to kill us. He wants to kill us. But I’m not dying. Not for him. Not for them. Not here. Not today.”
“Who, Arteura?” Rhiana pleaded. “Who is them that wants to kill us?”
Arteura’s eyes flicked back to the Rectors, to the Elder.
“Everyone,” she growled.
Just then, the Rector closest to her leapt forward, taking full advantage of the distraction and unsheathing a longsword hidden within his robe, and crouching and moving to her left.
Arteura cocked her head, spotting the move. “Okay, then,” she growled.
Two other Rectors, on the far side of the Elder, charged as well, hurdling the judge’s bench and advancing on her right.
They were trying to box her in.
Arteura did the only smart thing she could think of.
She turned and ran.
≈≈≈≈≈≈
There was a door to her left, equal distance between herself and the nearest Rector. She bolted for it, reaching it first and diving through the doorway.
She wrenched the door closed just as the Rector slammed into it with his full weight. She turned and jammed one of her blades between the door and frame, wedging it shut. There was pounding and cursing from the other side, but no one was getting through.
Arteura stood with her back to the pounding door, quickly taking inventory of her surroundings. She was in some kind of antechamber, apparently a private study for the Rectors before they entered the main hall. There were two small desks to her right and several thick leather chairs to her left, plus a couple of low tables strewn with random papers and cups of something, likely tea or coffee. There was another door directly in front of her and, on the wall behind the desks, three narrow windows.
On the opposite wall to the windows was a long row of hooks. Hanging on several were the Rectors’ daily garb, the ones they’d shed in order to don their ceremonial robes for the sham of a trial she’d just ended. She grabbed one and stuffed a corner of the fabric into the crack between the door and
frame, just below her blade. She fed it in with her other sword, several inches up and down the crack until it was tight and no more fabric would fit. Then she loosened her stuck sword and pulled it free. Thankfully the door held, and she had two weapons again.
Frantically, she looked around—she was already on borrowed time—and her eyes settled on the windows. They seemed wide enough that she just might be able to squeeze through. She was formulating a plan on the fly, so she grabbed another robe and threw it through the nearest window. She lunged to follow just as the door on the far side from the main hall burst open. Two Þrymm guards rushed through with their swords drawn, spying her and advancing.
She cursed and held. She was too far from the windows to run. Not yet, anyway.
The one to her left stepped in with an overhead swing. Arteura twisted, blocked, thrust her sword down, and kicked the man in the chest. He oof-ed and staggered back, stumbling over one of the low tables and landing on his back, hard.
With the kick, her back was exposed and the second guard thrust straight out, aiming for her spine. Arteura set her leg, stepped on to one of the leather chairs, arched her back, and leapt. She felt the blade grazing the fabric of her tunic as she dove backward over the guard’s outstretched arm, landing on her hands and tucking, rolling, regaining her feet, and spinning.
She faced him with her swords extended, crossed in front of her at chest height. The guard switched his grip and swung, backhanded, but he was too far away, and his sword sliced nothing but the air between them. He was quick, though, and he stepped in, closing the gap; his blade a blur of motion.
Arteura backpedaled between the desks.
Then she remembered her last duel with Marcus all those weeks ago.
The guard continued to close in and she cocked her swords tightly at her waist. Her eyes were fixed on his chest, but she saw everything: his slow, methodical steps, the tension and muscle strain of his arms, the blade rhythmically swooshing back and forth.